OXFORD
UNIVERSITY PRESS
AMEN HOUSE, E.G. 4
London Edinburgh Glasgow
New York Toronto Melbourne
Capetown Bombay Calcutta
Madras Shanghai
HUMPHREY MILFORD
PUBLISHER TO THE
UNIVERSITY
IVAN ILYCH
AND
HADJI MURAD
BY LEO TOLSTOY
Translated by
LOUISE AND AYLMER MAUDE
With an Introduction by
AYLMER MAUDE
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD
LEO <ToLsr6Y
Born, Yasnaya Polyana, Tula
August 28 (old style) = September 9, n. s., 1828
Died, Astapdvo, Riazan
November 7 (old style) = November 20, n. s., 1910
'The Death of Ivdnllfch' was fir^t published in 1886; 'Master and
Man 9 , 'A Talk among Leisured People', and ' Walk in the Light while
there is Light' in 1 893. 'Hadji Murdd", 'Memoirs of a Madman 9 , and
'Fedor Ku&nich' were all published posthumously. In the ' World's
Classics' the stories were fast published in 1935.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION. By AYLMER MAUDE . . vii
THE DEATH OF IVAN IL^CH. 1886 . . i
MASTER AND MAN. 1893 . . .74
A TALK AMONG LEISURED PEOPLE. 1893 . 138
WALK IN THE LIGHT WHILE THERE IS
LIGHT. i% . . . . .143
MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN, ea. 1884 . .210
LIST OF TARTAR WORDS IN HADJI MURAD . 226
HADJI MURAD. ca. iSgGfi and 1901/4 . . 227
FfcDOR KUZMlCH. 1905 . . . . '385
PREFACE
nr*HE Death of Ivan Ilych is one of Tolstoy's best
JL stories. After the completion of Anna Kartnina
he was so preoccupied with religious problems for
about nine years that he wrote no fiction except
some of the short stories that appear in Twenty-
Three Tales. A report spread that he had 'abandoned
art', but when, in 1886, The Death of Ivan Ilych
appeared the critics promptly exclaimed: 'At last
his train has come out of its tunnel.'
The Death of Ivan Ilych was written about the same
time as his philosophical work On Life, which treats
of the fact that life inevitably leads on to corporeal
death, and indicates that we cannot look to the
flow of matter that constitutes our body to furnish
any rational hope of permanent survival. Neither
the Egyptian practice of mummification, nor asser-
tions of belief in a resurrection of the body, nor
any grafting with monkey-gland, can conceal the
inevitable end that awaits our bodies. Tolstoy
was firmly convinced that there is something more
permanent in our personalities than in our corporeal
encasement, that man's true life dwells in his spirit
and that the fear of death ceases when he experiences
the awakening to real life which comes when we
mingle souls with one another.
In What is Art? he says that: 'The destiny of art
in our time is to transmit from the realm of reason
to the realm of feeling the truth that well-being for
men consists in their being united together', and the
philosophic truth stated in On Life is presented in
fictional form in The Death of Ivan Ilych for readers
whose feelings may be reached by art more easily
than by argument.
Master and Man, which comes second in this
viii PREFACE
volume, is a story of peasant life written on the same
theme as The Death oflvdn Itych. More than one of
Tolst6y's later stories treats of scenes with which
he had dealt when he was a young man. Master
and Man, for instance, is strongly reminiscent of The
Snow Storm. That earlier effort consisted, how-
ever, entirely of closely observed incidents and
characters, while what is essential in Master and Man
are the feelings arising from the author's mature
understanding of life and death. In it, again, we
have a man who, when near physical death, ceases
to be afraid and finds true life by coming into
brotherly contact with his fellow man.
A Talk Among Leisured People, like many of Tol-
st6y's writings, is evidently closely drawn from per-
sonal experience. We can almost hear in it the
opposition expressed by his wife and other members
of his family to such changes of the external con-
ditions of life as he aimed at and they made so
difficult for him.
Walk in the Light While There is Light is, for him,
a poor story, and almost the only one in which
he subordinates artistic veracity to tendentious
teaching. I met members of the so-called Tolstoyan
Colony at Purleigh in Essex, who told me that they
had been influenced by this story. It is curious that
it should have been so, for, as the reader may see,
the Christian Commune to which Pamphilius be-
longed is hardly described at all, and the whole
emphasis is laid, not on the conditions in which
people ought to live, but on their reluctance to
abandon customary ways even when they felt them
to be unreasonable and wrong.
At the time the story was written many people
were feeling dissatisfied with the conventional ways
and aims of life a dissatisfaction expressed in
Morris's Mews from Nowhere as well as in other
PREFACE ix
books. Some few dozen so-called 'Tolstoyan' Colo-
nists hoped to solve their doubts and salve their
consciences by changing their environment and
settling; in the country, but neither Tolstoy nor his
personal friends joined any such Colony or incited
others to do so. There was indeed little that was
really 'Tolstoyan' in the Colonies I saw.
When I asked Tolstoy what he thought of the
tale, he said: 'I never hear it mentioned without
feeling ashamed of myself. It is so thoroughly in-
artistic. 5 On my asking how that was shown, he
said: 'In the story the Christians and pagans are
sharply contrasted. The Christians are all good
and the pagans all bad, whereas in real life we
know that they would have shaded off into one
another as is the case with our own sectarians and
Orthodox peasants. 5
The year before he died I asked Tolstoy what
unpublished works he had that he considered of
value, and he said there were only Hadji Murdd and
The Live Corpse.
Memoirs of a Madman, which he neither completed
nor published and to which he attached no im-
portance, is one of the many fragments of his work
published after his death.
It was written in 1884, and to those acquainted
with the facts of Tolstoy's life it is evidently an ex-
pression of his conviction that the aims of men living
the kind of life he was then deliberately abandon-
ing were irrational and fit only for madmen. As
was usual with him when writing fiction, he drew
on his personal experiences and even used the
names of places and incidents that are mentioned
in his diaries and correspondence.
x PREFACE
In Hadji Murdd Tolst6y returns to memories of his
early days in the Caucasus. He had himself met
Hadji Murad in Tiflis in 1851 when he went there
to pass his examination for a commission in the
army. In a letter to his brother Sergey he wrote:
'If you wish to show off with news from the Caucasus,
you may mention that a certain Hadji Murad (second in
importance to Shamil himself) surrendered a few days
ago to the Russian Government. He was the leading
dare-devil and "brave" of all Circassia, but has been led
to commit a mean action.'
Russia was then slowly subduing the Caucasus.
The internecine feuds of the native tribes often
hindered their offering a united resistance to Rus-
sian aggression, but the dense forests of Chechnya
and the exceedingly mountainous character of
Daghestan rendered their subjugation a matter of
great difficulty, and a strong religious revival that
sprang up among the Mohammedan population
went far towards uniting them in a Holy War
against the Russian infidels.
Like many other religious movements this re-
vival had roots in the distant past. To begin with,
there was a Murid movement almost identical with
Suf 'ism, which dated back to the third century of
the Mohammedan era. Going beyond the Shariat
(the written law) it inculcated the Tarikat (the Path)
leading to a higher life. It also proclaimed the
equality of all Mussulmen, rich and poor alike, and
enjoined temperance, abstinence, self-denial, and
the renunciation of the good things of both worlds,
that man may make himself 'free to receive worthily
the love towards God'. In Muridism a teacher was
called a Murshid ('one who shows' the way), while
a Murid was a disciple or follower ('one who de-
sires' to find the way).
Such was Muridism for several centuries a peace-
PREFACE xi
ful religious movement of highly spiritual character
but within the last few generations the struggle
against Russia had given it a new quality, and from
being, spiritual it had become strongly political.
As early as 1 785, Mansur, a leader of unknown
origin, appeared in the Caucasus preaching the
Ghazavat or Holy War against the infidels, and
from 1830 onwards when Kazi-Mulla, the first
Imam (uniting in himself supreme spiritual and
temporal power), took the field, Muridism became
identified with the fierce struggle for independence
carried on by the native tribes against the Russian
invaders. Shamil, who succeeded Hamzad and was
the greatest of the Imams, figures in the present
story.
Comparing the Caucasian tales Tolstoy wrote
between the ages of 23 and 34 with this one finished
when he was 74, we notice that the earlier stories
contain a character closely representing Tolstoy him-
self, through whose eyes all the events are seen. Hadji
Murdd, on the contrary, is written quite objectively.
Tolstoy feels that he has only to tell the story and
his judgement of men and actions will be felt without
any explicit statement of his own point of view.
Let it be noted in passing that Prince Voronts6v
senior, who appears in the story, had a sister
Catherine who married George, Earl of Pembroke.
Tolstoy wrote the tale at intervals over a period
of eight years, largely for recreation when not feel-
ing up to more strenuous work, and though he
thought favourably of it he did not publish it, for
each work of fiction he published during the last
thirty years of his life brought him into sharp con-
flict with his wife, who could not reconcile herself
to his renunciation of copyright and fully appre-
ciated the monetary value of any work of fiction
from his pen. That was a main reason why Tolst6y,
xii PREFACE
despite his love of artistic work, did not publish
more of it and left many unfinished and unrevised
stories in a state he considered unfit for publication.
Alone among the great writers of his time he de-
clined to accept money for his work or claim any
legal protection for it. His determination to give
and not to take, even after his family's means had
dwindled to very small proportions, deserves re-
spect, but it is permissible to doubt whether the
refusal to retain control of the publication of his
works did in fact prove of benefit to his readers. It
has at any rate resulted in English readers still,
nearly a quarter of a century after his death, having
no well-arranged and reliable collected edition of
his works available; though the completion of the
Centenary Edition for libraries, and of the cheap
'World's Classics' pocket edition for the general
public, should now soon supply that deficiency.
Some queer results have ensued from lack of con-
trol over the publication of Tolst6y's works. For
instance, Mr. Chertk6v when resident in this coun-
try undertook the publication of a number of cheap
Tolst6yan booklets, among which were three com-
pilations of fragments, one of which he entitled The
Relation of the Sexes. A French review availed itself
of this publication to launch a scornful denuncia-
tion of Tolst6y and his opinions. Though he usually
paid little attention to such attacks, when I was
visiting him in 1906 Tolst6y spoke of this one and
dictated a letter for me for publication. It said:
'Dear Aylmer Maude,
La Revue Blanche of last March contained a brief state-
ment of views attributed to me on the sex-question, fol-
lowed by the opinions of a number of French authors
concerning those views.
. The opinions there attributed to me are grotesquely
absurd, and are a careless, second-hand, and incorrect
PREFACE xiii
summary of a collection of articles and undated extracts
put together and published by my friend Vladimir
Chertkov.
The curious thing is that of all the authors who express
themselves on the subject not one suspected that he was
being hoaxed. They all took the summary put before
them as though it were a statement of my real opinions.
I am glad therefore to see in your preface to a "revised
edition" of Resurrection, a re-statement of my views on the
sex-question which is as reasonable as the summary in
La Revue Blanche is absurd.
Leo Tolst6y.'
He was emphatic on the point that he ought not
to be held responsible for selections and compila-
tions which (however well-intentioned) were not
revised by him and did not state when, or in what
context, the different opinions quoted had been
expressed, and which therefore fail to give a satis-
factory view of his actual opinions.
In justice to the author of that compilation it
should, however, be mentioned that he stated in
a Preface that it consisted of 'fragmentary and
isolated thoughts in most cases not intended for
publication* but that had been taken from private
letters and diaries. The published compilation
bore, however, the endorsement 'No rights reserved',
which Mr. Chertkov used as a kind of trade-mark,
and Professor Wiener, who at that time, in 1905,
was engaged on the publication of a 24-volume
edition of the 'Complete Works' of Tolstoy to be all
issued within twelve months, accepted that implied
invitation, and incorporated, as part and parcel of
his works, the collection to which Tolst6y objected,
while omitting the warning that it was neither made
nor approved by Tolst6y.
The Posthumous Memoirs of the Stdrets Fedor Kuynich
is an unfinished story based on the report that the
xiv PREFACE
Emperor Alexander I did not die in 1825, as the his-
tory books say, but lived as a hermit in Siberia till
he was over ninety. Tolstoy never committed him-
self to full acceptance of that report, but was much
attracted by the idea of the most powerful potentate
of his time, who had entered Paris with his victori-
ous army after the defeat of Napoleon; had created
that precursor of the League of Nations, the Holy
Alliance; granted a constitution to Poland, and had
allowed Russia more religious liberty than it ever en-
joyed before or since voluntarily abandoning pomp,
power, and wealth, and retiring to live in poverty,
simplicity, and solitude for nearly forty years.
Since the story was written, several things have
occurred that strengthen the probability of that
report being true. In 1927 the Soviet Government
had the Imperial tombs opened, and that of Alex-
ander I was found to contain nothing but a bar of
lead. On May 29th, 1929, The Times published
further information pointing in the same direction.
BasileVski, formerly a rich mine-owner in Siberia,
had then recently died at the age of ninety, and his
diary revealed the fact that he had been told by
a merchant named Khr6mov (who had leased an
estate from him in Siberia more than fifty years
before Basilevski's death) that a certain Stdrets Fedor
Kuzmich had lived on the estate and when dying
had informed Khromov that he was the Tsar
Alexander I.
The matter is still in dispute, but the balance of
evidence now seems to incline in favour of the
theory that Fedor Kuzmich really was Alexander I.
Be that as it may, Tolstoy's story, though only a
posthumous fragment, is too interesting to omit
from this collection.
AYLMER MAUDE.
May, 1935.
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILtCH
DURING an interval in the Melvinski trial in the
large building of the Law Courts the members
and public prosecutor met in Ivan Eg6rovich She-
bek's private room, where the conversation turned
on the celebrated Krasovski case. Fedor Vasilievich
warmly maintained that it was not subject to their
jurisdiction, Ivan Egorovich maintained the con-
trary, while Peter Ivanovich, not having entered
into the discussion at the start, took no part in it
but looked through the Gazette which had just been
handed in.
'Gentlemen,' he said, 'Ivan Ilych has died!'
'You don't say so! J
'Here, read it yourself,' replied Peter Ivanovich,
handing Fedor Vasilievich the paper still damp
from the press. Surrounded by a black border were
the words: 'Prask6vya Fedorovna Golovina, with
profound sorrow, informs relatives and friends of the
demise of her beloved husband Ivan Ilych Golovin,
Member of the Court of Justice, which occurred on
February the 4th of this year 1882. The funeral will
take place on Friday at one o'clock in the afternoon.'
Ivan Ilych had been a colleague of the gentlemen
present and was liked by them all. He had been ill
for some weeks with an illness said to be incurable.
His post had been kept open for him, but there had
been conjectures that in case of his death Alexeev
might receive his appointment, and that either
Vinnikov or Shtabel would succeed Alexeev. So on
receiving the news of Ivan Itych's death the first
thought of each of the gentlemen in that private
room was of the changes and promotions it might
occasion among themselves or their acquaintances.
432 T>
2 THE DEATH OF IVAN
'I shall be sure to get Shtabel's place or Vinni-
kov's,' thought Fedor Vasilievich. 'I was promised
that long ago, and the promotion means an extra
eight hundred rubles a year for me besides the
allowance.'
'Now I must apply for my brother-in-law's trans-
fer from Kaluga,' thought Peter Ivanovich. 'My
wife will be very glad, and then she won't be able
to say that I never do anything for her relations.'
'I thought he would never leave his bed again,'
said Peter Ivanovich aloud. 'It's very sad.'
'But what really was the matter with him?'
'The doctors couldn't say at least they could,
but each of them said something different. When
last I saw him I thought he was getting better.'
'And I haven't been to see him since the holidays.
I always meant to go.'
'Had he any property?'
'I think his wife had a little but something quite
trifling.'
'We shall have to go to see her, but they live so
terribly far away.'
'Far away from you, you mean. Everything's far
away from your place.'
'You see, he never can forgive my living on the
other side of the river,' said Peter Ivanovich, smiling
at Sh^bek. Then, still talking of the distances be-
tween different parts of the city, they returned to
the Court.
Besides considerations as to the possible transfers
and promotions likely to result from Ivan Itych's
death, the mere fact of the death of a near acquain-
tance aroused, as usual, in all who heard of it the
complacent feeling that, 'it is he who is dead and
not I'.
Each one thought or felt, 'Well, he's dead but
I'm alive !' But the more intimate of Ivan Itych's
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILVCH 3
acquaintances, his so-called friends, could not help
thinking also that they would now have to fulfil the
very tiresome demands of propriety by attending
the funeral service and paying a visit of condolence
to the widow.
Fedor Vasilievich and Peter Ivanovich had been
his nearest acquaintances. Peter Ivanovich had
studied law with Ivan Itych and had considered
himself to be under obligations to him.
Having told his wife at dinner-time of Ivan
Itych's death, and of his conjecture that it might
be possible to get her brother transferred to their
circuit, Peter Ivanovich sacrificed his usual nap,
put on his evening clothes, and drove to Ivan
Itych's house.
At the entrance stood a carriage and two cabs.
Leaning against the wall in the hall downstairs near
the cloak-stand was a coffin-lid covered with cloth
of gold, ornamented with gold cord and tassels, that
had been polished up with metal powder. Two
ladies in black were taking off their fur cloaks.
Peter Ivanovich recognized one of them as Ivan
Ilych's sister, but the other was a stranger to him.
His colleague Schwartz was just coming downstairs,
but on seeing Peter Ivanovich enter he stopped and
winked at him, as if to say: 'Ivan Itych has made
a mess of things not like you and me.'
Schwartz's face with his Piccadilly whiskers, and
his slim figure in evening dress, had as usual an air
of elegant solemnity which contrasted with the play-
fulness of his character and had a special piquancy
here, or so it seemed to Peter Ivanovich.
Peter Ivanovich allowed the ladies to precede
him and slowly followed them upstairs. Schwartz
did not come down but remained where he was,
and Peter Ivanovich understood that he wanted to
arrange where they should play bridge that evening.
4 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH
The ladies went upstairs to the widow's room, and
Schwartz with seriously compressed lips but a
playful look in his eyes, indicated by a twist of his
eyebrows the room to the right where the body lay.
Peter Ivanovich, like everyone else on such occa-
sions, entered feeling uncertain what he would have
to do. All he knew was that at such times it is
always safe to cross oneself. But he was not quite
sure whether one should make obeisances while
doing so. He therefore adopted a middle course.
On entering the room he began crossing himself
and made a slight movement resembling a bow. At
the same time, as far as the motion of his head and
arm allowed, he surveyed the room. Two young
men apparently nephews, one of whom was a high-
school pupil were leaving the room, crossing them-
selves as they did so. An old woman was standing
motionless, and a lady with strangely arched eye-
brows was saying something to her in a whisper.
A vigorous, resolute Church Reader, in a frock-coat,
was reading something in a loud voice with an
expression that precluded any contradiction. The
butler's assistant, Gerasim, stepping lightly in front
of Peter Ivanovich, was strewing something on the
floor. Noticing this, Peter Ivanovich was immedi-
ately aware of a faint odour of a decomposing body.
The last time he had called on Ivan Ilych, Peter
Ivanovich had seen Gerasim in the study. Ivan
Itych had been particularly fond of him and he was
performing the duty of a sick nurse.
Peter Ivanovich continued to make the sign of
the cross slightly inclining his head in an inter-
mediate direction between the coffin, the Reader,
and the icons on the table in a corner of the room.
Afterwards, when it seemed to him that this move-
ment of his arm in crossing himself had gone on too
long, he stopped and began to look at the corpse.
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 5
The dead man lay, as dead men always lie, in
a specially heavy way, his rigid limbs sunk in the
soft cushions of the coffin, with the head forever
bowed on the pillow. His yellow waxen brow with
bal3 patches over his sunken temples was thrust up
in the way peculiar to the dead, the protruding nose
seeming to press on the upper lip. He was much
changed and had grown even thinner since Peter
Ivanovich had last seen him, but, as is always the
case with the dead, his face was handsomer and
above all more dignified than when he was alive.
The expression on the face said that what was neces-
sary had been accomplished, and accomplished
rightly. Besides this there was in that expression a
reproach and a warning to the living. This warning
seemed to Peter Ivanovich out of place, or at least
not applicable to him. He felt a certain discomfort
and so he hurriedly crossed himself once more and
turned and went out of the door too hurriedly and
too regardless of propriety, as he himself was aware.
Schwartz was waiting for him in the adjoining
room with legs spread wide apart and both hands
toying with his top-hat behind his back. The mere
sight of that playful, well-groomed, and elegant
figure refreshed Peter Ivanovich. He felt that
Schwartz was above all these happenings and would
not surrender to any depressing influences. His
very look said that this incident of a church service
for Ivan Ilych could not be a sufficient reason for
infringing the order of the session in other words,
that it would certainly not prevent his unwrapping
a new pack of cards and shuffling them that evening
while a footman placed four fresh candles on the
table: in fact, that there was no reason for supposing
that this incident would hinder their spending the
evening agreeably. Indeed he said this in a whisper
as Peter Ivanovich passed him, proposing that they
6 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH
should meet for a game at Fedor Vasilievich's. But
apparently Peter Ivanovich was not destined to
play bridge that evening. Praskovya Fedorovna (a
short, fat woman who despite all efforts to the con-
trary had continued to broaden steadily from her
shoulders downwards and who had the same extra-
ordinarily arched eyebrows as the lady who had
been standing by the coffin), dressed all in black,
her head covered with lace, came out of her own
room with some other ladies, conducted them to
the room where the dead body lay, and said: 'The
service will begin immediately. Please go in.'
Schwartz, making an indefinite bow, stood still,
evidently neither accepting nor declining this in-
vitation. Praskovya Fedorovna recognizing Peter
Ivanovich, sighed, went close up to him, took his
hand, and said: 'I know you were a true friend to
Ivan Ilych . . .' and looked at him awaiting some
suitable response. And Peter Ivanovich knew that,
just as it had been the right thing to cross himself in
that room, so what he had to do here was to press her
hand, sigh, and say, 'Believe me . . .'. So he did all
this and as he did it felt that the desired result had
been achieved: that both he and she were touched.
'Come with me. I want to speak to you before
it begins,' said the widow. 'Give me your arm.'
Peter Ivanovich gave her his arm and they went
to the inner rooms, passing Schwartz who winked
at Peter Ivanovich compassionately.
'That does for our bridge ! Don't object if we find
another player. Perhaps you can cut in when you
do escape,' said his playful look.
Peter Ivanovich sighed still more deeply and
despondently, and Praskovya Fedorovna pressed his
arm gratefully. When they reached the drawing-
room, upholstered in pink cretonne and lighted by
a dim lamp, they sat down at the table she on a
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 7
sofa and Peter Ivanovich on a low pouffe, the
springs of which yielded spasmodically under his
weight. Praskovya Fedorovna had been on the
pojnt of warning him to take another seat, but felt
that such a warning was out of keeping with her
present condition and so changed her mind. As he
sat down on the poufTe Peter Ivanovich recalled
how Ivan Ilych had arranged this room and had
consulted him regarding this pink cretonne with
green leaves. The whole room was full of furniture
and knick-knacks, and on her way to the sofa the
lace of the widow's black shawl caught on the
carved edge of the table. Peter Ivanovich rose to
detach it, and the springs of the pouffe, relieved of
his weight, rose also and gave him a push. The
widow began detaching her shawl herself, and Peter
Ivanovich again sat down, suppressing the rebel-
lious springs of the pouffe under him. But the
widow had not quite freed herself and Peter Ivano-
vich got up again, and again the pouffe rebelled
and even creaked. When this was all over she took
out a clean cambric handkerchief and began to
weep. The episode with the shawl and the struggle
with the pouffe had cooled Peter Ivanovich's emo-
tions and he sat there with a sullen look on his face.
This awkward situation was interrupted by Soko-
lov, Ivan Ilych's butler, who came to report that
the plot in the cemetery that Praskovya Fedorovna
had chosen would cost two hundred rubles. She
stopped weeping and, looking at Peter Ivanovich
with the air of a victim, remarked in French that
it was very hard for her. Peter Ivanovich made a
silent gesture signifying his full conviction that it
must indeed be so.
'Please smoke,' she said in a magnanimous yet
crushed voice, and turned to discuss with Sokolov
the price of the plot for the grave.
8 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH
Peter Ivanovich while lighting his cigarette heard
her inquiring very circumstantially into the prices
of different plots in the cemetery and finally decide
which she would take. When that was done she
gave instructions about engaging the choir. Soko-
16v then left the room.
'I look after everything myself, 3 she told Peter
Ivanovich, shifting the albums that lay on the table;
and noticing that the table was endangered by his
cigarette-ash, she immediately passed him an ash-
tray, saying as she did so: 'I consider it an affecta-
tion to say that my grief prevents my attending to
practical affairs. On the contrary, if anything can
I won't say console me, butdistract me, it is
seeing to everything concerning him.' She again
took out her handkerchief as if preparing to cry, but
suddenly, as if mastering her feeling, she shook her-
self and began to speak calmly. 'But there is some-
thing I want to talk to you about.'
Peter Ivanovich bowed, keeping control of the
springs of the pouffe, which immediately began
quivering under him.
'He suffered terribly the last few days.'
'Did he?' said Peter Ivanovich.
'Oh, terribly ! He screamed unceasingly, not for
minutes but for hours. For the last three days he
screamed incessantly. It was unendurable. I can-
not understand how I bore it; you could hear him
three rooms off. Oh, what I have suffered!'
'Is it possible that he was conscious all that time?'
asked Peter Ivanovich.
'Yes,' she whispered. 'To the last moment. He
took leave of us a quarter of an hour before he died,
and asked us to take Vol6dya away.'
The thought of the sufferings of this man he had
known so intimately, first as a merry little boy, then
as a school-mate, and later as a grown-up colleague,
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 9
suddenly struck Peter Ivanovich with horror, de-
spite an unpleasant consciousness of his own and
this woman's dissimulation. He again saw that
brpw, and that nose pressing down on the lip, and
felt afraid for himself.
'Three days of frightful suffering and then death!
Why, that might suddenly, at any time, happen to
me, 5 he thought, and for a moment felt terrified.
But he did not himself know how the customary
reflection at once occurred to him that this had
happened to Ivan Ilf ch and not to him, and that
it should not and could not happen to him, and
that to think that it could would be yielding to
depression which he ought not to do, as Schwartz's
expression plainly showed. After which reflection
Peter Ivanovich felt reassured, and began to ask
with interest about the details of Ivan Ilych's death,
as though death was an accident natural to Ivan
Ilych but certainly not to himself.
After many details of the really dreadful physical
sufferings Ivan Ilych had endured (which details he
learnt only from the effect those sufferings had pro-
duced on Praskovya Fedorovna's nerves) the widow
apparently found it necessary to get to business.
'Oh, Peter Ivanovich, how hard it is ! How ter-
ribly, terribly hard !' and she again began to weep.
Peter Ivanovich sighed and waited for her to
finish blowing her nose. When she had done so he
said, 'Believe me . . .', and she again began talking
and brought out what was evidently her chief con-
cern with him namely, to question him as to how
she could obtain a grant of money from the govern-
ment on the occasion of her husband's death. She
made it appear that she was asking Peter Ivano-
vich's advice about her pension, but he soon saw
that she already knew about that to the minutest
detail, more even than he did himself. She knew
io THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH
how much could be got out of the government in
consequence of her husband's death, but wanted to
find out whether she could not possibly extract
something more. Peter Ivanovich tried to think
of some means of doing so, but after reflecting for
a while and, out of propriety, condemning the
government for its niggardliness, he said he thought
that nothing more could be got. Then she sighed
and evidently began to devise means of getting rid
of her visitor. Noticing this, he put out his cigarette,
rose, pressed her hand, and went out into the ante-
room.
In the dining-room where the clock stood that
Ivan Ilych had liked so much and had bought at
an antique shop, Peter Ivanovich met a priest and
a few acquaintances who had come to attend the
service, and he recognized Ivan Itych's daughter,
a handsome young woman. She was in black and
her slim figure appeared slimmer than ever. She
had a gloomy, determined, almost angry expres-
sion, and bowed to Peter Ivanovich as though he
were in some way to blame. Behind her, with the
same offended look, stood a wealthy young man, an
examining magistrate, whom Peter Ivanovich also
knew and who was her fiance, as he had heard. He
bowed mournfully to them and was about to pass
into the death-chamber, when from under the stairs
appeared the figure of Ivan Itych's schoolboy son,
who was extremely like his father. He seemed a
little Ivan Itych, such as Peter Ivanovich remem-
bered when they studied law together. His tear-
stained eyes had in them the look that is seen in the
eyes of boys of thirteen or fourteen who are not
pure-minded. When he saw Peter Ivanovich he
scowled morosely and shamefacedly. Peter Ivano-
vich nodded to him and entered the death-chamber.
The service began: candles, groans, incense, tears,
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 1 1
and sobs. Peter Ivanovich stood looking gloomily
down at his feet. He did not look once at the dead
man, did not yield to any depressing influence, and
\^as one of the first to leave the room. There was
no one in the anteroom, but Gerasim darted out of
the dead man's room, rummaged with his strong
hands among the fur coats to find Peter Ivanovich's
and helped him on with it.
'Well, friend Gerasim, 5 said Peter Ivanovich, so
as to say something. 'It's a sad affair, isn't it?'
'It's God's will. We shall all come to it some
day,' said Gerasim, displaying his teeth the even,
white teeth of a healthy peasant and, like a man
in the thick of urgent work, he briskly opened
the front door, called the coachman, helped Peter
Ivanovich into the sledge, and sprang back to the
porch as if in readiness for what he had to do next.
Peter Ivanovich found the fresh air particularly
pleasant after the smell of incense, the dead body,
and carbolic acid.
'Where to, sir?' asked the coachman.
'It's not too late even now. ... I'll call round on
Fedor Vasilievich.'
He accordingly drove there and found them just
finishing the first rubber, so that it was quite con-
venient for him to cut in.
II
Ivan Ilych's life had been most simple and most
ordinary and therefore most terrible.
He had been a member of the Court of Justice,
and died at the age of forty-five. His father had
been an official who after serving in various minis-
tries and departments in Petersburg had made the
sort of career which brings men to positions from
which by reason of their long service they cannot
be dismissed, though they are obviously unfit to
12 THE DEATH OF IVAN IL^CH
hold any responsible position, and for whom there-
fore posts are specially created, which though fic-
titious carry salaries of from six to ten thousand
rubles that are not fictitious, and in receipt of which
they live on to a great age.
Such was the Privy Councillor and superfluous
member of various superfluous institutions, Ilya
Epimovich Golovin.
He had three sons, of whom Ivan Itych was the
second. The eldest son was following in his father's
footsteps only in another department, and was al-
ready approaching that stage in the service at which
a similar sinecure would be reached. The third son
was a failure. He had ruined his prospects in a
number of positions and was now serving in the
railway department. His father and brothers, and
still more their wives, not merely disliked meeting
him, but avoided remembering his existence unless
compelled to do so. His sister had married Baron
Greff, a Petersburg official of her father's type.
Ivan Il^ch was le phenix de lafamille as people said.
He was neither as cold and formal as his elder
brother nor as wild as the younger, but was a happy
mean between them an intelligent, polished, lively
and agreeable man. He had studied with his
younger brother at the School of Law, but the latter
had failed to complete the course and was expelled
when he was in the fifth class. Ivan Ilych finished
the course well. Even when he was at the School of
Law he was just what he remained for the rest of his
life: a capable, cheerful, good-natured, and sociable
man, though strict in the fulfilment of what he con-
sidered to be his duty: and he considered his duty
to be what was so considered by those in authority.
Neither as a boy nor as a man was he a toady,
but from early youth was by nature attracted to
people of high station as a fly is drawn to the
THE DEATH OF I VAN ILtfCH 13
light, assimilating their ways and views of life and
establishing friendly relations with them. All the
enthusiasms of childhood and youth passed without
leaving much trace on him; he succumbed to sen-
suality, to vanity, and latterly among the highest
classes to liberalism, but always within limits which
his instinct unfailingly indicated to him as correct.
At school he had done things which had formerly
seemed to him very horrid and made him feel dis-
gusted with himself when he did them; but when
later on he saw that such actions were done by
people of good position and that they did not regard
them as wrong, he was able not exactly to regard
them as right, but to forget about them entirely or
not be at all troubled at remembering them.
Having graduated from the School of Law and
qualified for the tenth rank of the civil service,
and having received money from his father for his
equipment, Ivan Ilych ordered himself clothes at
Scharmer's, the fashionable tailor, hung a medallion
inscribed respicefinem on his watch-chain, took leave
of his professor and the prince who was patron of
the school, had a farewell dinner with his com-
rades at Donon's first-class restaurant, and with his
new and fashionable portmanteau, linen, clothes,
shaving and other toilet appliances, and a travelling
rug, all purchased at the best shops, he set off for
one of the provinces where, through his father's
influence, he had been attached to the Governor
as an official for special service.
In the province Ivan Itych soon arranged as easy
and agreeable a position for himself as he had had
at the School of Law. He performed his official
tasks, made his career, and at the same time amused
himself pleasantly and decorously. Occasionally
he paid official visits to country districts, where he
behaved with dignity both to his superiors and
14 THE DEATH OF IVAN IL?CH
inferiors, and performed the duties entrusted to
him, which related chiefly to the sectarians, with
an exactness and incorruptible honesty of which
he could not but feel proud.
In official matters, despite his youth and taste for
frivolous gaiety, he was exceedingly reserved, punc-
tilious, and even severe; but in society he was often
amusing and witty, and always good-natured, cor-
rect in his manner, and bon enfant, as the governor
and his wife with whom he was like one of the
family used to say of him.
In the province he had an affair with a lady who
made advances to the elegant young lawyer, and
there was also a milliner; and there were carousals
with aides-de-camp who visited the district, and after-
supper visits to a certain outlying street of doubtful
reputation; and there was too some obsequiousness
to his chief and even to his chief's wife, but all this
was done with such a tone of good breeding that
no hard names could be applied to it. It all came
under the heading of the French saying: 'Ilfaut que
jeunesse se passe.' 1 It was all done with clean hands,
in clean linen, with French phrases, and above all
among people of the best society and consequently
with the approval of people of rank.
So Ivan Itych served for five years and then came
a change in his official life. The new and reformed
judicial institutions were introduced, and new men
were needed. Ivan Itych became such a new man.
He was offered the post of Examining Magistrate,
and he accepted it though the post was in another
province and obliged him to give up the connexions
he had formed and to make new ones. His friends
met to give him a send-off; they had a group-
photograph taken and presented him with a silver
cigarette-case, and he set off to his new post.
1 Youth must have its fling.
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 15
As examining magistrate Ivan Itych was just as
commt ilfaut and decorous a man, inspiring general
respect and capable of separating his official duties
from his private life, as he had been when acting
as an official on special service. His duties now as
examining magistrate were far more interesting and
attractive than before. In his former position it had
been pleasant to wear an undress uniform made by
Scharmer, and to pass through the crowd of peti-
tioners and officials who were timorously awaiting
an audience with the governor, and who envied
him as with free and easy gait he went straight into
his chief's private room to have a cup of tea and
a cigarette with him. But not many people had
then been directly dependent on him only police
officials and the sectarians when he went on special
missions and he liked to treat them politely, al-
most as comrades, as if he were letting them feel
that he who had the power to crush them was
treating them in this simple, friendly way. There
were then but few such people. But now, as an
examining magistrate, Ivan Ilych felt that everyone
without exception, even the most important and
self-satisfied, was in his power, and that he need
only write a few words on a sheet of paper with
a certain heading, and this or that important, self-
satisfied person would be brought before him in the
role of an accused person or a witness, and if he did
not choose to allow him to sit down, would have to
stand before him and answer his questions. Ivan
Itych never abused his power; he tried on the con-
trary to soften its expression, but the consciousness
of it and of the possibility of softening its effect,
supplied the chief interest and attraction of his
office. In his work itself, especially in his examina-
tions, he very soon acquired a method of eliminat-
ing all considerations irrelevant to the legal aspect
16 THE DEATH OF IVAN IL?CH
of the case, and reducing even the most complicated
case to a form in which it would be presented on
paper only in its externals, completely excluding his
personal opinion of the matter, while above all
observing every prescribed formality. The work
was new and Ivan Ilych was one of the first men
to apply the new Code of I864- 1
On taking up the post of examining magistrate
in a new town, he made new acquaintances and
connexions, placed himself on a new footing, and
assumed a somewhat different tone. He took up an
attitude of rather dignified aloofness towards the
provincial authorities, but picked out the best circle
of legal gentlemen and wealthy gentry living in the
town and assumed a tone of slight dissatisfaction
with the government, of moderate liberalism, and
of enlightened citizenship. At the same time, with-
out at all altering the elegance of his toilet, he
ceased shaving his chin and allowed his beard to
grow as it pleased.
Ivan Il^ch settled down very pleasantly in this
new town. The society there, which inclined to-
wards opposition to the Governor, was friendly, his
salary was larger, and he began to play vint [a form
of bridge], which he found added not a little to the
pleasure of life, for he had a capacity for cards,
played good-humouredly, and calculated rapidly
and astutely, so that he usually won.
After living there for two years he met his future
wife, Prask6vya Fedorovna Mikhel, who was the
most attractive, clever, and brilliant girl of the set
in which he moved, and among other amusements
and relaxations from his labours as examining
magistrate, Ivan Itych established light and playful
relations with her.
1 The emancipation of the serfs iji 1861 was followed by
a thorough all-round reform of judicial proceedings. A. M.
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 17
While he had been an official on special service
he had been accustomed to dance, but now as an
examining magistrate it was exceptional for him
to do so. If he danced now, he did it as if to show
that though he served under the reformed order of
things, and had reached the fifth official rank, yet
when it came to dancing he could do it better than
most people. So at the end of an evening he some-
times danced with Praskovya Fedorovna, and it was
chiefly during these dances that he captivated her.
She fell in love with him. Ivan Ilych had at first
no definite intention of marrying, but when the girl
fell in love with him he said to himself: 'Really, why
shouldn't I marry?'
Praskovya Fedorovna came of a good family, was
not bad looking, and had some little property. Ivan
Il^ch might have aspired to a more brilliant match,
but even this was good. He had his salary, and
she, he hoped, would have an equal income. She
was well connected, and was a sweet, pretty, and
thoroughly correct young woman. To say that Ivan
Ilych married because he fell in love with Praskovya
Fedorovna and found that she sympathized with
his views of life would be as incorrect as to say that
he married because his social circle approved of the
match. He was swayed by both these considera-
tions: the marriage gave him personal satisfaction,
and at the same time it was considered the right
thing by the most highly placed of his associates.
So Ivan Ilych got married.
The preparations for marriage and the beginning
of married life, with its conjugal caresses, the new
furniture, new crockery, and new linen, were very
pleasant until his wife became pregnant so that
Ivan Itych had begun to think that marriage would
not impair the easy, agreeable, gay and always
decorous character of his life, approved of by society
1 8 THE DEATH OF IV AN IL?CH
and regarded by himself as natural, but would even
improve it. But from the first months of his wife's
pregnancy, something new, unpleasant, depressing,
and unseemly, and from which there was no way
of escape, unexpectedly showed itself.
His wife, without any reason de gaiett de caur as
Ivan Itych expressed it to himself began to disturb
the pleasure and propriety of their life. She began
to be jealous without any cause, expected him
to devote his whole attention to her, found fault
with everything, and made coarse and ill-mannered
scenes.
At first Ivan Itych hoped to escape from the un-
pleasantness of this state of affairs by the same easy
and decorous relation to life that had served him
heretofore: he tried to ignore his wife's disagreeable
moods, continued to live in his usual easy and
pleasant way, invited friends to his house for a game
of cards, and also tried going out to his club or
spending his evenings with friends. But one day his
wife began upbraiding him so vigorously, using
such coarse words, and continued to abuse him
every time he did not fulfil her demands, so reso-
lutely and with such evident determination not to
give way till he submitted that is, till he stayed at
home and was bored just as she was that he be-
came alarmed. He now realized that matrimony
at any rate with Praskovya Fedorovna was not
always conducive to the pleasures and amenities of
life, but on the contrary often infringed both com-
fort and propriety, and that he must therefore en-
trench himself against such infringement. And Ivan
Itych began to seek for means of doing so. His
official duties were the one thing that imposed upon
Prask6vya Fedorovna, and by means of his official
work and the duties attached to it he began strug-
gling with his wife to secure his own independence.
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 19
With the birth of their child, the attempts to feed
it and the various failures in doing so, and with the
real and imaginary illnesses of mother and child, in
which Ivan Ilych's sympathy was demanded but
about which he understood nothing, the need of
securing for himself an existence outside his family
life became still more imperative.
As his wife grew more irritable and exacting and
Ivan Ilych transferred the centre of gravity of his
life more and more to his official work, so did he
grow to like his work better and became more
ambitious than before.
Very soon, within a year of his wedding, Ivan
Il^ch had realized that marriage, though it may
add some comforts to life, is in fact a very intricate
and difficult affair towards which in order to per-
form one's duty, that is, to lead a decorous life
approved of by society, one must adopt a definite
attitude just as towards one's official duties.
And Ivan Ilych evolved such an attitude towards
married life. He only required of it those con-
veniences dinner at home, housewife, and bed
which it could give him, and above all that pro-
priety of external forms required by public opinion.
For the rest he looked for light-hearted pleasure and
propriety, and was very thankful when he found
them, but if he met with antagonism and querulous-
ness he at once retired into his separate fenced-off
world of official duties, where he found satisfaction.
Ivan Ilych was esteemed a good official, and after
three years was made Assistant Public Prosecutor.
His new duties, their importance, the possibility of
indicting and imprisoning anyone he chose, the
publicity his speeches received, and the success he
had in all these things, made his work still more
attractive.
More children came. His wife became more and
20 THE DEATH OF IVAN
more querulous and ill-tempered, but the attitude
Ivan Itych had adopted towards his home life
rendered him almost impervious to her grumbling.
After seven years' service in that town he was
transferred to another province as Public Prose-
cutor. They moved, but were short of money and
his wife did not like the place they moved to.
Though the salary was higher the cost of living was
greater, besides which two of their children died
and family life became still more unpleasant for
him.
Praskovya Fedorovna blamed her husband for
every inconvenience they encountered in their new
home. Most of the conversations between husband
and wife, especially as to the children's education,
led to topics which recalled former disputes, and
those disputes were apt to flare up again at any
moment. There remained only those rare periods
of amorousness which still came to them at times
but did not last long. These were islets at which
they anchored for a while and then again set out
upon that ocean of veiled hostility which showed
itself in their aloofness from one another. This
aloofness might have grieved Ivan Ilych had he
considered that it ought not to exist, but he now
regarded the position as normal, and even made it
the goal at which he aimed in family life. His aim
was to free himself more and more from those un-
pleasantnesses and to give them a semblance of
harmlessness and propriety. He attained this by
spending less and less time with his family, and
when obliged to be at home he tried to safeguard
his position by the presence of outsiders. The chief
thing however was that he had his official duties.
The whole interest of his life now centred in the
official world and that interest absorbed him. The
consciousness of his power, being able to ruin any-
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILVCH 21
body he wished to ruin, the importance, even the
external dignity of his entry into court, or meetings
with his subordinates, his success with superiors and
inferiors, and above all his masterly handling of
cases, of which he was conscious all this gave him
pleasure and filled his life, together with chats with
his colleagues, dinners, and bridge. So that on the
whole Ivan Ilych's life continued to flow as he con-
sidered it should do pleasantly and properly.
So things continued for another seven years. His
eldest daughter was already sixteen, another child
had died, and only one son was left, a schoolboy
and a subject of dissension. Ivan Ilych wanted to
put him in the School of Law, but to spite him
Praskovya Fedorovna entered him at the High
School. The daughter had been educated at home
and had turned out well: the boy did not learn
badly either.
Ill
So Ivan Ilych lived for seventeen years after his
marriage. He was already a Public Prosecutor of
long standing, and had declined several proposed
transfers while awaiting a more desirable post, when
an unanticipated and unpleasant occurrence quite
upset the peaceful course of his life. He was expect-
ing to be offered the post of presiding judge in a
University town, but Happe somehow came to the
front and obtained the appointment instead. Ivan
Ilych became irritable, reproached Happe, and
quarrelled both with him and with his immediate
superiors who became colder to him and again
passed him over when other appointments were
made.
This was in 1 880, the hardest year of Ivan Itych's
life. It was then that it became evident on the one
hand that his salary was insufficient for them to live
22 THE DEATH OF IVAN
on, and on the other that he had been forgotten,
and not only this, but that what was for him the
greatest and most cruel injustice appeared to others
a quite ordinary occurrence. Even his father did
not consider it his duty to help him. Ivan Ilych
felt himself abandoned by everyone, and that they
regarded his position with a salary of 3,500 rubles
[about 350] as quite normal and even fortunate.
He alone knew that with the consciousness of the
injustices done him, with his wife's incessant nag-
ging, and with the debts he had contracted by
living beyond his means, his position was far from
normal.
In order to save money that summer he obtained
leave of absence and went with his wife to live in
the country at her brother's place.
In the country, without his work, he experienced
ennui for the first time in his life, and not only ennui
but intolerable depression, and he decided that it
was impossible to go on living like that, and that
it was necessary to take energetic measures.
Having passed a sleepless night pacing up and
down the veranda, he decided to go to Petersburg
and bestir himself, in order to punish those who had
failed to appreciate him and to get transferred to
another ministry.
Next day, despite many protests from his wife
and her brother, he started for Petersburg with the
sole object of obtaining a post with a salary of five
thousand rubles a year. He was no longer bent on
any particular department, or tendency, or kind of
activity. All he now wanted was an appointment
to another post with a salary of five thousand rubles,
either in the administration, in the banks, with the
railways, in one of the Empress Marya's Institu-
tions, or even in the customs but it had to carry
with it a salary of five thousand rubles and be in
THE DEATH OF IVAN IU?CH 23
a ministry other than that in which they had failed
to appreciate him.
And this quest of Ivan Itych's was crowned with
remarkable and unexpected success. At Kursk an
acquaintance of his, F. I. Ilyin, got into the first-
class carriage, sat down beside Ivan Ilych, and told
him of a telegram just received by the Governor of
Kursk announcing that a change was about to take
place in the ministry: Peter Ivanovich was to be
superseded by Ivan Semenovich.
The proposed change, apart from its significance
for Russia, had a special significance for Ivan Ilych,
because by bringing forward a new man, Peter
Petrovich, and consequently his friend Zachar
Ivanovich, it was highly favourable for Ivan Itych,
since Zachar Ivanovich was a friend and colleague
of his.
In Moscow this news was confirmed, and on
reaching Petersburg Ivan Ilych found Zachar Iva-
novich and received a definite promise of an ap-
pointment in his former department of Justice.
A week later he telegraphed to his wife: 'Zachar
in Miller's place. I shall receive appointment on
presentation of report.'
Thanks to this change of personnel, Ivan Itych
had unexpectedly obtained an appointment in his
former ministry which placed him two stages above
his former colleagues besides giving him five thou-
sand rubles salary and three thousand five hundred
rubles for expenses connected with his removal. AIL
his ill humour towards his former enemies and the
whole department vanished, and Ivan Itych was
completely happy.
He returned to the country more cheerful and
contented than he had been for a long time. Pras-
k6vya Fedorovna also cheered up and a truce was
arranged between them. Ivan Itych told of how he
24 THE DEATH OF IVAN
had been feted by everybody in Petersburg, how all
those who had been his enemies were put to shame
and now fawned on him, how envious they were
of his appointment, and how much everybody in
Petersburg had liked him.
Praskovya Fedorovna listened to all this and ap-
peared to believe it. She did not contradict any-
thing, but only made plans for their life in the town
to which they were going. Ivan Ilych saw with
delight that these plans were his plans, that he and
his wife agreed, and that, after a stumble, his life
was regaining its due and natural character of
pleasant lightheartedness and decorum.
Ivan Ilych had come back for a short time only,
for he had to take up his new duties on the loth of
September. Moreover, he needed time to settle into
the new place, to move all his belongings from the
province, and to buy and order many additional
things: in a word, to make such arrangements as he
had resolved on, which were almost exactly what
Praskovya Fedorovna too had decided on.
Now that everything had happened so fortu-
nately, and that he and his wife were at one in their
aims and moreover saw so little of one another,
they got on together better than they had done since
the first years of marriage. Ivan Ilych had thought
of taking his family away with him at once, but the
insistence of his wife's brother and her sister-in-law,
who had suddenly become particularly amiable and
friendly to him and his family, induced him to
depart alone.
So he departed, and the cheerful state of mind
induced by his success and by the harmony between
his wife and himself, the one intensifying the other,
did not leave him. He found a delightful house,
just the thing both he and his wife had dreamt of.
Spacious, lofty reception rooms in the old style, a
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 25
convenient and dignified study, rooms for his wife
and daughter, a study for his son it might have
been specially built for them. Ivan Itych himself
superintended the arrangements, chose the wall-
papers, supplemented the furniture (preferably with
antiques which he considered particularly comme il
faut), and supervised the upholstering. Everything
progressed and progressed and approached the
ideal he had set himself: even when things were
only half completed they exceeded his expectations.
He saw what a refined and elegant character, free
from vulgarity, it would all have when it was ready.
On falling asleep he pictured to himself how the
reception-room would look. Looking at the yet
unfinished drawing-room he could see the fireplace,
the screen, the what-not, the little chairs dotted
here and there, the dishes and plates on the walls,
and the bronzes, as they would be when everything
was in place. He was pleased by the thought of how
his wife and daughter, who shared his taste in this
matter, would be impressed by it. They were cer-
tainly not expecting as much. He had been parti-
cularly successful in finding, and buying cheaply,
antiques which gave a particularly aristocratic
character to the whole place. But in his letters he
intentionally understated everything in order to be
able to surprise them. All this so absorbed him that
his new duties though he liked his official work
interested him less than he had expected. Some-
times he even had moments of absent-mindedness
during the Court Sessions, and would consider
whether he should have straight or curved cornices
for his curtains. He was so interested in it all that
he often did things himself, rearranging the furni-
ture, or rehanging the curtains. Once when mount-
ing a step-ladder to show the upholsterer, who
did not understand, how he wanted the hangings
26 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH
draped, he made a false step and slipped, but being
a strong and agile man he clung on and only
knocked his side against the knob of the window
frame. The bruised place was painful but the pain
soon passed, and he felt particularly bright and well
just then. He wrote: 'I feel fifteen years younger.'
He thought he would have everything ready by
September, but it dragged on till mid-October. But
the result was charming not only in his eyes but to
everyone who saw it.
In reality it was just what is usually seen in the
houses of people of moderate means who want to
appear rich, and therefore succeed only in resem-
bling others like themselves: there were damasks,
dark wood, plants, rugs, and dull and polished
bronzes all the things people of a certain class
have in order to resemble other people of that class.
His house was so like the others that it would never
have been noticed, but to him it all seemed to be
quite exceptional. He was very happy when he met
his family at the station and brought them to the
newly furnished house all lit up, where a footman in
a white tie opened the door into the hall decorated
with plants, and when they went on into the
drawing-room and the study uttering exclamations
of delight. He conducted them everywhere, drank
in their praises eagerly, and beamed with pleasure.
At tea that evening, when Praskovya Fedorovna
among other things asked him about his fall, he
laughed, and showed them how he had gone flying
and had frightened the upholsterer.
'It's a good thing I'm a bit of an athlete. Another
man might have been killed, but I merely knocked
myself, just here; it hurts when it's touched, but it's
passing off already it's only a bruise.'
So they began living in their new home in
which, as always happens, when they got thoroughly
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 27
settled in they found they were just one room
short and with the increased income, which as
always was just a little (some five hundred rubles)
too little, but it was all very nice.
Things went particularly well at first, before
everything was finally arranged and while some-
thing had still to be done: this thing bought, that
thing ordered, another thing moved, and something
else adjusted. Though there were some disputes
between husband and wife, they were both so well
satisfied and had so much to do that it all passed
off without any serious quarrels. When nothing was
left to arrange it became rather dull and something
seemed to be lacking, but they were then making
acquaintances, forming habits, and life was growing
fuller.
Ivan Ilych spent his mornings at the law court
and came home to dinner, and at first he was
generally in a good humour, though he occasionally
became irritable just on account of his house.
(Every spot on the tablecloth or the upholstery,
and every broken window-blind string, irritated
him. He had devoted so much trouble to arranging
it all that every disturbance of it distressed him.)
But on the whole his life ran its course as he believed
life should do: easily, pleasantly, and decorously.
He got up at nine, drank his coffee, read the
paper, and then put on his undress uniform and
went to the law courts. There the harness in which
he worked had already been stretched to fit him
and he donned it without a hitch: petitioners, in*
quiries at the chancery, the chancery itself, and the
sittings public and administrative. In all this the
thing was to exclude everything fresh and vital,
which always disturbs the regular course of official
business, and to admit only official relations with
people, and then only on official grounds. A man
28 THE DEATH OF IVAN IL^CH
would come, for instance, wanting some informa-
tion. Ivan Itych, as one in whose sphere the matter
did not lie, would have nothing to do with him: but
if the man had some business with him in his official
capacity, something that could be expressed on
officially stamped paper, he would do everything,
positively everything he could within the limits
of such relations, and in doing so would maintain
the semblance of friendly human relations, that is,
would observe the courtesies of life. As soon as the
official relations ended, so did everything else. Ivan
Itych possessed this capacity to separate his real life
from the official side of affairs and not mix the two,
in the highest degree, and by long practice and
natural aptitude had brought it to such a pitch that
sometimes, in the manner of a virtuoso, he would
even allow himself to let the human and official
relations mingle. He let himself do this just because
he felt that he could at any time he chose resume
the strictly official attitude again and drop the
human relation. And he did it all easily, pleasantly,
correctly, and even artistically. In the intervals
between the sessions he smoked, drank tea, chatted
a little about politics, a little about general topics,
a little about cards, but most of all about official
appointments. Tired, but with the feelings of a vir-
tuoso one of the first violins who has played his
part in an orchestra with precision he would re-
turn home to find that his wife and daughter had
been out paying calls, or had a visitor, and that his
son had been to school, had done his homework
with his tutor, and was duly learning what is taught
at High Schools. Everything was as it should be.
After dinner, if they had no visitors, Ivan Itych
sometimes read a book that was being much dis-
cussed at the time, and in the evening settled down
to work, that is, read official papers, compared the
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYGH 29
depositions of witnesses, and noted paragraphs of
the Code applying to them. This was neither dull
nor amusing. It was dull when he might have been
playing bridge, but if no bridge was available it
was at any rate better than doing nothing or sitting
with his wife. Ivan Ilych's chief pleasure was giving
little dinners to which he invited men and women
of good social position, and just as his drawing-room
resembled all other drawing-rooms so did his enjoy-
able little parties resemble all other such parties.
Once they even gave a dance. Ivan Ilych enjoyed
it and everything went off well, except that it led
to a violent quarrel with his wife about the cakes
and sweets. Praskovya Fedorovna had made her
own plans, but Ivan Ilych insisted on getting every-
thing from an expensive confectioner and ordered
too many cakes, and the quarrel occurred because
some of those cakes were left over and the confec-
tioner's bill came to forty-five rubles. It was a great
and disagreeable quarrel. Praskovya Fedorovna
called him 'a fool and an imbecile', and he clutched
at his head and made angry allusions to divorce.
But the dance itself had been enjoyable. The best
people were there, and Ivan Ilych had danced with
Princess Trufonova, a sister of the distinguished
founder of the Society 'Bear my Burden'.
The pleasures connected with his work were
pleasures of ambition; his social pleasures were
those of vanity; but Ivan Ilych's greatest pleasure
was playing bridge. He acknowledged that what-
ever disagreeable incident happened in his life, the
pleasure that beamed like a ray of light above
everything else was to sit down to bridge with good
players, not noisy partners, and of course to four-
handed bridge (with five players it was annoying
to have to stand out, though one pretended not to
mind), to play a clever and serious game (when the
30 THE DEATH OF IVAN
cards allowed it) and then to have supper and drink
a glass of wine. After a game of bridge, especially
if he had won a little (to win a large sum was
unpleasant), Ivan Ilych went to bed in specially
good humour.
So they lived. They formed a circle of acquain-
tances among the best people and were visited by
people of importance and by young folk. In their
views as to their acquaintances, husband, wife and
daughter were entirely agreed, and tacitly and
unanimously kept at arm's length and shook off the
various shabby friends and relations who, with
much show of affection, gushed into the drawing-
room with its Japanese plates on the walls. Soon
these shabby friends ceased to obtrude themselves
and only the best people remained in the Golo-
vins' set.
Young men made up to Lisa, and Petrischhev,
an examining magistrate and Dmitri Ivanovich
Petrishchev's son and sole heir, began to be so atten-
tive to her that Ivan Ilych had already spoken to
Praskovya Fedorovna about it, and considered
whether they should not arrange a party for them,
or get up some private theatricals.
So they lived, and all went well, without change,
and life flowed pleasantly.
IV
They were all in good health. It could not be
called ill health if Ivan Itych sometimes said that
he had a queer taste in his mouth and felt some
discomfort in his left side.
But this discomfort increased and, though not
exactly painful, grew into a sense of pressure in his
side accompanied by ill humour. And his irrita-
bility became worse and worse and began to mar
the agreeable, easy, and correct life that had estab-
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILVGH 31
lished itself in the Golovln family. Quarrels be-
tween husband and wife became more and more
frequent, and soon the ease and amenity dis-
appeared and even the decorum was barely main-
tained. Scenes again became frequent, and very
few of those islets remained on which husband and
wife could meet without an explosion. Praskovya
Fedorovna now had good reason to say that her
husband's temper was trying. With characteristic
exaggeration she said he had always had a dreadful
temper, and that it had needed all her good nature
to put up with it for twenty years. It was true that
now the quarrels were started by him. His bursts
of temper always came just before dinner, often just
as he began to eat his soup. Sometimes he noticed
that a plate or dish was chipped, or the food was
not right, or his son put his elbow on the table,
or his daughter's hair was not done as he liked it,
and for all this he blamed Praskovya Fedorovna.
At first she retorted and said disagreeable things to
him, but once or twice he fell into such a rage at
the beginning of dinner that she realized it was due
to some physical derangement brought on by taking
food, and so she restrained herself and did not
answer, but only hurried to get the dinner over.
She regarded this self-restraint as highly praise-
worthy. Having come to the conclusion that her
husband had a dreadful temper and made her life
miserable, she began to feel sorry for herself, and
the more she pitied herself the more she hated her
husband. She began to wish he would die; yet she
did not want him to die because then his salary
would cease. And this irritated her against him still
more. She considered herself dreadfully unhappy
just because not even his death could save her, and
though she concealed her exasperation, that hidden
exasperation of hers increased his irritation also.
32 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILtCH
After one scene in which Ivan Itych had been
particularly unfair and after which he had said in
explanation that he certainly was irritable but that
it was due to his not being well, she said that if he
was ill it should be attended to, and insisted on his
going to see a celebrated doctor.
He went. Everything took place as he had ex-
pected and as it always does. There was the usual
waiting and the important air assumed by the
doctor, with which he was so familiar (resembling
that which he himself assumed in court), and the
sounding and listening, and the questions which
called for answers that were foregone conclusions
and were evidently unnecessary, and the look of
importance which implied that 'if only you put
yourself in our hands we will arrange everything
we know indubitably how it has to be done, always
in the same way for everybody alike.' It was all
just as it was in the law courts. The doctor put on
just the same air towards him as he himself put
on towards an accused person.
The doctor said that so-and-so indicated that
there was so-and-so inside the patient, but if the
investigation of so-and-so did not confirm this, then
he must assume that and that. If he assumed that
and that, then . . . and so on. To Ivan Ilych only
one question was important: was his case serious or
not? But the doctor ignored that inappropriate
question. From his point of view it was not the one
under consideration, the real question was to decide
between a floating kidney, chronic catarrh, or ap-
pendicitis. It was not a question of Ivan Itych's life
or death, but one between a floating kidney and
appendicitis. And that question the doctor solved
brilliantly, as it seemed to Ivan Itych, in favour
of the appendix, with the reservation that should an
examination of the urine give fresh indications the
THE DEATH OF IVAN IL?CH 33
matter would be reconsidered. All this was just
what Ivan Itych had himself brilliantly accom-
plished a thousand times in dealing with men on
trial. The doctor summed up just as brilliantly,
looking over his spectacles triumphantly and even
gaily at the accused. From the doctor's summing
up Ivan Itych concluded that things were bad, but
that for the doctor, and perhaps for everybody else,
it was a matter of indifference, though for him it
was bad. And this conclusion struck him painfully,
arousing in him a great feeling of pity for himself
and of bitterness towards the doctor's indifference
to a matter of such importance.
He said nothing of this, but rose, placed the
doctor's fee on the table, and remarked with a sigh:
'We sick people probably often put inappropriate
questions. But tell me, in general, is this complaint
dangerous, or not? . . .'
The doctor looked at him sternly over his spec-
tacles with one eye, as if to say: 'Prisoner, if you
will not keep to the questions put to you, I shall be
obliged to have you removed from the court.'
'I have already told you what I consider neces-
sary and proper. The analysis may show something
more.' And the doctor bowed.
Ivan Iiych went out slowly, seated himself dis-
consolately in his sledge, and drove home. All the
way home he was going over what the doctor had
said, trying to translate those complicated, obscure,
scientific phrases into plain language and find in
them an answer to the question: 'Is my condition
bad? Is it very bad? Or is there as yet nothing
much wrong? 5 And it seemed to him that the mean-
ing of what the doctor had said was that it was very
bad. Everything in the streets seemed depressing.
The cabmen, the houses, the passers-by, and the
shops, were dismal. His ache, this dull gnawing
432 n
32 THE DEATH OF IVAN
After one scene in which Ivan Itych had been
particularly unfair and after which he had said in
explanation that he certainly was irritable but that
it was due to his not being well, she said that if he
was ill it should be attended to, and insisted on his
going to see a celebrated doctor.
He went. Everything took place as he had ex-
pected and as it always does. There was the usual
waiting and the important air assumed by the
doctor, with which he was so familiar (resembling
that which he himself assumed in court), and the
sounding and listening, and the questions which
called for answers that were foregone conclusions
and were evidently unnecessary, and the look of
importance which implied that 'if only you put
yourself in our hands we will arrange everything
we know indubitably how it has to be done, always
in the same way for everybody alike.' It was all
just as it was in the law courts. The doctor put on
just the same air towards him as he himself put
on towards an accused person.
The doctor said that so-and-so indicated that
there was so-and-so inside the patient, but if the
investigation of so-and-so did not confirm this, then
he must assume that and that. If he assumed that
and that, then . . . and so on. To Ivan Ilych only
one question was important: was his case serious or
not? But the doctor ignored that inappropriate
question. From his point of view it was not the one
under consideration, the real question was to decide
between a floating kidney, chronic catarrh, or ap-
pendicitis. It was not a question of Ivan Itych's life
or death, but one between a floating kidney and
appendicitis. And that question the doctor solved
brilliantly, as it seemed to Ivan Itych, in favour
of the appendix, with the reservation that should an
examination of the urine give fresh indications the
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 33
matter would be reconsidered. All this was just
what Ivan Itych had himself brilliantly accom-
plished a thousand times in dealing with men on
trial. The doctor summed up just as brilliantly,
looking over his spectacles triumphantly and even
gaily at the accused. From the doctor's summing
up Ivan Itych concluded that things were bad, but
that for the doctor, and perhaps for everybody else,
it was a matter of indifference, though for him it
was bad. And this conclusion struck him painfully,
arousing in him a great feeling of pity for himself
and of bitterness towards the doctor's indifference
to a matter of such importance.
He said nothing of this, but rose, placed the
doctor's fee on the table, and remarked with a sigh:
'We sick people probably often put inappropriate
questions. But tell me, in general, is this complaint
dangerous, or not? . . .'
The doctor looked at him sternly over his spec-
tacles with one eye, as if to say: 'Prisoner, if you
will not keep to the questions put to you, I shall be
obliged to have you removed from the court.'
'I have already told you what I consider neces-
sary and proper. The analysis may show something
more.' And the doctor bowed.
Ivan Itych went out slowly, seated himself dis-
consolately in his sledge, and drove home. All the
way home he was going over what the doctor had
said, trying to translate those complicated, obscure,
scientific phrases into plain language and find in
them an answer to the question: 'Is my condition
bad? Is it very bad? Or is there as yet nothing
much wrong?' And it seemed to him that the mean-
ing of what the doctor had said was that it was very
bad. Everything in the streets seemed depressing.
The cabmen, the houses, the passers-by, and the
shops, were dismal. His ache, this dull gnawing
432 n
34 THE DEATH OF IVAN
ache that never ceased for a moment, seemed to
have acquired a new and more serious significance
from the doctor's dubious remarks. Ivan Ilych now
watched it with a new and oppressive feeling.
He reached home and began to tell his wife about
it. She listened, but in the middle of his account
his daughter came in with her hat on, ready to go
out with her mother. She sat down reluctantly
to listen to this tedious story, but could not stand
it long, and her mother too did not hear him to
the end.
'Well, I am very glad,' she said. 'Mind now to
take your medicine regularly. Give me the pre-
scription and I'll send Gerasim to the chemist's.'
And she went to get ready to go out.
While she was in the room Ivan Ilych had hardly
taken time to breathe, but he sighed deeply when
she left it.
'Well,' he thought, 'perhaps it isn't so bad after all.'
He began taking his medicine and following the
doctor's directions, which had been altered after
the examination of the urine. But then it happened
that there was a contradiction between the indica-
tions drawn from the examination of the urine and
the symptoms that showed themselves. It turned
out that what was happening differed from what
the doctor had told him, and that he had either
forgotten, or blundered, or hidden something from
him. He could not, however, be blamed for that,
and Ivan Itych still obeyed his orders implicitly and
at first derived some comfort from doing so.
From the time of his visit to the doctor, Ivan
Itych's chief occupation was the exact fulfilment of
the doctor's instructions regarding hygiene and the
taking of medicine, and the observation of his pain
and his excretions. His chief interests came to be
people's ailments and people's health. When sick-
THE.DEATH OF IVAN ILVGH 35
ness, deaths, or recoveries were mentioned in his
presence, especially when the illness resembled his
own, he listened with agitation which he tried to
hide, asked questions, and applied what he heard to
his own case.
The pain did not grow less, but Ivan Ilych made
efforts to force himself to think that he was better.
And he could do this so long as nothing agitated
him. But as soon as he had any unpleasantness with
his wife, any lack of success in his official work,
or held bad cards at bridge, he was at once acutely
sensible of his disease. He had formerly borne such
mischances, hoping soon to adjust what was wrong,
to master it and attain success, or make a grand
slam. But now every mischance upset him and
plunged him into despair. He would say to himself:
'There now, just as I was beginning to get better
and the medicine had begun to take effect, comes
this accursed misfortune, or unpleasantness . . .'
And he was furious with the mishap, or with the
people who were causing the unpleasantness and
killing him, for he felt that this fury was killing
him but could not restrain it. One would have
thought that it should have been clear to him that
this exasperation with circumstances and people
aggravated his illness, and that he ought therefore
to ignore unpleasant occurrences. But he drew the
very opposite conclusion: he said that he needed
peace, and he watched for everything that might
disturb it and became irritable at the slightest in-
fringement of it. His condition was rendered worse
by the fact that he read medical books and con-
sulted doctors. The progress of his disease was so
gradual that he could deceive himself when com-
paring one day with another the difference was so
slight. But when he consulted the doctors it seemed
to him that he was getting worse, and even very
36 THE DEATH OF IVAN
rapidly. Yet despite this he was continually con-
sulting them.
That month he went to see another celebrity, who
told him almost the same as the first had done but
put his questions rather differently, and the inter-
view with this celebrity only increased Ivan Itych's
doubts and fears. A friend of a friend of his, a very
good doctor, diagnosed his illness again quite dif-
ferently from the others, and though he predicted
recovery, his questions and suppositions bewildered
Ivan Ilych still more and increased his doubts. A
homoeopathist diagnosed the disease in yet another
way, and prescribed medicine which Ivan Ilych
took secretly for a week. But after a week, not feel-
ing any improvement and having lost confidence
both in the former doctor's treatment and in this
one's, he became still more despondent. One day
a lady acquaintance mentioned a cure effected by
a wonder-working icon. Ivan Ilych caught himself
listening attentively and beginning to believe that
it had occurred. This incident alarmed him. 'Has
my mind really weakened to such an extent?' he
asked himself. 'Nonsense! It's all rubbish. I
mustn't give way to nervous fears but having chosen
a doctor must keep strictly to his treatment. That
is what I will do. Now it 's all settled. I won't think
about it, but will follow the treatment seriously till
summer, and then we shall see. From now there
must be no more of this wavering!' This was easy
to say but impossible to carry out. The pain in his
side oppressed him and seemed to grow worse and
more incessant, while the taste in his mouth grew
stranger and stranger. It seemed to him that his
breath had a disgusting smell, and he was conscious
of a loss of appetite and strength. There was no
deceiving himself: something terrible, new, and
more important than anything before in his life,
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYGH 37
was taking place within him of which he alone was
aware. Those about him did not understand or
would not understand it, but thought everything in
the world was going on as usual. That tormented
Ivan Itych more than anything. He saw that his
household, especially his wife and daughter who
were in a perfect whirl of visiting, did not under-
stand anything of it and were annoyed that he was
so depressed and so exacting, as if he were to blame
for it. Though they tried to disguise it he saw that
he was an obstacle in their path, and that his wife
had adopted a definite line in regard to his illness
and kept to it regardless of anything he said or did.
Her attitude was this: 'You know,' she would say
to her friends, 'Ivan Ilych can't do as other people
do, and keep to the treatment prescribed for him.
One day he'll take his drops and keep strictly to his
diet and go to bed in good time, but the next day
unless I watch him he'll suddenly forget his medi-
cine, eat sturgeon which is forbidden and sit up
playing cards till one o'clock in the morning.'
'Oh, come, when was that?' Ivan Itych would
ask in vexation. 'Only once at Peter Ivanovich's.'
'And yesterday with Sh6bek.'
'Well, even if I hadn't stayed up, this pain would
have kept me awake.'
'Be that as it may you'll never get well like that,
but will always make us wretched.'
Prask6vya Fedorovna's attitude to Ivan Itych's
illness, as she expressed it both to others and to him,
was that it was his own fault and was another of
the annoyances he caused her. Ivan Itych felt that
this opinion escaped her involuntarily but that did
not make it easier for him.
At the law courts too, Ivan Itych noticed, or
thought he noticed, a strange attitude towards him-
self. It sometimes seemed to him that people were
38 THE DEATH OF IVAN IL^CH
watching him inquisitively as a man whose place
might soon be vacant. Then again, his friends
would suddenly begin to chaff him in a friendly
way about his low spirits, as if the awful, horrible,
and unheard-of thing that was going on within him,
incessantly gnawing at him and irresistibly drawing
him away, was a very agreeable subject for jests.
Schwartz in particular irritated him by his jocu-
larity, vivacity, and savoir-faire, which reminded
him of what he himself had been ten years ago.
Friends came to make up a set and they sat down
to cards. They dealt, bending the new cards to
soften them, and he sorted the diamonds in his hand
and found he had seven. His partner said 'No
trumps' and supported him with two diamonds.
What more could be wished for? It ought to be
jolly and lively. They would make a grand slam.
But suddenly Ivan Itych was conscious of that
gnawing pain, that taste in his mouth, and it seemed
ridiculous that in such circumstances he should be
pleased to make a grand slam.
He looked at his partner Mikhail Mikhaylovich,
who rapped the table with his strong hand and
instead of snatching up the tricks pushed the cards
courteously and indulgently towards Ivan Itych
that he might have the pleasure of gathering them
up without the trouble of stretching out his hand
for them. 'Does he think I am too weak to stretch
out my arm? 5 thought Ivan Ilych, and forgetting
what he was doing he over-trumped his partner,
missing the grand slam by three tricks. And what
was most awful of all was that he saw how upset
Mikhail Mikhaylovich was about it but did not
himself care. And it was dreadful to realize why
he did not care.
They all saw that he was suffering, and said: 'We
can stop if you are tired. Take a rest.' Lie down?
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 39
No, he was not at all tired, and he finished the
rubber. All were gloomy and silent. Ivan Itych
felt that he had diffused this gloom over them and
could not dispel it. They had supper and went
away, and Ivan Ilych was left alone with the con-
sciousness that his life was poisoned and was poison-
ing the lives of others, and that this poison did not
weaken but penetrated more and more deeply into
his whole being.
With this consciousness, and with physical pain
besides the terror, he must go to bed, often to lie
awake the greater part of the night. Next morning
he had to get up again, dress, go to the law courts,
speak, and write; or if he did not go out, spend at
home those twenty-four hours a day each of which
was a torture. And he had to live thus all alone on
the brink of an abyss, with no one who understood
or pitied him.
V
So one month passed and then another. Just
before the New Year his brother-in-law came to
town and stayed at their house. Ivan Ilych was at
the law courts and Praskovya Fedorovna had gone
shopping. When Ivan Ilych came home and
entered his study he found his brother-in-law there
a healthy, florid man unpacking his portman-
teau himself. He raised his head on hearing Ivan
Itych's footsteps and looked up at him for a moment
without a word. That stare told Ivan Ilych every-
thing. His brother-in-law opened his mouth to
utter an exclamation of surprise but checked him-
self, and that action confirmed it all.
'I have changed, eh? 5
'Yes, there is a change.'
And after that, try as he would to get his brother-
in-law to return to the subject of his looks, the latter
40 THE DEATH OF IVAN IL^CH
would say nothing about it. Prask6vya Fedorovna
came home and her brother went out to her. Ivdn
Itych locked the door and began to examine himself
in the glass, first full face, then in profile. He took
up a portrait of himself taken with his wife, and com-
pared it with what he saw in the glass. The change
in him was immense. Then he bared his arms to
the elbow, looked at them, drew the sleeves down
again, sat down on an ottoman, and grew blacker
than night.
'No, no, this won't do!' he said to himself, and
jumped up, went to the table, took up some law
papers and began to read them, but could not con-
tinue. He unlocked the door and went into the re-
ception-room. The door leading to the drawing-room
was shut. He approached it on tiptoe and listened.
'No, you are exaggerating !' Praskovya Fedorovna
was saying.
'Exaggerating! Don't you see it? Why, he's a
dead man! Look at his eyes there's no light in
them. But what is it that is wrong with him?'
'No one knows. Nikolaevich [that was another
doctor] said something, but I don't know what.
And Leshchetitsky [this was the celebrated special-
ist] said quite the contrary . . .'
Ivan Itych walked away, went to his own room,
lay down, and began musing: 'The kidney, a float-
ing kidney.' He recalled all the doctors had told
him of how it detached itself and "swayed about.
And by an effort of imagination he tried to catch
that kidney and arrest it and support it. So little
was needed for this, it seemed to him. 'No, I'll go
to see Peter Ivanovich again.' [That was the friend
whose friend was a doctor.] He rang, ordered the
carriage, and got ready to go.
'Where are you going, Jean?' asked his wife, with
a specially sad and exceptionally kind look.
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYGH 41
This exceptionally kind look irritated him. He
looked morosely at her.
'I must go to see Peter Ivanovich.'
He went to see Peter Ivanovich, and together
they went to see his friend, the doctor. He was in,
and Ivan Ilych had a long talk with him.
Reviewing the anatomical and physiological de-
tails of what in the doctor's opinion was going on
inside him, he understood it all.
There was something, a small thing, in the vermi-
form appendix. It might all come right. Only
stimulate the energy of one organ and check the
activity of another, then absorption would take
place and everything would come right. He got
home rather late for dinner, ate his dinner, and
conversed cheerfully, but could not for a long time
bring himself to go back to work in his room. At
last, however, he went to his study and did what
was necessary, but the consciousness that he had put
something aside an important, intimate matter
which he would revert to when his work was done
never left him. When he had finished his work he
remembered that this intimate matter was the
thought of his vermiform appendix. But he did not
give himself up to it, and went to the drawing-room
for tea. There were callers there, including the
examining magistrate who was a desirable match
for his daughter, and they were conversing, playing
the piano, and singing. Ivan Itych, as Praskovya
Fedorovna remarked, spent that evening more
cheerfully than usual, but he never for a moment
forgot that he had postponed the important matter
of the appendix. At eleven o'clock he said good-
night and went to his bedroom. Since his illness he
had slept alone in a small room next to his study.
He undressed and took up a novel by Zola, but
instead of reading it he fell into thought, and in his
42 THE DEATH OF IVAN IL^CH
imagination that desired improvement in the vermi-
form appendix occurred. There was the absorption
and evacuation and the re-establishment of normal
activity. 'Yes, that's it!' he said to himself. 'One
need only assist nature, that's all.' He remembered
his medicine, rose, took it, and lay down on his back
watching for the beneficent action of the medicine
and for it to lessen the pain. 'I need only take it
regularly and avoid all injurious influences. I am
already feeling better, much better.' He began
touching his side: it was not painful to the touch.
'There, I really don't feel it. It's much better
already.' He put out the light and turned on his
side . . . 'The appendix is getting better, absorption
is occurring.' Suddenly he felt the old, familiar,
dull, gnawing pain, stubborn and serious. There
was the same familiar loathsome taste in his mouth.
His heart sank and he felt dazed. 'My God ! My
God!' he muttered. 'Again, again! And it will
never cease.' And suddenly the matter presented
itself in a quite different aspect. 'Vermiform ap-
pendix! Kidney!' he said to himself. 'It's not a
3uestion of appendix or kidney, but of life and . . .
eath. Yes, life was there and now it is going, going
and I cannot stop it. Yes. Why deceive myself?
Isn't it obvious to everyone but me that I'm dying,
and that it's only a question of weeks, days ... it
may happen this moment. There was light and now
there is darkness. I was here and now I'm going
there ! Where?' A chill came over him, his breathing
ceased, and he felt only the throbbing of his heart.
'When I am not, what will there be? There will
be nothing. Then where shall I be when I am no
more? Can this be dying? No, I don't want to!'
He jumped up and tried to light the candle, felt
for it with trembling hands, dropped candle and
candlestick on the floor, and fell back pn his pillow.
THE DEATH OF IVAN IL?CH 43
'What's the use? It makes no difference/ he said
to himself, staring with wide-open eyes into the
darkness. 'Death. Yes, death. And none of them
know or wish to know it, and they have no pity for
me. Now they are playing.' (He heard through
the door the distant sound of a song and its accom-
paniment.) 'It's all the same to them, but they will
die too ! Fools ! I first, and they later, but it will be
the same for them. And now they are merry . . .
the beasts!'
Anger choked him and he was agonizingly, un-
bearably miserable. 'It is impossible that all men
have been doomed to suffer this awful horror!' He
raised himself.
'Something must be wrong. I must calm myself
must think it all over from the beginning.' And
he again began thinking. 'Yes, the beginning of my
illness: I knocked my side, but I was still quite well
that day and the next. It hurt a little, then rather
more. I saw the doctors, then followed despon-
dency and anguish, more doctors, and I drew
nearer to the abyss. My strength grew less and I
kept coming nearer and nearer, and now I have
wasted away and there is no light in my eyes. I
think of the appendix but this is death ! I think
of mending the appendix, and all the while here is
death ! Can it really be death?' Again terror seized
him and he gasped for breath. He leant down and
began feeling for the matches, pressing with his elbow
on the stand beside the bed. It was in his way and
hurt him, he grew furious with it, pressed on it still
harder, and upset it. Breathless and in despair he fell
on his back, expecting death to come immediately.
Meanwhile the visitors were leaving. Praskovya
Fedorovna was seeing them off. She heard some-
thing fall and came in.
'What has happened?'
44 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH
'Nothing. I knocked it over accidentally.'
She went out and returned with a candle. He
lay there panting heavily, like a man who has run
a thousand yards, and stared upwards at her with
a fixed look.
'What is it, Jean?'
'No ... o ... thing. I upset it.' ('Why speak of
it? She won't understand,' he thought.)
And in truth she did not understand. She picked
up the stand, lit his candle, and hurried away to
see another visitor off. When she came back he still
lay on his back, looking upwards.
'What is it? Do you feel worse?'
'Yes.'
She shook her head and sat down.
'Do you know, Jean, I think we must ask Lesh-
chetitsky to come and see you here.'
This meant calling in the famous specialist, re-
gardless of expense. He smiled malignantly and
said 'No'. She remained a little longer and then
went up to him and kissed his forehead.
While she was kissing him he hated her from the
bottom of his soul and with difficulty refrained from
pushing her away.
'Good-night. Please God you'll sleep.'
'Yes.'
VI
Ivan Itych saw that he was dying, and he was in
continual despair.
In the depth of his heart he knew he was dying,
but not only was he not accustomed to the thought,
he simply did not and could not grasp it.
The syllogism he had learnt from Kiezewetter's
Logic: 'Gaius is a man, men are mortal, therefore
Caius is mortal', had always seemed to him correct
as applied to Gaius, but certainly not as applied to
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILVCH 45
himself. That Caius man in the abstract was
mortal, was perfectly correct, but he was not Caius,
not an abstract man, but a creature quite, quite
separate from all others. He had been little Vanya,
with a mamma and a papa, with Mitya and Vol6d-
ya, with the toys, a coachman and a nurse, after-
wards with Katenka and with all the joys, griefs,
and delights of childhood, boyhood, and youth.
What did Caius know of the smell of that striped
leather ball Vanya had been so fond of? Had Caius
kissed his mother's hand like that, and did the silk
of her dress rustle so for Caius? Had he rioted like
that at school when the pastry was bad? Had Caius
been in love like that? Could Caius preside at a
session as he did? 'Caius really was mortal, and it
was right for him to die; but for me, little Vanya,
Ivan Itych, with all my thoughts and emotions, it's
altogether a different matter. It cannot be that I
ought to die. That would be too terrible.'
Such was his feeling.
'If I had to die like Caius I should have known it
was so. An inner voice would have told me so, but
there was nothing of the sort in me and I and all my
friends felt that our case was quite different from
that of Caius. And now here it is!' he said to him-
self. 'It can't be. It's impossible! But here it is.
How is this? How is one to understand it?'
He could not understand it, and tried to drive this
false, incorrect, morbid thought away and to replace
it by other proper and healthy thoughts. But that
thought, and not the thought only but the reality
itself, seemed to come and confront him.
And to replace that thought he called up a suc-
cession of others, hoping to find in them some sup-
port. He tried to get back into the former current
of thoughts that had once screened the thought of
death from him. But strange to say, all that had
46 THE DEATH OF IVAN
formerly shut off, hidden, and destroyed, his con-
sciousness of death, no longer had that effect. Ivan
Itych now spent most of his time in attempting to
re-establish that old current. He would say to him-
self: 'I will take up my duties again after all I used
to live by them.' And banishing all doubts he would
go to the law courts, enter into conversation with
his colleagues, and sit carelessly as was his wont,
scanning the crowd with a thoughtful look and lean-
ing both his emaciated arms on the arms of his oak
chair; bending over as usual to a colleague and
drawing his papers nearer he would interchange
whispers with him, and then suddenly raising his
eyes and sitting erect would pronounce certain
words and open the proceedings. But suddenly in
the. midst of those proceedings the pain in his side,
regardless of the stage the proceedings had reached,
would begin its own gnawing work. Ivan Itych
would turn his attention to it and try to drive the
thought of it away, but without success. It would
come and stand before him and look at him, and he
would be petrified and the light would die out of his
eyes, and he would again begin asking himself
whether It alone was true. And his colleagues and
subordinates would see with surprise and distress
that he, the brilliant and subtle judge, was becoming
confused and making mistakes. He would shake
himself, try to pull himself together, manage some-
how to bring the sitting to a close, and return home
with the sorrowful consciousness that his judicial
labours could not as formerly hide from him what
he wanted them to hide, and could not deliver him
from It. And what was worst of all was that It drew
his attention to itself not in order to make him take
some action but only that he should look at It, look
it straight in the face: look at it and without doing
anything, suffer inexpressibly.
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 47
And to save himself from this condition Ivan
Itych looked for consolations new screens and
new screens were found and for a while seemed to
save him, but then they immediately fell to pieces
or rather became transparent, as if It penetrated
them and nothing could veil //.
In these latter days he would go into the drawing-
room he had arranged that drawing-room where
he had fallen and for the sake of which (how
bitterly ridiculous it seemed) he had sacrificed his
life for he knew that his illness originated with that
knock. He would enter and see that something had
scratched the polished table. He would look for the
cause of this and find that it was the bronze orna-
mentation of an album, that had got bent. He
would take up the expensive album which he had
lovingly arranged, and feel vexed with his daughter
and her friends for their untidiness for the album
was torn here and there and some of the photo-
graphs turned upside down. He would put it care-
fully in order and bend the ornamentation back
into position. Then it would occur to him to place
all those things in another corner of the room, near
the plants. He would call the footman, but his
daughter or wife would come to help him. They
would not agree, and his wife would contradict him,
and he would dispute and grow angry. But that
was all right, for then he did not think about It. It
was invisible.
But then, when he was moving something himself,
his wife would say: 'Let the servants do it. You will
hurt yourself again.' And suddenly // would flash
through the screen and he would see it. It was just
a flash, and he hoped it would disappear, but he
would involuntarily pay attention to his side. 'It
sits there as before, gnawing just the same !' And he
could no longer forget It, but could distinctly see it
48 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH
looking at him from behind the flowers. 'What is it
all for?'
'It really is so! I lost my life over that curtain as
I might have done when storming a fort. Is that
possible? How terrible and how stupid. It can't be
true! It can't, but it is.'
He would go to his study, lie down, and again be
alone with It: face to face with It. And nothing
could be done with // except to look at it and
shudder.
VII
How it happened it is impossible to say because
it came about step by step, unnoticed, but in the
third month of Ivan Ilych's illness, his wife, his
daughter, his son, his acquaintances, the doctors,
the servants, and above all he himself, were aware
that the whole interest he had for other people was
whether he would soon vacate his place, and at last
release the living from the discomfort caused by his
presence and be himself released from his sufferings.
He slept less and less. He was given opium and
hypodermic injections of morphine, but this did not
relieve him. The dull depression he experienced in
a somnolent condition at first gave him a little
relief, but only as something new, afterwards it be-
came as distressing as the pain itself or even more so.
Special foods were prepared for him by the doc-
tors' orders, but all those foods became increasingly
distasteful and disgusting to him.
For his excretions also special arrangements had
to be made, and this was a torment to him every
time a torment from the uncleanliness, the un-
seemliness, and the smell, and from knowing that
another person had to take part in it.
But just through this most unpleasant matter,
Ivdn Itych obtained comfort. Gerdsim, the butler's
THE DEATH OF IVAN IL^GH 49
young assistant, always came in to carry the things
out. Gerasim was a clean, fresh peasant lad, grown
stout on town food and always cheerful and bright.
At first the sight of him, in his clean Russian peasant
costume, engaged on that disgusting task embar-
rassed Ivan Itych.
Once when he got up from the commode too weak
to draw up his trousers, he dropped into a soft arm-
chair and looked with horror at his bare, enfeebled
thighs with the muscles so sharply marked on them.
Gerasim with a firm light tread, his heavy boots
emitting a pleasant smell of tar and fresh winter air,
came in wearing a clean Hessian apron, the sleeves
of his print shirt tucked up over his strong bare
young arms; and refraining from looking at his sick
master out of consideration for his feelings, and re-
straining the joy of life that beamed from his face,
he went up to the commode.
'Gerasim!' said Ivan Ilych in a weak voice.
Gerasim started, evidently afraid he might have
committed some blunder, and with a rapid move-
ment turned his fresh, kind, simple young face which
just showed the first downy signs of a beard.
'Yes, sir?'
'That must be very unpleasant for you. You must
forgive me. I am helpless.'
'Oh, why, sir,' and Gerasim's eyes beamed and
he showed his glistening white teeth, 'what's a little
trouble? It's a case of illness with you, sir.'
And his deft strong hands did their accustomed
task, and he went out of the room stepping lightly.
Five minutes later he as lightly returned.
Ivan Itych was still sitting in the same position in
the armchair.
'Gerasim,' he said when the latter had replaced
the freshly-washed utensil. 'Please come here and
help me.' Gerasim went up to him. 'Lift me up. It
52 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH
by those about him to the level of a casual, un-
pleasant, and almost indecorous incident (as if
someone entered a drawing-room diffusing an un-
pleasant odour) and this was done by that very
decorum which he had served all his life long. He
saw that no one felt for him, because no one even
wished to grasp his position. Only Gerdsim recog-
nized it and pitied him. And so Ivan Itych felt at
ease only with him. He felt comforted when Gera-
sim supported his legs (sometimes all night long)
and refused to go to bed, saying: 'Don't you worry,
Ivan Itych. I'll get sleep enough later on,' or when
he suddenly became familiar and exclaimed: 'If you
weren't sick it would be another matter, but as it
is, why should I grudge a little trouble?' Gerasim
alone did not lie; everything showed that he alone
understood the facts of the case and did not con-
sider it necessary to disguise them, but simply felt
sorry for his emaciated and enfeebled master. Once
when Ivan Il^ch was sending him away he even
said straight out: 'We shall all of us die, so why
should I grudge a little trouble?' expressing the
fact that he did not think his work burdensome, be-
cause he was doing it for a dying man and hoped
someone would do the same for him when his time
came.
Apart from this lying, or because of it, what most
tormented Ivan Itych was that no one pitied him as
he wished to be pitied. At certain moments after
prolonged suffering he wished most of all (though
he would have been ashamed to confess it) for some-
one to pity him as a sick child is pitied. He longed
to be petted and comforted. He knew he was
an important functionary, that he had a beard
turning grey, and that therefore what he longed for
was impossible, but still he longed for it. And in
Gerdsim's attitude towards him there was something
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 53
akin to what he wished for, and so that attitude com-
forted him. Ivan Itych wanted to weep, wanted to
be petted and cried over, and then his colleague
She*bek would come, and instead of weeping and
being petted, Ivan Itych would assume a serious,
severe, and profound air, and by force of habit
would express his opinion on a decision of the Court
of Cassation and would stubbornly insist on that
view. This falsity around him and within him did
more than anything else to poison his last days.
VIII
It was morning. He knew it was morning because
Gerasim had gone, and Peter the footman had come
and put out the candles, drawn back one of the cur-
tains, and begun quietly to tidy up. Whether it was
morning or evening, Friday or Sunday, made no
difference, it was all just the same: the gnawing, un-
mitigated, agonizing pain, never ceasing for an in-
stant, the consciousness of life inexorably waning but
not yet extinguished, the approach of that ever
dreaded and hateful Death which was the only
reality, and always the same falsity. What were
days, weeks, hours, in such a case?
'Will you have some tea, sir?'
'He wants things to be regular, and wishes the
gentlefolk to drink tea in the morning, 5 thought Ivan
Itych, and only said 'No'.
'Wouldn't you like to move onto the sofa, sir?'
'He wants to tidy up the room, and I'm in the
way. I am uncleanliness and disorder,' he thought,
and said only:
'No, leave me alone.'
The man went on bustling about. Ivan Ilych
stretched out his hand. Peter came up, ready to
help.
'What is it, sir?'
54 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYGH
'My watch.'
Peter took the watch which was close at hand and
gave it to his master.
'Half-past eight. Are they up?'
'No sir, except Vladimir Ivanich' (the son) 'who
has gone to school. Praskovya Fedorovna ordered
me to wake her if you asked for her. Shall I do so?'
'No, there's no need to.' 'Perhaps I'd better have
some tea,' he thought, and added aloud: 'Yes, bring
me some tea.'
Peter went to the door, but Ivan Ilych dreaded
being left alone. 'How can I keep him here? Oh
yes, my medicine.' 'Peter, give me my medicine.'
'Why not? Perhaps it may still do me some
good.' He took a spoonful and swallowed it. 'No, it
won't help. It's all tomfoolery, all deception,' he
decided as soon as he became aware of the familiar,
sickly, hopeless taste. 'No, I can't believe in it any
longer. But the pain, why this pain? If it would
only cease just for a moment 1' And he moaned.
Peter turned towards him. 'It's all right. Go and
fetch me some tea.'
Peter went out. Left alone Ivan Ilych groaned
not so much with pain, terrible though that was, as
from mental anguish. Always and for ever the same,
always these endless days and nights. If only it
would come quicker! If only what would come
quicker? Death, darkness? . . . No, no! Anything
rather than death !
When Peter returned with the tea on a tray, Ivan
Itych stared at him for a time in perplexity, not
realizing who and what he was. Peter was discon-
certed by that look and his embarrassment brought
Ivan Ilych to himself.
'Oh, tea ! All right, put it down. Only help me
to wash and put on a clean shirt.'
And Ivan Itych began to wash. With pauses for
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 55
rest, he washed his hands and then his face, cleaned
his teeth, brushed his hair, and looked in the glass.
He was terrified by what he saw, especially by the
limp way in which his hair clung to his pallid fore-
head.
While his shirt was being changed he knew that
he would be still more frightened at the sight of his
body, so he avoided looking at it. Finally he was
ready. He drew on a dressing-gown, wrapped him-
self in a plaid, and sat down in the armchair to take
his tea. For a moment he felt refreshed, but as soon
as he began to drink the tea he was again aware
of the same taste, and the pain also returned. He
finished it with an effort, and then lay down stretch-
ing out his legs, and dismissed Peter.
Always the same. Now a spark of hope flashes
up, then a sea of despair rages, and always pain;
always pain, always despair, and always the same.
When alone he had a dreadful and distressing desire
to call someone, but he knew beforehand that with
others present it would be still worse. 'Another dose
of morphine to lose consciousness. I will tell him,
the doctor, that he must think of something else.
It's impossible, impossible, to go on like this. 5
An hour and another pass like that. But now
there is a ring at the door bell. Perhaps it's the
doctor? It is. He comes in fresh, hearty, plump, and
cheerful, with that look on his face that seems to
say: 'There now, you're in a panic about something,
but we'll arrange it all for you directly !' The doctor
knows this expression is out of place here, but he has
put it on once for all and can't take it off like a
man who has put on a frock-coat in the morning to
pay a round of calls.
The doctor rubs his hands vigorously and re-
assuringly.
'Brr ! How cold it is ! There 's such a sharp frost ;
56 THE DEATH OF IVAN
just let me warm myself!' he says, as if it were only
a matter of waiting till he was warm, and then he
would put everything right.
'Well now, how are you? 5
Ivan Ilych feels that the doctor would like to say:
'Well, how are our affairs?' but that even he feels
that this would not do, and says instead: 'What sort
of a night have you had?'
Ivan Ilych looks at him as much as to say: 'Are
you really never ashamed of lying?' But the doctor
does not wish to understand this question, and Ivan
Itych says: 'Just as terrible as ever. The pain never
leaves me and never subsides. If only something . . .'
'Yes, you sick people are always like that. . . .
There, now I think I am warm enough. Even
Praskovya Fedorovna, who is so particular, could
find no fault with my temperature. Well, now I
can say good-morning,' and the doctor presses his
patient's hand.
Then, dropping his former playfulness, he begins
with a most serious face to examine the patient,
feeling his pulse and taking his temperature, and
then begins the sounding and auscultation.
Ivan Ilych knows quite well and definitely that
all this is nonsense and pure deception, but when
the doctor, getting down on his knee, leans over
him, putting his ear first higher then lower, and
performs various gymnastic movements over him
with a significant expression on his face, Ivan Ilych
submits to it all as he used to submit to the speeches
of the lawyers, though he knew very well that they
were all lying and why they were lying.
The doctor, kneeling on the sofa, is still sounding
him when Praskovya Fedorovna's silk dress rustles
at the door and she is heard scolding Peter for not
having let her know of the doctor's arrival.
She comes in, kisses her husband, and at once
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 57
proceeds to prove that she has been up a long time
already, and only owing to a misunderstanding
failed to be there when the doctor arrived.
Ivan Itych looks at her, scans her all over, sets
against her the whiteness and plumpness and clean-
ness of her hands and neck, the gloss of her hair, and
the sparkle of her vivacious eyes. He hates her with
his whole soul. And the thrill of hatred he feels for
her makes him suffer from her touch.
Her attitude towards him and his disease is still
the same. Just as the doctor had adopted a certain
relation to his patient which he could not abandon,
so had she formed one towards him that he was
not doing something he ought to do and was him-
self to blame, and that she reproached him lovingly
for this and she could not now change that
attitude.
'You see he doesn't listen t6 me and doesn't take
his medicine at the proper time. And above all he
lies in a position that is no doubt bad for him with
his legs up.'
She described how he made Gerasim hold his legs
up.
The doctor smiled with a contemptuous affability
that said: 'What's to be done? These sick people
do have foolish fancies of that kind, but we must
forgive them.'
When the examination was over the doctor looked
at his watch, and then Praskovya Fedorovna an-
nounced to Ivan Ilych that it was of course as he
pleased, but she had sent to-day for a celebrated
specialist who would examine him and have a con-
sultation with Michael Danilovich (their regular
doctor).
'Please don't raise any objections. I am doing
this for my own sake,' she said ironically, letting it
be felt that she was doing it all for his sake and only
5 8 THE DEATH OF IVAN
said this to leave him no right to refuse. He re-
mained silent, knitting his brows. He felt that he
was so surrounded and involved in a mesh of falsity
that it was hard to unravel anything.
Everything she did for him was entirely for her
own sake, and she told him she was doing for herself
what she actually was doing for herself, as if that
was so incredible that he must understand the
opposite.
At half-past eleven the celebrated specialist
arrived. Again the sounding began and the signifi-
cant conversations in his presence and in another
room, about the kidneys and the appendix, and the
questions and answers, with such an air of impor-
tance that again, instead of the real question of life
and death which now alone confronted him, the
question arose of the kidney and appendix which
were not behaving as they ought to and would now
be attacked by Michael Danilovich and the special-
ist and forced to amend their ways.
The celebrated specialist took leave of him with
a serious though not hopeless look, and in reply to
the timid question Ivan Ilych, with eyes glistening
with fear and hope, put to him as to whether there
was a chance of recovery, said that he could not
vouch for it but there was a possibility. The look
of hope with which Ivan Ilych watched the doctor
out was so pathetic that Praskovya Fedorovna, seeing
it, even wept as she left the room to hand the doctor
his fee.
The gleam of hope kindled by the doctor's en-
couragement did not last long. The same room,
the same pictures, curtains, wall-paper, medicine
bottles, were all there, and the same aching suffer-
ing body, and Ivan Ilych began to moan. They
gave him a subcutaneous injection and he sank into
oblivion.
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 59
It was twilight when he came to. They brought
him his dinner and he swallowed some beef tea with
difficulty, and then everything was the same again
and night was coming on.
After dinner, at seven o'clock, Praskovya Fedor-
ovna came into the room in evening dress, her full
bosom pushed up by her corset, and with traces of
powder on her face. She had reminded him in the
morning that they were going to the theatre. Sarah
Bernhardt was visiting the town and they had a box,
which he had insisted on their taking. Now he had
forgotten about it and her toilet offended him, but
he concealed his vexation when he remembered
that he had himself insisted on their securing a box
and going because it would be an instructive and
aesthetic pleasure for the children.
Praskovya Fedorovna came in, self-satisfied but
yet with a rather guilty air. She sat down and asked
how he was, but, as he saw, only for the sake of
asking and not in order to learn about it, knowing
that there was nothing to learn and then went on to
what she really wanted to say: that she would not
on any account have gone but that the box had been
taken and Helen and their daughter were going, as
well as Petrishchev (the examining magistrate, their
daughter's fiance) and that it was out of the question
to let them go alone; but that she would have much
preferred to sit with him for a while; and he must
be sure to follow the doctor's orders while she was
away.
'Oh, and Fedor Petr6vich' (the fiance") 'would
like to come in. May he? And Lisa?'
'All right.'
Their daughter came in in full evening dress, her
fresh young flesh exposed (making a show of that
very flesh which in his own case caused so much
suffering), strong, healthy, evidently in love, and
6o THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH
impatient with illness, suffering, and death, because
they interfered with her happiness.
Fedor Petrovich came in too, in evening dress, his
hair curled d la Capoul, a tight stiff collar round his
long sinewy neck, an enormous white shirt-front and
narrow black trousers tightly stretched over his
strong thighs. He had one white glove tightly
drawn on, and was holding his opera hat in his hand.
Following him the schoolboy crept in unnoticed,
in a new uniform, poor little fellow, and wearing
gloves. Terribly dark shadows showed under his
eyes, the meaning of which Ivan Ilych knew well.
His son had always seemed pathetic to him, and
now it was dreadful to see the boy's frightened look
of pity. It seemed to Ivan Ilych that Vasya was the
only one besides Gerasim who understood and
pitied him.
They all sat down and again asked how he was.
A silence followed. Lisa asked her mother about
the opera-glasses, and there was an altercation be-
tween mother and daughter as to who had taken
them and where they had been put. This occa-
sioned some unpleasantness.
Fedor Petrovich inquired of Ivan Ilych whether
he had ever seen Sarah Bernhardt. Ivan Ilych did
not at first catch the question, but then replied:
'No, have you seen her before?'
'Yes, in Adrienne Lecouvreur.'
Praskovya Fedorovna mentioned some roles in
which Sarah Bernhardt was particularly good. Her
daughter disagreed. Conversation sprang up as to
the elegance and realism of her acting the sort of
conversation that is always repeated and is always
the same.
In the midst of the conversation Fedor Petr6vich
glanced at Ivan Itych and became silent. The
others also looked at him and grew silent. Ivan
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 61
Itych was staring with glittering eyes straight before
him, evidently indignant with them. This had to be
rectified, but it was impossible to do so. The silence
had to be broken, but for a time no one dared to
break it and they all became afraid that the conven-
tional deception would suddenly become obvious and
the truth become plain to all. Lisa was the first to
pluck up courage and break that silence, but by trying
to hide what everybody was feeling, she betrayed it.
'Well, if we are going it's time to start,' she said,
looking at her watch, a present from her father, and
with a faint and significant smile at Fedor Petrovich
relating to something known only to them. She got
up with a rustle of her dress.
They all rose, said good-night, and went away.
When they had gone it seemed to Ivan Ilych that
he felt better; the falsity had gone with them. But
the pain remained that same pain and that same
fear that made everything monotonously alike,
nothing harder and nothing easier. Everything was
worse.
Again minute followed minute and hour followed
hour. Everything remained the same and there was
no cessation. And the inevitable end of it all became
more and more terrible.
'Yes, send Gerasim here,' he replied to a question
Peter asked.
IX
His wife returned late at night. She came in on
tiptoe, but he heard her, opened his eyes, and made
haste to close them again. She wished to send
Gerasim away and to sit with him herself, but he
opened his eyes and said: 'No, go away.'
'Are you in great pain?'
'Always the same.'
'Take some opium.'
62 THE DEATH OF IVAN
He agreed and took some. She went away.
Till about three in the morning he was in a state
of stupefied misery. It seemed to him that he and'
his pain were being thrust into a narrow, deep black
sack, but though they were pushed further and
further in they could not be pushed to the bottom.
And this, terrible enough in itself, was accompanied
by suffering. He was frightened yet wanted to fall
through the sack, he struggled but yet co-operated.
And suddenly he broke through, fell, and regained
consciousness. Gerasim was sitting at the foot of the
bed dozing quietly and patiently, while he himself
lay with his emaciated stockinged legs resting on
Gerasim's shoulders; the same shaded candle was
there and the same unceasing pain.
'Go away, Gerasim,' he whispered.
'It's all right, sir. I'll stay a while.'
'No. Go away.'
He removed his legs from Gerasim's shoulders,
turned sideways onto his arm, and felt sorry for
himself. He only waited till Gerasim had gone into
the next room and then restrained himself no longer
but wept like a child. He wept on account of his
helplessness, his terrible loneliness, the cruelty of
man, the cruelty of God, and the absence of God.
'Why hast Thou done all this? Why hast Thou
brought me here? Why, why dost Thou torment
me so terribly?'
He did not expect an answer and yet wept be-
cause there was no answer and could be none. The
pain again grew more acute, but he did not stir and
did not call. He said to himself: 'Go on! Strike
me! But what is it for? What have I done to Thee?
What is it for?'
Then he grew quiet and not only ceased weeping
but even held his breath and became all attention.
It was as though he were listening not to an audible
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 63
voice but to the voice of his soul, to the current of
thoughts arising within him.
'What is it you want?' was the first clear con-
ception capable of expression in words, that he
heard.
'What do you want? What do you want?' he
repeated to himself.
'What do I want? To live and not to suffer,' he
answered.
And again he listened with such concentrated
attention that even his pain did not distract him.
'To live? How?' asked his inner voice.
'Why, to live as I used to well and pleasantly.'
'As you lived before, well and pleasantly?' the
voice repeated.
And in imagination he began to recall the best
moments of his pleasant life. But strange to say
none of those best moments of his pleasant life now
seemed at all what they had then seemed none
of them except the first recollections of childhood.
There, in childhood, there had been something
really pleasant with which it would be possible to
live if it could return. But the child who had
experienced that happiness existed no longer, it was
like a reminiscence of somebody else.
As soon as the period began which had produced
the present Ivan Ilych, all that had then seemed
joys now melted before his sight and turned into
something trivial and often nasty.
And the further he departed from childhood and
the nearer he came to the present the more worth-
less and doubtful were the joys. This began with
the School of Law. A little that was really good
was still found there there was light-heartedness,
friendship, and hope. But in the upper classes there
had already been fewer of such good moments.
Then during the first years of his official career,
64 THE DEATH OF IVAN
when he was in the service of the Governor, some
pleasant moments again occurred: they were the
memories of love for a woman. Then all became
confused and there was still less of what was good;
later on again there was still less that was good, and
the further he went the less there was. His mar-
riage, a mere accident, then the disenchantment
that followed it, his wife's bad breath and the sen-
suality and hypocrisy: then that deadly official life
and those preoccupations about money, a year of
it, and two, and ten, and twenty, and always the
same thing. And the longer it lasted the more
deadly it became. 'It is as if I had been going
downhill while I imagined I was going up. And
that is really what it was. I was going up in public
opinion, but to the same extent life was ebbing
away from me. And now it is all done and there
is only death.'
'Then what does it mean? Why? It can't be
that life is so senseless and horrible. But if it really
has been so horrible and senseless, why must I die
and die in agony? There is something wrong!'
'Maybe I did not live as I ought to have done,'
it suddenly occurred to him. 'But how could that
be, when I did everything properly?' he replied,
and immediately dismissed from his mind this, the
sole solution of all the riddles of life and death, as
something quite impossible.
'Then what do you want now? To live? Live
how? Live as you lived in the law courts when the
usher proclaimed "The judge is coming!" The
judge is coming, the judge!' he repeated to himself.
'Here he is, the judge. But I am not guilty!' he
exclaimed angrily. 'What is it for?' And he ceased
crying, but turning his face to the wall continued
to ponder on the same question: Why, and for what
purpose, is there all this horror? But however much
THE DEATH OF IVAN IL^GH 65
he pondered he found no answer. And whenever
the thought occurred to him, as it often did, that
it all resulted from his not having lived as he ought to
have done, he at once recalled the correctness of his
whole life and dismissed so strange an idea.
Another fortnight passed. Ivan Itych now no
longer left his sofa. He would not lie in bed but
lay on the sofa, facing the wall nearly all the time.
He suffered ever the same unceasing agonies and
in his loneliness pondered always on the same in-
soluble question: 'What is this? Can it be that it
is Death?' And the inner voice answered: 'Yes, it
is Death.'
'Why these sufferings?' And the voice answered,
'For no reason they just are so.' Beyond and
besides this there was nothing.
From the very beginning of his illness, ever since
he had first been to see the doctor, Ivan Ilych's life
had been divided between two contrary and alter-
nating moods: now it was despair and the expecta-
tion of this uncomprehended and terrible death,
and now hope and an intently interested observa-
tion of the functioning of his organs. Now before
his eyes there was only a kidney or an intestine that
temporarily evaded its duty, and now only that in-
comprehensible and dreadful death from which it
was impossible to escape.
These two states of mind had alternated from the
very beginning of his illness, but the further it pro-
gressed the more doubtful and fantastic became the
conception of the kidney, and the more real the
sense of impending death.
He had but to call to mind what he had been
three months before and what he was now, to call
to mind with what regularity he had been going
432 n
66 THE DEATH OF IVAN
downhill, for every possibility of hope to be
shattered.
Latterly during that loneliness in which he found
himself as he lay facing the back of the sofa, a lone-
liness in the midst of a populous town and sur-
rounded by numerous acquaintances and relations
but that yet could not have been more complete
anywhere either at the bottom of the sea or under
the earth during that terrible loneliness Ivan Ilych
had lived only in memories of the past. Pictures of
his past rose before him one after another. They
always began with what was nearest in time and
then went back to what was most remote to his
childhood and rested there. If he thought of the
stewed prunes that had been offered him that day,
his mind went back to the raw shrivelled French
plums of his childhood, their peculiar flavour and
the flow of saliva when he sucked their stones, and
along with the memory of that taste came a whole
series of memories of those days: his nurse, his
brother, and their toys. 'No, I mustn't think of
that. ... It is too painful,' Ivan Ilych said to him-
self, and brought himself back to the present to
the button on the back of the sofa and the creases
in its morocco. 'Morocco is expensive, but it does
not wear well: there had been a quarrel about it.
It was a different kind of quarrel and a different
kind of morocco that time when we tore father's
portfolio and were punished, and mamma brought
us some tarts. . . .' And again his thoughts dwelt
on his childhood, and again it was painful and he
tried to banish them and fix his mind on some-
thing else.
Then again together with that chain of memories
another series passed through his mind of how his
illness had progressed and grown worse. There also
the further back he looked the more life there had
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYGH 67
been. There had been more of what was good in
life and more of life itself. The two merged to-
gether. 'Just as the pain went on getting worse and
worse, so my life grew worse and worse,' he thought.
'There is one bright spot there at the back, at the
beginning of life, and afterwards all becomes
blacker and blacker and proceeds more and more
rapidly in inverse ratio to the square of the dis-
tance from death,' thought Ivan Iiych. And the
example of a stone falling downwards with increas-
ing velocity entered his mind. Life, a series of
increasing sufferings, flies further and further to-
wards its end the most terrible suffering. 'I am
flying. . . .' He shuddered, shifted himself, and tried
to resist, but was already aware that resistance was
impossible, and again with eyes weary of gazing
but unable to cease seeing what was before them,
he stared at the back of the sofa and waited
awaiting that dreadful fall and shock and destruc-
tion.
'Resistance is impossible!' he said to himself. 'If
I could only understand what it is all for ! But that
too is impossible. An explanation would be possible
if it could be said that I have not lived as I ought
to. But it is impossible to say that,' and he remem-
bered all the legality, correctitude, and propriety
of his life. 'That at any rate can certainly not be
admitted,' he thought, and his lips smiled ironically
as if someone could see that smile and be taken in
by it. 'There is no explanation ! Agony, death. . . .
What for?'
XI
Another two weeks went by in this way and
during that fortnight an event occurred that Ivan
Itych and his wife had desired. Petrishchev formally
proposed. It happened in the evening. The next
68 THE DEATH OF IVAN
day Prask6vya Fedorovna came into her husband's
room considering how best to inform him of it, but
that very night there had been a fresh change for
the worse in his condition. She found him still lying
on the sofa but in a different position. He lay on
his back, groaning and staring fixedly straight in
front of him.
She began to remind him of his medicines, but he
turned his eyes towards her with such a look that
she did not finish what she was saying; so great an
animosity, to her in particular, did that look express.
Tor Christ's sake let me die in peace!' he said.
She would have gone away, but just then their
daughter came in and went up to say good morn-
ing. He looked at her as he had done at his wife,
and in reply to her inquiry about his health said
dryly that he would soon free them all of himself.
They were both silent and after sitting with him
for a while went away.
'Is it our fault?' Lisa said to her mother. 'It's as
if we were to blame 1 I am sorry for papa, but why
should we be tortured?'
The doctor came at his usual time. Ivan Ilych
answered 'Yes' and 'No', never taking his angry
eyes from him, and at last said: 'You know you can
do nothing for me, so leave me alone.'
'We can ease your sufferings.'
'You can't even do that. Let me be.'
The doctor went into the drawing-room and told
Praskovya Fedorovna that the case was very serious
and that the only resource left was opium to allay
her husband's sufferings, which must be terrible.
It was true, as the doctor said, that Ivan Itych's
physical sufferings were terrible, but worse than
the physical sufferings were his mental sufferings
which were his chief torture.
His mental sufferings were due to the fact that
THE DEATH OF IVAN IL^CH 69
that night, as he looked at Gerasim's sleepy, good-
natured face with its prominent cheek-bones, the
question suddenly occurred to him: 'What if my
whole life has really been wrong?'
It occurred to him that what had appeared per-
fectly impossible before, namely that he had not
spent his life as he should have done, might after
all be true. It occurred to him that his scarcely
perceptible attempts to struggle against what was
considered good by the most highly placed people,
those scarcely noticeable impulses which he had
immediately suppressed, might have been the real
thing, and all the rest false. And his professional
duties and the whole arrangement of his life and of
his family, and all his social and official interests,
might all have been false. He tried to defend all
those things to himself and suddenly felt the weak-
ness of what he was defending. There was nothing
to defend.
'But if that is so,' he said to himself, 'and I am
leaving this life with the consciousness that I have
lost all that was given me and it is impossible to
rectify it what then?'
He lay on his back and began to pass his life in
review in quite a new way. In the morning when
he saw first his footman, then his wife, then his
daughter, and then the doctor, their every word
and movement confirmed to him the awful truth
that had been revealed to him during the night. In
them he saw himself all that for which he had
lived and saw clearly that it was not real at all,
but a terrible and huge deception which had hidden
both life and death. This consciousness intensified
his physical suffering tenfold. He groaned and
tossed about, and pulled at his clothing which
choked and stifled him. And he hated them on
that account.
70 THE DEATH OF IVAN
He was given a large dose of opium and became
unconscious, but at noon his sufferings began again.
He drove everybody away and tossed from side to side .
His wife came to him and said:
'Jean, my dear, do this for me. It can't do any
harm and often helps. Healthy people often do it.'
He opened his eyes wide.
'What? Take communion? Why? It's unneces-
sary! However. . . .'
She began to cry.
'Yes, do, my dear. I'll send for our priest. He
is such a nice man.'
'All right. Very well,' he muttered.
When the priest came and heard his confession,
Ivan Itych was softened and seemed to feel a relief
from his doubts and consequently from his suffer-
ings, and for a moment there came a ray of hope.
He again began to think of the vermiform appendix
and the possibility of correcting it. He received the
sacrament with tears in his eyes.
When they laid him down again afterwards he
felt a moment's ease, and the hope that he might
live awoke in him again. He began to think of the
operation that had been suggested to him. 'To live !
I want to live!' he said to himself.
His wife came in to congratulate him after his
communion, and when uttering the usual conven-
tional words she added:
'You feel better, don't you?'
Without looking at her he said 'Yes'.
Her dress, her figure, the expression of her face,
the tone of her voice, all revealed the same thing.
'This is wrong, it is not as it should be. All you
have lived for and still live for is falsehood and
deception, hiding life and death from you.' And as
soon as he admitted that thought, his hatred and
his agonizing physical suffering again sprang up,
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 71
and with that suffering a consciousness of the un-
avoidable, approaching end. And to this was added
a new sensation of grinding shooting pain and a
feeling of suffocation.
The expression of his face when he uttered that
'yes' was dreadful. Having uttered it, he looked
her straight in the eyes, turned on his face with
a rapidity extraordinary in his weak state and
shouted:
'Go away! Go away and leave me alone!'
XII
From that moment the screaming began that
continued for three days, and was so terrible that
one could not hear it through two closed doors
without horror. At the moment he answered his
wife he realized that he was lost, that there was no
return, that the end had come, the very end, and
his doubts were still unsolved and remained doubts.
'Oh! Oh! Oh!' he cried in various intonations.
He had begun by screaming 'I won't!' and con-
tinued screaming on the letter 'o'.
For three whole days, during which time did not
exist for him, he struggled in that black sack into
which he was being thrust by an invisible, resistless
force. He struggled as a man condemned to death
struggles in the hands of the executioner, knowing
that he cannot save himself. And every moment he
felt that despite all his efforts he was drawing nearer
and nearer to what terrified him. He felt that his
agony was due to his being thrust into that black
hole and still more to his not being able to get right
into it. He was hindered from getting into it by his
conviction that his life had been a good one. That
very justification of his life held him fast and pre-
vented his moving forward, and it caused him most
torment of all.
72 THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH
Suddenly some force struck him in the chest and
side, making it still harder to breathe, and he fell
through the hole and there at the bottom was a
light. What had happened to him was like the
sensation one sometimes experiences in a railway
carriage when one thinks one is going backwards
while one is really going forwards and suddenly
becomes aware of the real direction.
'Yes, it was all not the right thing,' he said to
himself, 'but that's no matter. It can be done. But
what is the right thing?' he asked himself, and sud-
denly grew quiet.
This occurred at the end of the third day, two
hours before his death. Just then his schoolboy son
had crept softly in and gone up to the bedside. The
dying man was still screaming desperately and
waving his arms. His hand fell on the boy's head,
and the boy caught it, pressed it to his lips, and
began to cry.
At that very moment Ivan Ilych fell through and
caught sight of the light, and it was revealed to him
that though his life had not been what it should
have been, this could still be rectified. He asked
himself, 'What is the right thing?' and grew still,
listening. Then he felt that someone was kissing his
hand. He opened his eyes, looked at his son, and
felt sorry for him. His wife came up to him and
he glanced at her. She was gazing at him open-
mouthed, with undried tears on her nose and cheek
and a despairing look on her face. He felt sorry for
her too.
'Yes, I am making them wretched,' he thought.
'They are sorry, but it will be better for them when
I die.' He wished to say this but had not the
strength to utter it. 'Besides, why speak? I must
act,' he thought. With a look at his wife he in-
dicated his son and said: 'Take him away . . . sorry
THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH 73
for him . . . sorry for you too. . . .' He tried to add,
'forgive me', but said 'forego' and waved his hand,
knowing that He whose understanding mattered
would understand.
And suddenly it grew clear to him that what had
been oppressing him and would not leave him was
all dropping away at once from two sides, from ten
sides, and from all sides. He was sorry for them, he
must act so as not to hurt them: release them and
free himself from these sufferings. 'How good and
how simple! 5 he thought. 'And the pain?' he asked
himself. 'What has become of it? Where are you,
pain?'
He turned his attention to it.
'Yes, here it is. Well, what of it? Let the pain be.'
'And death . . . where is it?'
He sought his former accustomed fear of death
and did not find it. 'Where is it? What death?'
There was no fear because there was no death.
In place of death there was light.
'So that's what it is!' he suddenly exclaimed
aloud. 'What joy!'
To him all this happened in a single instant, and
the meaning of that instant did not change. For
those present his agony continued for another two
hours. Something rattled in his throat, his ema-
ciated body twitched, then the gasping and rattle
became less and less frequent.
'It is finished!' said someone near him.
He heard these words and repeated them in his
soul.
'Death is finished,' he said to himself. 'It is no
more!'
He drew in a breath, stopped in the midst of
a sigh, stretched out, and died.
[25th March 1886.]
MASTER AND MAN
IT happened in the 'seventies in winter, on the
day after St. Nicholas's Day. There was a fete
in the parish and the innkeeper, Vasili Andreevich
Brekhunov, a Second Guild merchant, being a
church elder had to go to church, and had also to
entertain his relatives and friends at home.
But when the last of them had gone he at once
began to prepare to drive over to see a neighbouring
proprietor about a grove which he had been bar-
gaining over for a long time. He was now in a hurry
to start, lest buyers from the town might forestall
him in making a profitable purchase.
The youthful landowner was asking ten thousand
rubles for the grove simply because Vasili Andr-
evich was offering seven thousand. Seven thousand
was, however, only a third of its real value. Vasili
Andreevich might perhaps have got it down to his
own price, for the woods were in his district and he
had a long-standing agreement with the other vil-
lage dealers that no one should run up the price in
another's district, but he had now learnt that some
timber-dealers from town meant to bid for the
Goryachkin grove, and he resolved to go at once
and get the matter settled. So as soon as the feast
was over, he took seven hundred rubles from his
strong box, added to them two thousand three
hundred rubles of church money he had in his
keeping, so as to make up the sum to three thou-
sand; carefully counted the notes, and having put
them into his pocket-book made haste to start.
Nikita, the only one of Vasili Andreevich's
labourers who was not drunk that day, ran to
MASTER AND MAN 75
harness the horse. Nikita, though an habitual
drunkard, was not drunk that day because since
the last day before the fast, when he had drunk his
coat and leather boots, he had sworn off drink and
had kept his vow for two months, and was still
keeping it despite the temptation of the vodka that
had been drunk everywhere during the first two
days of the feast.
Nikita was a peasant of about fifty from a neigh-
bouring village, 'not a manager' as the peasants
said of him, meaning that he was not the thrifty
head of a household but lived most of his time away
from home as a labourer. He was valued every-
where for his industry, dexterity, and strength at
work, and still more for his kindly and pleasant
temper. But he never settled down anywhere for
long because about twice a year, or even oftener,
he had a drinking bout, and then besides spending
all his clothes on drink he became turbulent and
quarrelsome. Vasili Andre* evich himself had turned
him away several times, but had afterwards taken
him back again valuing his honesty, his kindness
to animals, and especially his cheapness. Vasili
Andreevich did not pay Nikita the eighty rubles a
year such a man was worth, but only about forty,
which he gave him haphazard, in small sums, and
even that mostly not in cash but in goods from his
own shop and at high prices.
Nikita's wife Martha, who had once been a hand-
some vigorous woman, managed the homestead
with the help of her son and two daughters, and
did not urge Nikita to live at home: first because
she had been living for some twenty years already
with a cooper, a peasant from another village who
lodged in their house; and secondly because though
she managed her husband as she pleased when he
was sober, she feared him like fire when he was
76 MASTER AND MAN
drunk. Once when he had got drunk at home,
Nikita, probably to make up for his submissiveness
when sober, broke open her box, took out her best
clothes, snatched up an axe, and chopped all her
under-garments and dresses to bits. All the wages
Nikfta earned went to his wife, and he raised no
objection to that. So now, two days before the holi-
day, Martha had been twice to see Vasili Andr6-
evich and had got from him wheat flour, tea, sugar,
and a quart of vodka, the lot costing three rubles,
and also five rubles in cash, for which she thanked
him as for a special favour, though he owed Nikita
at least twenty rubles,
'What agreement did we ever draw up with you?'
said Vasili Andreevich to Nikita. 'If you need any-
thing, take it; you will work it off. I'm not like
others to keep you waiting, and making up accounts
and reckoning fines. We deal straightforwardly.
You serve me and I don't neglect you.'
And when saying this Vasili Andreevich was
honestly convinced that he was Nikita's benefactor,
and he knew how to put it so plausibly that all those
who depended on him for their money, beginning
with Nikita, confirmed him in the conviction that
he was, their "benefactor and did not overreach them.
'Yes, I understand, Vasili Andreevich. You know
that*I serve you and take as much pains as I would
for my own father. I understand very well!' Nikita
would reply. He was quite aware that Vasili
Andreevich was cheating;,him, but at the same time
he felt that it was useless to try to clear up his
, Accounts with him or explain his side of the matter,
anfythat as long as he had nowhere else to go he
must Accept what hd'cpjfrld get.
Now, having hearct' his master's order to harness,
he went as usual cheerfully and willingly to the
shed, stepping briskly and easily on his rather
MASTER AND MAN 77
turned-in feet; took down from a nail the heavy
tasselled leather bridle, and jingling the rings of the
bit went to the closed stable where the horse he was
to harness was standing by himself.
'What, feeling lonely, feeling lonely, little silly?'
said Nikita in answer to the low whinny with which
he was greeted by the good-tempered, medium-
sized bay stallion, with a rather slanting crupper,
who stood alone in the shed. 'Now then, now then,
there's time enough. Let me water you first,' he
went on, speaking to the horse just as to someone
who understood the words he was using, and having
whisked the dusty grooved back of the well-fed
young stallion with the skirt of his coat, he put a
bridle on his handsome head, straightened his ears
and forelock, and having taken off his halter led
him out to water.
Picking his way out of the dung-strewn stable,
Mukhorty frisked, and making play with his hind
leg pretended that he meant to kick Nikita, who
was running at a trot beside him to the pump.
'Now then, now then, you rascal !' Nikita called
out, well knowing how carefully Mukhorty threw
out his hind leg just to touch
coat but not to strike
appreciated.
After a drink of the cq
moving his strong wet ]
transparent drops fell iij
still as if in thought, h
'If you don't want
don't go asking for
seriously and fully exp
h6rty. Then he ran "
playful young horse, who ^
the yard, by the rein.
There was no one else in me yum except a
tff the ,
s, Jyfm the hairs of
78 MASTER AND MAN
stranger, the cook's husband, who had come for the
holiday.
'Go and ask which sledge is to be harnessed
the wide one or the small one there's a good
fellow!'
The cook's husband went into the house, which
stood on an iron foundation and was iron-roofed,
and soon returned saying that the little one was to
be harnessed. By that time Nikita had put the
collar and brass-studded belly-band on Mukhorty
and, carrying a light, painted shaft-bow in one
hand, was leading the horse with the other up to
two sledges that stood in the shed.
'All right, let it be the little one !' he said, backing
the intelligent horse, which all the time kept pre-
tending to bite him, into the shafts, and with the
aid of the cook's husband he proceeded to harness.
When everything was nearly ready and only the
reins had to be adjusted, Nikita sent the other man
to the shed for some straw and to the barn for a
drugget.
'There, that's all right! Now, now, don't bristle
up!' said Nikita, pressing down into the sledge the
freshly threshed oat straw the cook's husband had
brought. 'And now let's spread the sacking like
this, and the drugget over it. There, like that it
will be comfortable sitting,' he went on, suiting the
action to the words and tucking the drugget all
round over the straw to make a seat.
'Thank you, dear man. Things always go quicker
with two working at it!' he added. And gathering
up the leather reins fastened together by a brass
ring, Nikita took the driver's seat and started the
impatient horse over the frozen manure which lay
in the yard, towards the gate.
'Uncle Nikita! I say, Uncle, Uncle!' a high-
pitched voice shouted, and a seven-year-old boy in
MASTER AND MAN 79
a black sheepskin coat, new white felt boots, and a
warm cap, ran hurriedly out of the house into the
yard. 'Take me with you!' he cried, fastening up
his coat as he ran.
'All right, come along, darling!' said Nikita, and
stopping the sledge he picked up the master's pale
thin little son, radiant with joy, and drove out into
the road.
It was past two o'clock and the day was windy,
dull, and cold, with more than twenty degrees
Fahrenheit of frost. Half the sky was hidden by
a lowering dark cloud. In the yard it was quiet, but
in the street the wind was felt more keenly. The
snow swept down from a neighbouring shed and
whirled about in the corner near the bath-house.
Hardly had Nikita driven out of the yard and
turned the horse's head to the house, before Vasili
Andreevich emerged from the high porch in front
of the house with a cigarette in his mouth and
wearing a cloth-covered sheepskin coat tightly
girdled low at his waist, and stepped onto the hard-
trodden snow which squeaked under the leather
soles of his felt boots, and stopped. Taking a last
whiff of his cigarette he threw it down, stepped on
it, and letting the smoke escape through his mous-
tache and looking askance at the horse that was
coming up, began to tuck in his sheepskin collar
on both sides of his ruddy face, clean-shaven except
for the moustache, so that his breath should not
moisten the collar.
'See now! The young scamp is there already!'
he exclaimed when he saw his little son in the
sledge. Vasili Andreevich was excited by the vodka
he had drunk with his visitors, and so he was even
more pleased than usual with everything that was
his and all that he did. The sight of his son, whom
he always thought of as his heir, now gave him
8o MASTER AND MAN
great satisfaction. He looked at him, screwing up
his eyes and showing his long teeth.
His wife pregnant, thin and pale, with her head
and shoulders wrapped in a shawl so that nothing
of her face could be seen but her eyes stood behind
him in the vestibule to see him off.
'Now really, you ought to take Nikita with you,'
she said timidly, stepping out from the doorway.
Vasili Andreevich did not answer. Her words
evidently annoyed him and he frowned angrily and
spat.
'You have money on you,' she continued in the
same plaintive voice. 'What if the weather gets
worse! Do take him, for goodness' sake!'
'Why? Don't I know the road that I must needs
take a guide?' exclaimed Vasili Andreevich, utter-
ing every word very distinctly and compressing his
lips unnaturally, as he usually did when speaking
to buyers and sellers.
'Really you ought to take him. I beg you in God's
name!' his wife repeated, wrapping her shawl more
closely round her head.
'There, she sticks to it like a leech! . . . Where
am I to take him?'
'I'm quite ready to go with you, Vasili Andre-
evich,' said Nikita cheerfully. 'But they must feed
the horses while I am away,' he added, turning to
his master's wife.
'I'll look after them, Nikita dear. I'll tell Simon,'
replied the mistress.
'Well, Vasili Andreevich, am I to come with
you?' said Nikfta, awaiting a decision.
'It seems I must humour my old woman. But if
you're coming you'd better put on a warmer cloak,'
said Vasili Andreevich, smiling again as he winked
at Nikita's short sheepskin coat, which was torn
under the arms and at the back, was greasy and
MASTER AND MAN 81
out of shape, frayed to a fringe round the skirt, and
had endured many things in its lifetime.
'Hey, dear man, come and hold the horse!'
shouted Nikita to the cook's husband, who was still
in the yard.
'No, I will myself, I will myself!' shrieked the
little boy, pulling his hands, red with cold, out of
his pockets, and seizing the cold leather reins.
'Only don't be too long dressing yourself up.
Look alive!' shouted Vasili Andreevich, grinning
at Nikita.
'Only a moment, father, Vasili Andreevich!'
replied Nikita, and running quickly with his in-
turned toes in his felt boots with their soles patched
with felt, he hurried across the yard and into the
workmen's hut.
'Arinushka! Get my coat down from the stove.
I'm going with the master,' he said, as he ran into
the hut and took down his girdle from the nail on
which it hung.
The workmen's cook, who had had a sleep after
dinner and was now getting the samovar ready for
her husband, turned cheerfully to Nikita, and in-
fected by his hurry began to move as quickly as he
did, got down his miserable worn-out cloth coat
from the stove where it was drying, and began
hurriedly shaking it out and smoothing it down.
'There now, you'll have a chance of a holiday
with your goodman,' said Nikita, who from kind-
hearted politeness always said something to anyone
he was alone with.
Then, drawing his worn narrow girdle round
him, he drew in his breath, pulling in his lean
stomach still more, and girdled himself as tightly
as he could over his sheepskin.
'There now,' he said, addressing himself no longer
to the cook but the girdle, as he tucked the ends
82 MASTER AND MAN
in at the waist, 'now you won't come undone !' And
working his shoulders up and down to free his arms,
he put the coat over his sheepskin, arched his back
more strongly to ease his arms, poked himself under
the armpits, and took down his leather-covered
mittens from the shelf. 'Now we're all right!'
'You ought to wrap your feet up, Nikita. Your
boots are very bad.'
Nikita stopped as if he had suddenly realized this.
'Yes, I ought to. ... But they'll do like this. It
isn't far!' and he ran out into the yard.
'Won't you be cold, Nikita?' said the mistress as
he came up to the sledge.
'Cold? No, I'm quite warm,' answered Nikita as
he pushed some straw up to the forepart of the
sledge so that it should cover his feet, and stowed
away the whip, which the good horse would not
need, at the bottom of the sledge.
Vasili Andreevich, who was wearing two fur-
lined coats one over the other, was already in the
sledge, his broad back filling nearly its whole
rounded width, and taking the reins he immediately
touched the horse. Nikfta jumped in just as the
sledge started, and seated himself in front on the left
side, with one leg hanging over the edge.
II
The good stallion took the sledge along at a brisk
pace over the smooth-frozen road through the
village, the runners squeaking slightly as they
went.
'Look at him hanging on there! Hand me the
whip, Nikita!' shouted Vasili Andreevich, evidently
enjoying the sight of his 'heir', who standing on the
runners was hanging on at the back of the sledge.
'I'll give it you! Be off to mamma, you dog!'
The boy jumped down. The horse increased his
MASTER AND MAN 83
amble and, suddenly changing foot, broke into a
fast trot.
The Grosses, the village where Vasili Andreevich
lived, consisted of six houses. As soon as they had
passed the blacksmith's hut, the last in the village,
they realized that the wind was much stronger than
they had thought. The road could hardly be seen.
The tracks left by the sledge-runners were imme-
diately covered by snow and the road was only
distinguished by the fact that it was higher than
the rest of the ground. There was a whirl of snow
over the fields and the line where sky and earth met
could not be seen. The Telyatin forest, usually
clearly visible, now only loomed up occasionally
and dimly through the driving snowy dust. The
wind came from the left, insistently blowing over
to one side the mane on Mukhorty's sleek neck and
carrying aside even his fluffy tail, which was tied in
a simple knot. Nikita's wide coat-collar, as he sat on
the windy side, pressed close to his cheek and nose.
'This road doesn't give him a chance it's too
snowy,' said Vasili Andreevich, who prided himself
on his good horse. 'I once drove to Pashutino with
him in half an hour.'
'What?' asked Nikita, who could not hear on
account of his collar.
'I say I once went to Pashutino in half an hour,'
shouted Vasili Andreevich.
'It goes without saying that he's a good horse/
replied Nikita.
They were silent for awhile. But Vasili Andre-
evich wished to talk.
'Well, did you tell your wife not to give the cooper
any vodka?' he began in the same loud tone, quite
convinced that Nikita must feel flattered to be talk-
ing with so clever and important a person as him-
self, and he was so pleased with his jest that it did
84 MASTER AND MAN
not enter his head that the remark might be un-
pleasant to Nikita.
The wind again prevented Nikita's hearing his
master's words.
Vasili Andreevich repeated the jest about the
cooper in his loud, clear voice.
'That's their business, Vasili Andreevich. I don't
pry into their affairs. As long as she doesn't ill-
treat our boy God be with them.'
'That's so,' said Vasili Andreevich. 'Well, and
will you be buying a horse in spring?' he went on,
changing the subject.
'Yes, I can't avoid it,' answered Nikita, turning
down his collar and leaning back towards his master.
The conversation now became'interesting to him
and he did not wish to lose a word.
'The lad 's growing up. He must begin to plough
for himself, but till now we've always had to hire
someone,' he said.
'Well, why not have the lean-cruppered one. I
won't charge much for it,' shouted Vasili Andre-
evich, feeling animated, and consequently starting
on his favourite occupation that of horse-dealing
which absorbed all his mental powers.
'Or you might let me have fifteen rubles and I'll
buy one at the horse-market,' said Nikita, who
knew that the horse Vasili Andreevich wanted to
sell him would be dear at seven rubles, but that if
he took it from him it would be charged at twenty-
five, and then he would be unable to draw any
money for half a year.
'It's a good horse. I think of your interest as of
my own according to conscience. Brekhunov isn't
a man to wrong anyone. Let the loss be mine. I'm
not like others. Honestly!' he shouted in the voice
in which he hypnotized his customers and dealers.
*It's a real good horse.'
MASTER AND MAN 85
'Quite so !' said Nikita with a sigh, and convinced
that there was nothing more to listen to, he again
released his collar, which immediately covered his
ear and face.
They drove on in silence for about half an hour.
The wind blew sharply onto Nikita's side and arm
where his sheepskin was torn.
He huddled up and breathed into the collar
which covered his mouth, and was not wholly cold.
'What do you think shall we go through Kara-
m^shevo or by the straight road?' asked Vasili
Andreevich.
The road through Karamyshevo was more fre-
quented and was well marked with a double row
of high stakes. The straight road was nearer but
little used and had no stakes, or only poor ones
covered with snow.
Nikita thought awhile.
'Though Karamyshevo is farther, it is better
going, 5 he said.
'But by the straight road, when once we get
through the hollow by the forest, it's good going
sheltered,' said Vasili Andreevich, who wished to
go the nearest way.
'Just as you please,' said Nikita, and again let go
of his collar.
Vasili Andreevich did as he had said, and having
gone about half a verst came to a tall oak stake
which had a few dry leaves still dangling on it, and
there he turned to the left.
On turning they faced directly against the wind,
and snow was beginning to fall. Vasili Andreevich,
who was driving, inflated his cheeks, blowing the
breath out through his moustache. Nikita dosed.
So they went on in silence for about ten minutes.
Suddenly Vasili Andreevich began saying some-
thing.
86 MASTER AND MAN
'Eh, what? 5 asked Nikfta, opening his eyes.
Vasili Andreevich did not answer, but bent over,
looking behind them and then ahead of the horse.
The sweat had curled Mukhorty's coat between his
legs and on his neck. He went at a walk.
4 What is it?' Nikfta asked again.
'What is it? What is it? 5 Vasili Andreevich
mimicked him angrily. 'There are no stakes to be
seen! We must have got off the road! 5
'Well, pull up then, and I'll look for it, 5 said
Nikita, and jumping down lightly from the sledge
and taking the whip from under the straw, he went
off to the left from his own side of the sledge.
The snow was not deep that year, so that it was
possible to walk anywhere, but still in places it
was knee-deep and got into Nikita's boots. He went
about feeling the ground with his feet and the whip,
but could not find the road anywhere.
'Well, how is it? 5 asked Vasili Andreevich when
Nikita came back to the sledge.
'There is no road this side. I must go to the other
side and try there, 5 said Nikita.
'There 5 s something there in front. Go and have
a look. 5
Nikita went to what had appeared dark, but
found that it was earth which the wind had blown
from the bare fields of winter oats and had strewn
over the snow, colouring it. Having searched to the
right also, he returned to the sledge, brushed the
snow from his coat, shook it out of his boots, and
seated himself once more.
'We must go to the right,' he said decidedly.
'The wind was blowing on our left before, but now
it is straight in my face. Drive to the right,' he
repeated with decision.
Vasili Andreevich took his advice and turned to
the right, but still there was no road. They went
MASTER AND MAN 87
on in that direction for some time. The wind was
as fierce as ever and it was snowing lightly.
'It seems, Vasili Andreevich, that we have gone
quite astray,' Nikita suddenly remarked, as if it
were a pleasant thing. 'What is that?' he added,
pointing to some potato bines that showed up from
under the snow.
Vasili Andreevich stopped the perspiring horse,
whose deep sides were heaving heavily.
'What is it?'
'Why, we are on the Zakharov lands. See where
we've got to!'
'Nonsense!' retorted Vasili Andreevich.
'It's not nonsense, Vasili Andreevich. It's the
truth,' replied Nikita. 'You can feel that the sledge
is going over a potato-field, and there are the heaps
of bines which have been carted here. It's the
Zakharov factory land.'
'Dear me, how we have gone astray!' said Vasili
Andreevich. 'What are we to do now?'
'We must go straight on, that's all. We shall
come out somewhere if not at Zakharova then at
the proprietor's farm,' said Nikita.
Vasili Andreevich agreed, and drove as Nikita
had indicated. So they went on for a considerable
time. At times they came onto bare fields and the
sledge-runners rattled over frozen lumps of earth.
Sometimes they got onto a winter-rye field, or a
fallow field on which they could see stalks of worm-
wood, and straws sticking up through the snow and
swaying in the wind; sometimes they came onto
deep and even white snow, above which nothing
was to be seen.
The snow was falling from above and sometimes
rose from below. The horse was evidently ex-
hausted, his hair had all curled up from sweat and
was covered with hoar-frost, and he went at a walk.
88 MASTER AND MAN
Suddenly he stumbled and sat down in a ditch or
water-course. Vasili Andreevich wanted to stop,
but Nikita cried to him:
4 Why stop? We've got in and must get out. Hey,
pet! Hey, darling! Gee up, old fellow! 9 he shouted
in a cheerful tone to the horse, jumping out of the
sledge and himself getting stuck in the ditch.
The horse gave a start and quickly climbed out
onto the frozen bank. It was evidently a ditch that
had been dug there.
'Where are we now?' asked Vasili Andreevich.
'We'll soon find out!' Nikita replied. 'Go on,
we'll get somewhere/
'Why, this must be the Goryachkin forest!' said
Vasili Andreevich, pointing to something dark that
appeared amid the snow in front of them.
'We'll see what forest it is when we get there,'
said Nikita.
He saw that beside the black thing they had
noticed, dry, oblong willow-leaves were fluttering,
and so he knew it was not a forest but a settlement,
but he did not wish to say so. And in fact they had
not gone twenty-five yards beyond the ditch before
something in front of them, evidently trees, showed
up black, and they heard a new and melancholy
sound. Nikita had guessed right: it was not a wood,
but a row of tall willows with a few leaves still
fluttering on them here and there. They had evi-
dently been planted along the ditch round a thresh-
ing-floor. Coming up to the willows, which moaned
sadly in the wind, the horse suddenly planted his
forelegs above the height of the sledge, drew up
his hind legs also, pulling the sledge onto higher
ground, and turned to the left, no longer sinking
up to his knees in snow. They were back on a road.
'Well, here we are, but heaven only knows
where!' said Nikita.
MASTER AND MAN 89
The horse kept straight along the road through
the drifted snow, and before they had gone another
hundred yards the straight line of the dark wattle
wall of a barn showed up black before them, its roof
heavily covered with snow which poured down
from it. After passing the barn the road turned to
the wind and they drove into a snow-drift. But
ahead of them was a lane with houses on either
side, so evidently the snow had been blown across
the road and they had to drive through the drift.
And so in fact it was. Having driven through the
snow they came out into a street. At the end house
of the village some frozen clothes hanging on a line
shirts, one red and one white, trousers, leg-bands,
and a petticoat fluttered wildly in the wind. The
white shirt in particular struggled desperately,
waving its sleeves about.
'There now, either a lazy woman or a dead one
has not taken her clothes down before the holiday,'
remarked Nikita, looking at the fluttering shirts.
Ill
At the entrance to the street the wind still raged
and the road was thickly covered with snow, but
well within the village it was calm, warm, and
cheerful. At one house a dog was barking, at
another a woman, covering her head with her coat,
came running from somewhere and entered the
door of a hut, stopping on the threshold to have
a look at the passing sledge. In the middle of the
village girls could be heard singing.
Here in the village there seemed to be less wind
and snow, and the frost was less keen.
'Why, this is Grishkino,' said Vasili Andreevicli.
'So it is, 5 responded Nikita.
It really was Grishkino, which meant that they
had gone too far to the left and had travelled some
go MASTER AND MAN
six miles, not quite in the direction they aimed at,
but towards their destination for all that.
Fronf Grishkino to Goryachkin was about an-
other four miles.
In the middle of the village they almost ran into
a tall man walking down the middle of the street.
'Who are you?' shouted the man, stopping the
horse, and recognizing Vasili Andr^evich he im-
mediately took hold of the shaft, went along it hand
over hand till he reached the sledge, and placed
himself on the driver's seat.
He was Isay, a peasant of Vasili Andr^evich's
acquaintance, and well known as the principal
horse-thief in the district.
'Ah, Vasili Andreevich! Where are you off to?'
said Isay, enveloping Nikita in the odour of the
vodka he had drunk.
'We were going to Goryachkin.'
'And look where you've got to ! You should have
gone through Molchanovka.'
'Should have, but didn't manage it,' said Vasili
Andreevich, holding in the horse.
'That's a good horse,' said Isay, with a shrewd
glance at Mukhorty, and with a practised hand
he tightened the loosened knot high in the horse's
bushy tail.
'Are you going to stay the night?'
'No, friend. I must get on.'
'Your business must be pressing. And who is
this? Ah, Nikita Stepanych!'
'Who else?' replied Nikita. 'But I say, good
friend, how are we to avoid going astray again?'
'Where can you go astray here? Turn back
straight down the street and then when you come
out keep straight on. Don't take to the left. You
will come out onto the high road, and then turn
to the right.'
MASTER AND MAN 91
'And where do we turn off the high road? As in
summer, or the winter way?' asked Nikita.
'The winter way. As soon as you turn off you'll
see some bushes, and opposite them there is a way-
mark a large oak one with branches and that's
the way.'
Vasili Andr^evich turned the horse back and
drove through the outskirts of the village.
'Why not stay the night?' Isay shouted after
them.
But Vasili Andr^evich did not answer and
touched up the horse. Four miles of good road,
two of which lay through the forest, seemed easy
to manage, especially as the wind was apparently
quieter and the snow had stopped.
Having driven along the trodden village street,
darkened here and there by fresh manure, past the
yard where the clothes hung out and where the
white shirt had broken loose and was now attached
only by one frozen sleeve, they again came within
sound of the weird moan of the willows, and again
emerged on the open fields. The storm, far from
ceasing, seemed to have grown yet stronger. The
road was completely covered with drifting snow,
and only the stakes showed that they had not lost
their way. But even the stakes ahead of them were
not easy to see, since the wind blew in their faces.
Vasili Andr^evich screwed up his eyes, bent down
his head, and looked out for the way-marks, but
trusted mainly to the horse's sagacity, letting it take
its own way. And the horse really did not lose the
road but followed its windings, turning now to the
right and now to the left and sensing it under his
feet, so that though the snow fell thicker and the
wind strengthened they still continued to see way-
marks now to the left and now to the right of
them.
92 MASTER AND MAN
So they travelled on for about ten minutes, when
suddenly, through the slanting screen of wind-
driven snow, something black showed up which
moved in front of the horse.
This was another sledge with fellow-travellers.
Mukhorty overtook them, and struck his hoofs
against the back of the sledge in front of him.
'Pass on ... hey there . . . get in front!' cried
voices from the sledge.
Vasili Andreevich swerved aside to pass the other
sledge. In it sat three men and a woman, evidently
visitors returning from a feast. One peasant was
whacking the snow-covered croup of their little
horse with a long switch, and the other two sitting
in front waved their arms and shouted something.
The woman, completely wrapped up and covered
with snow, sat drowsing and bumping at the back.
'Who are you? 5 shouted Vasili Andreevich.
'From A-a-a . . .' was all that could be heard.
'I say, where are you from?'
'From A-a-a-a!' one of the peasants shouted with
all his might, but still it was impossible to make out
who they were.
'Get along! Keep up!' shouted another, cease-
lessly beating his horse with the switch.
'So you're from a feast, it seems?'
'Go on, go on! Faster, Simon! Get in front!
Faster! 9
The wings of the sledges bumped against one
another, almost got jammed but managed to sepa-
rate, and the peasants' sledge began to fall behind
Their shaggy, big-bellied horse, all covered with
snow, breathed heavily under the low shaft-bow
and, evidently using the last of its strength, vainly
endeavoured to escape from the switch, hobbling
with its short legs through the deep snow which it
threw up under itself.
MASTER AND MAN 93
Its muzzle, young-looking, with the nether lip
drawn up like that of a fish, nostrils distended and
ears pressed back from fear, kept up for a few
seconds near Nikita's shoulder and then began to
fall behind.
'Just see what liquor does !' said Nikita. 'They've
tired that little horse to death. What pagans! 5
For a few minutes they heard the panting of the
tired little horse and the drunken shouting of the
peasants. Then the panting and the shouts died
away, and around them nothing could be heard but
the whistling of the wind in their ears and now and
then the squeak of their sledge-runners over a wind-
swept part of the road.
This encounter cheered and enlivened Vasili
Andreevich, and he drove on more boldly without
examining the way-marks, urging on the horse and
trusting to him.
Nikita had nothing to do, and as usual in such
circumstances he drowsed, making up for much
sleepless time. Suddenly the horse stopped and
Nikita nearly fell forward onto his nose.
'You know we're off the track again!' said Vasili
Andreevich.
'How's that?'
'Why, there are no way-marks to be seen. We
must have got off the road again.'
'Well, if we've lost the road we must find it,' said
Nikita curtly, and getting out and stepping lightly
on his pigeon-toed feet he started once more going
about on the snow.
He walked about for a long time, now disappear-
ing and now reappearing, and finally he came back.
'There is no road here. There may be farther
on,' he said, getting into the sledge.
It was already growing dark. The snow-storm
had not increased but had also not subsided.
94 MASTER AND MAN
'If we could only hear those peasants !' said Vasfli
Andr^evich.
'Well they haven't caught us up. We must have
gone far astray. Or maybe they have lost their way
too. 9
'Where are we to go then?' asked Vasili Andre-
evich.
'Why, we must let the horse take its own way,'
said Nikita. 'He will take us right. Let me have
the reins.'
Vasili Andreevich gave him the reins, the more
willingly because his hands were beginning to feel
frozen in his thick gloves.
Nikita took the reins, but only held them, trying
not to shake them and rejoicing at his favourite's
sagacity. And indeed the clever horse, turning first
one ear and then the other now to one side and
then to the other, began to wheel round.
'The one thing he can't do is to talk,' Nikita kept
saying. 'See what he is doing ! Go on, go on ! You
know best. That's it, that's it!'
The wind was now blowing from behind and it
felt warmer.
'Yes, he's. clever,' Nikita continued, admiring the
horse. 'A Kirgiz horse is strong but stupid. But this
one just see what he's doing with his ears! He
doesn't need any telegraph. He can scent a mile
off.'
Before another half-hour had passed they saw
something dark ahead of them a wood or a village
and stakes again appeared to the right. They
had evidently come out onto the road.
'Why, that's Grishkino again!' Nikita suddenly
exclaimed.
And indeed, there on their left was that same
barn with the snow flying from it, and farther on
the same line with the frozen washing, shirts and
MASTER AND MAN 95
trousers, which still fluttered desperately in the
wind.
Again they drove into the street and again it
grew quiet, warm, and cheerful, and again they
could see the manure-stained street and hear voices
and songs and the barking of a dog. It was already
so dark that there were lights in some of the
windows.
Half-way through the village Vasili Andreevich
turned the horse towards a large double-fronted
brick house and stopped at the porch.
Nikita went to the lighted snow-covered window,
in the rays of which flying snow-flakes glittered, and
knocked at it with his whip.
'Who is there?' a voice replied to his knock.
'From Kresty, the Brekhunovs, dear fellow,' an-
swered Nikita. 'Just come out for a minute.'
Someone moved from the window, and a minute
or two later there was the sound of the passage door
as it came unstuck, then the latch of the outside
door clicked and a tall white-bearded peasant, with
a sheepskin coat thrown over his white holiday shirt,
pushed his way out holding the door firmly against
the wind, followed by a lad in a red shirt and high
leather boots.
'Is that you, Andreevich?' asked the old man.
'Yes, friend, we've gone astray,' said Vasili
Andreevich. 'We wanted to get to Goryachkin but
found ourselves here. We went a second time but
lost our way again. 5
'Just see how you have gone astray!' said the old
man. Tetnishka, go and open the gate !' he added,
turning to the lad in the red shirt.
'All right,' said the lad in a cheerful voice, and
ran back into the passage.
'But we're not staying the night,' said Vasili
Andreevich.
96 MASTER AND MAN
'Where will you go in the night? You'd better
stay! 5
'I'd be glad to, but I must go on. It's business,
and it can't be helped.'
'Well, warm yourself at least. The samovar is
just ready.'
'Warm myself? Yes, I'll do that,' said Vasili
Andreevich. 'It won't get darker. The moon will
rise and it will be lighter. Let's go in and warm
ourselves, Nikita.'
'Well, why not? Let us warm ourselves,' replied
Nikita, who was stiff with cold and anxious to
warm his frozen limbs.
Vasili Andreevich went into the room with the
old man, and Nikita drove through the gate opened
for him by Petnishka, by whose advice he backed
the horse under the penthouse. The ground was
covered with manure and the tall bow over the
horse's head caught against the beam. The hens
and the cock had already settled to roost there, and
clucked peevishly, clinging to the beam with their
claws. The disturbed sheep shied and rushed aside
trampling the frozen manure with their hooves.
The dog yelped desperately with fright and anger
and then burst out barking like a puppy at the
stranger.
Nikita talked to them all, excused himself to the
fowls and assured them that he would not disturb
them again, rebuked the sheep for being frightened
without knowing why, and kept soothing the dog,
while he tied up the horse.
'Now that will be all right,' he said, knocking the
snow off his clothes. 'Just hear how he barks !' he
added, turning to the dog. 'Be quiet, stupid! Be
quiet. You are only troubling yourself for nothing.
We're not thieves, we're friends. . . .'
'And these are, it's said, the three domestic coun-
MASTER AND MAN 97
sellers/ remarked the lad, and with his strong arms
he pushed under the pent-roof the sledge that had
remained outside.
'Why counsellors?' asked Nikita.
'That's what is printed in Paulson. A thief creeps
to a house the dog barks, that means, "Be on your
guard!" The cock crows, that means, "Get up!"
The cat licks herself that means, "A welcome
guest is coming. Get ready to receive him!"' said
the lad with a smile.
Petrushka could read and write and knew Paul-
son's primer, his only book, almost by heart, and
he was fond of quoting sayings from it that he
thought suited the occasion, especially when he had
had something to drink, as to-day.
'That's so,' said Nikita.
'You must be chilled through and through,' said
Petnishka.
'Yes, I am rather,' said Nikita, and they went
across the yard and the passage into the house.
IV
The household to which Vasili Andreevich had
come was one of the richest in the village. The
family had five allotments, besides renting other
land. They had six horses, three cows, two calves,
and some twenty sheep. There were twenty- two
members belonging to the homestead: four married
sons, six grandchildren (one of whom, Petriishka, was
married), two great-grandchildren, three orphans,
and four daughters-in-law with their babies. It
was one of the few homesteads that remained still
undivided, but even here the dull internal work
of disintegration which would inevitably lead to
separation had already begun, starting as usual
among the women. Two sons were living in Mos-
cow as water-carriers, and one was in the army. At
98 MASTER AND MAN
home now were the old man and his wife, their
second son who managed the homestead, the eldest
who had come from Moscow for the holiday, and
all the women and children. Besides these mem-
bers of the family there was a visitor, a neighbour
who was godfather to one of the children.
Over the table in the room hung a lamp with
a shade, which brightly lit up the tea-things, a
bottle of vodka, and some refreshments, besides
illuminating the brick walls, which in the far corner
were hung with icons on both sides of which were
pictures. At the head of the table sat Vasili Andre-
evich in a black sheepskin coat, sucking his frozen
moustache and observing the room and the people
around him with his prominent hawk-like eyes.
With him sat the old, bald, white-bearded master
of the house in a white homespun shirt, and next
him the son home from Moscow for the holiday
a man with a sturdy back and powerful shoulders
and clad in a thin print shirt then the second son,
also broad-shouldered, who acted as head of the
house, and then a lean red-haired peasant the
neighbour.
Having had a drink of vodka and something to
eat, they were about to take tea, and the samovar
standing on the floor beside the brick oven was
already humming. The children could be seen in
the top bunks and on the top of the oven. A woman
sat on a lower bunk with a cradle beside her. The
old housewife, her face covered with wrinkles which
wrinkled even her lips, was waiting on Vasili
Andr^evich.
As Nikita entered the house she was offering her
guest a small tumbler of thick glass which she had
just filled with vodka.
'Don't refuse, Vasili Andreevich, you musn't!
Wish us a merry feast. Drink it, dear!' she said.
MASTER AND MAN 99
The sight and smell of vodka, especially now
when he was chilled through and tired out, much
disturbed Nikita's mind. He frowned, and having
shaken the snow off his cap and coat, stopped in
front of the icons as if not seeing anyone, crossed
himself three times, and bowed to the icons. Then,
turning to the old master of the house and bowing
first to him, then to all those at table, then to the
women who stood by the oven, and muttering: 'A
merry holiday !' he began taking off his outer things
without looking at the table.
'Why, you're all covered with hoar-frost, old fel-
low!' said the eldest brother, looking at Nikita's
snow-covered face, eyes, and beard.
Nikita took off his coat, shook it again, hung it
up beside the oven, and came up to the table. He
too was offered vodka. He went through a moment
of painful hesitation and nearly took up the glass
and emptied the clear fragrant liquid down his
throat, but he glanced at Vasili Andreevich, re-
membered his oath and the boots that he had sold
for drink, recalled the cooper, remembered his son
for whom he had promised to buy a horse by spring,
sighed, and declined it.
'I don't drink, thank you kindly,' he said frown-
ing, and sat down on a bench near the second
window.
'How's that?' asked the eldest brother.
'I just don't drink,' replied Nikita without lifting
his eyes but looking askance at his scanty beard and
moustache and getting the icicles out of them.
'It's not good for him,' said Vasili Andreevich,
munching a cracknel after emptying his glass.
'Well, then, have some tea,' said the kindly old
hostess. 'You must be chilled through, good soul.
Why are you women dawdling so with the samo-
var?'
ioo MASTER AND MAN
'It is ready,' said one of the young women, and
after flicking with her apron the top of the samovar
which was now boiling over, she carried it with an
effort to the table, raised it, and set it down with
a thud.
Meanwhile Vasili Andreevich was telling how he
had lost his way, how they had come back twice to
this same village, and how they had gone astray
and had met some drunken peasants. Their hosts
were surprised, explained where and why they had
missed their way, said who the tipsy people they
had met were, and told them how they ought to go.
'A little child could find the way to Molchanovka
from here. All you have to do is to take the right
turning from the high road. There's a bush you
can see just there. But you didn't even get that
far!' said the neighbour.
'You'd better stay the night. The women will
make up beds for you,' said the old woman per-
suasively.
'You could go on in the morning and it would
be pleasanter,' said the old man, confirming what
his wife had said.
'I can't, friend. Business !' said Vasili Andreevich.
'Lose an hour and you can't catch it up in a year,'
he added, remembering the grove and the dealers
who might snatch that deal from him. 'We shall
get there, shan't we?' he said, turning to Nikita.
Nikita did not answer for some time, apparently
still intent on thawing out his beard and moustache.
'If only we don't go astray again,' he replied
gloomily.
He was gloomy because he passionately longed
for some vodka, and the only thing that could
assuage that longing was tea and he had not yet
been offered any.
'But we have only to reach the turning and then
MASTER AND MAN 101
we shan't go wrong. The road will be through the
forest the whole way,' said Vasili Andre*evich.
'It's just as you please, Vasili Andreevich. If
we're to go, let us go,' said Nikita, taking the glass
of tea he was offered.
'We'll drink our tea and be off.'
Nikita said nothing but only shook his head, and
carefully pouring some tea into his saucer began
warming his hands, the fingers of which were always
swollen with hard work, over the steam. Then,
biting off a tiny bit of sugar, he bowed to his hosts,
said, 'Your health!' and drew in the steaming
liquid.
'If somebody would see us as far as the turning,'
said Vasili Andreevich.
'Well, we can do that,' said the eldest son.
Tetrushka will harness and go that far with you.'
'Well, then, put in the horse, lad, and I shall be
thankful to you for it.'
'Oh, what for, dear man?' said the kindly old
woman. 'We are heartily glad to do it.'
'Petrushka, go and put in the mare,' said the
eldest brother.
'All right,' replied Petrushka with a smile, and
promptly snatching his cap down from a nail he
ran away to harness.
While the horse was being harnessed the talk
returned to the point at which it had stopped when
Vasili Andr6evich drove up to the window. The
old man had been complaining to his neighbour,
the village elder, about his third son who had not
sent him anything for the holiday though he had
sent a French shawl to his wife.
'The young people are getting out of hand,' said
the old man.
'And how they do !' said the neighbour. 'There 's
no managing them ! They know too much. There's
102 MASTER AND MAN
Dem6chkin now, who broke his father's arm. It's
all from being too clever, it seems.'
Nikita listened, watched their faces, and evidently
would have liked to share in the conversation, but
he was too busy drinking his tea and only nodded
his head approvingly. He emptied one tumbler
after another and grew warmer and warmer and
more and more comfortable. The talk continued on
the same subject for a long time the harmfulness
of a household dividing up and it was clearly not
an abstract discussion but concerned the question of
a separation in that house; a separation demanded
by the second son who sat there morosely silent.
It was evidently a sore subject and absorbed them
all, but out of propriety they did not discuss their
private affairs before strangers. At last, however,
the old man could not restrain himself, and with
tears in his eyes declared that he would not consent
to a break-up of the family during his lifetime, that
his house was prospering, thank God, but that if
they separated they would all have to go begging.
'Just like the Matveevs,' said the neighbour.
'They used to have a proper house, but now they've
split up none of them has anything.'
'And that is what you want to happen to us,' said
the old man, turning to his son.
The son made no reply and there was an awk-
ward pause. The silence was broken by Petrushka,
who having harnessed the horse had returned to the
hut a few minutes before this and had been listening
all the time with a smile.
'There's a fable about that in Paulson,' he said.
'A father gave his sons a broom to break. At first
they could not break it, but when they took it twig
by twig they broke it easily. And it's the same
here,' and he gave a broad smile. 'I'm ready!' he
added.
MASTER AND MAN 103
'If you're ready, let's go,' said Vasili Andre'evich.
'And as to separating, don't you allow it, grand-
father. You got everything together and you're the
master. Go to the Justice of the Peace. He'll say
how things should be done.'
'He carries on so, carries on so,' the old man con-
tinued in a whining tone. 'There's no doing any-
thing with him. It's as if the devil possessed him.'
Nikita having meanwhile finished his fifth tum-
bler of tea laid it on its side instead of turning it
upside down, hoping to be offered a sixth glass. But
there was no more water in the samovar, so the
hostess did not fill it up for him. Besides, Vasfli
Andreevich was putting his things on, so there was
nothing for it but for Nikita to get up too, put back
into the sugar-basin the lump of sugar he had
nibbled all round, wipe his perspiring face with the
skirt of his sheepskin, and go to put on his over-
coat.
Having put it on he sighed deeply, thanked his
hosts, said good-bye, and went out of the warm
bright room into the cold dark passage, through
which the wind was howling and where snow was
blowing through the cracks of the shaking door,
and from there into the yard.
Petrushka stood in his sheepskin in the middle of
the yard by his horse, repeating some lines from
Paulson's primer. He said with a smile:
'Storms with mist the sky conceal,
Snowy circles wheeling wild.
Now like savage beast 'twill howl,
And now 'tis wailing like a child.'
Nikita nodded approvingly as he arranged the
reins.
The old man, seeing Vasfli Andreevich off,
brought a lantern into the passage to show him a
light, but it was blown out at once. And even in
104 MASTER AND MAN
the yard it was evident that the snow-storm had
become more violent.
'Well, this is weather!' thought Vasfli Andre-
evich. 'Perhaps we may not get there after all. But
there is nothing to be done. Business ! Besides, we
have got ready, our host's horse has been harnessed,
and we'll get there with God's help !'
Their aged host also thought they ought not to
go, but he had already tried to persuade them to
stay and had not been listened to.
'It's no use asking them again. Maybe my age
makes me timid. They'll get there all right, and at
least we shall get to bed in good time and without
any fuss,' he thought.
Petrushka did not think of danger. He knew the
road and the whole district so well, and the lines
about 'snowy circles wheeling wild' described what
was happening outside so aptly that it cheered him
up. Nikita did not wish to go at all, but he had
been accustomed not to have his own way and to
serve others for so long that there was no one to
hinder the departing travellers.
V
Vasili Andreevich went over to his sledge, found
it with difficulty in the darkness, climbed in and
took the reins.
'Go on in front!' he cried.
Petrushka kneeling in his low sledge started his
horse. Mukh6rty, who had been neighing for some
time past, now scenting a mare ahead of him started
after her, and they drove out into the street. They
drove again through the outskirts of the village and
along the same road, past the yard where the frozen
linen had hung (which, however, was no longer to
be seen), past the same barn, which was now
snowed up almost to the roof and from which the
MASTER AND MAN 105
snow was still endlessly pouring, past the same dis-
mally moaning, whistling, and swaying willows,
and again entered into the sea of blustering snow
raging from above and below. The wind was so
strong that when it blew from the side and the
travellers steered against it, it tilted the sledges and
turned the horses to one side. Petrushka drove his
good mare in front at a brisk trot and kept shouting
lustily. Mukhorty pressed after her.
After travelling so for about ten minutes, Petrush-
ka turned round and shouted something. Neither
Vasili Andreevich nor Nikita could hear anything
because of the wind, but they guessed that they
had arrived at the turning. In fact Petrushka had
turned to the right, and now the wind that had
blown from the side blew straight in their faces, and
through the snow they saw something dark on their
right. It was the bush at the turning.
'Well now, God speed you! J
'Thank you, Petrushka!'
'Storms with mist the sky conceal! 5 shouted
Petrushka as he disappeared.
'There's a poet for you!' muttered Vasili Andre"-
evich, pulling at the reins.
'Yes, a fine lad a true peasant,' said Nikita.
They drove on.
Nikita, wrapping his coat closely about him and
pressing his head down so close to his shoulders that
his short beard covered his throat, sat silently, try-
ing not to lose the warmth he had obtained while
drinking tea in the house. Before him he saw the
straight lines of the shafts which constantly deceived
him into thinking they were a well-travelled road,
and the horse's swaying crupper with his knotted
tail blown to one side, and farther ahead the high
shaft-bow and the swaying head and neck of the
horse with its waving mane. Now and then he
io6 MASTER AND MAN
caught sight of a way-sign, so that he knew they
were still on a road and that there was nothing for
him to be concerned about.
Vasfli Andre*evich drove on, leaving it to the
horse to keep to the road. But Mukh6rty, though
he had had a breathing-space in the village, ran
reluctantly, and seemed now and then to get off the
road, so that Vasili Andreevich had repeatedly to
correct him.
'Here's a stake to the right, and another, and
here's a third,' Vasili Andreevich counted, 'and
here in front is the forest,' thought he, as he looked
at something dark in front of him. But what had
seemed to him a forest was only a bush. They
passed the bush and drove on for another hundred
yards but there was no fourth way-mark nor any
forest.
'We must reach the forest soon,' thought Vasili
Andreevich, and animated by the vodka and the
tea he did not stop but shook the reins, and the good
obedient horse responded, now ambling, now slowly
trotting in the direction in which he was sent,
though he knew that he was not going the right
way. Ten minutes went by, but there was still no
forest.
'There now, we must be astray again,' said Vasili
Andreevich, pulling up.
Nikf ta silently got out of the sledge and holding
his coat, which the wind now wrapped closely about
him and now almost tore off, started to feel about in
the snow, going first to one side and then to the
other. Three or four times he was completely lost
to sight. At last he returned and took the reins from
Vasili Andr^evich's hand.
'We must go to the right,' he said sternly and
peremptorily, as he turned the horse.
'Well, if it's to the right, go to the right,' said
MASTER AND MAN 107
Vasili Andr^evich, yielding up the reins to Nikita
and thrusting his freezing hands into his sleeves.
Nikita did not reply.
'Now then, friend, stir yourself!' he shouted to
the horse, but in spite of the shake of the reins
Mukh6rty moved only at a walk.
The snow in places was up to his knees, and the
sledge moved by fits and starts with his every move-
ment.
Nikita took the whip that hung over the front of
the sledge and struck him once. The good horse,
unused to the whip, sprang forward and moved at
a trot, but immediately fell back into an amble and
then to a walk. So they went on for five minutes.
It was dark and the snow whirled from above and
rose from below, so that sometimes the shaft-bow
could not be seen. At times the sledge seemed to
stand still and the field to run backwards. Suddenly
the horse stopped abruptly, evidently aware of
something close in front of him. Nikita again sprang
lightly out, throwing down the reins, and went
ahead to see what had brought him to a standstill,
but hardly had he made a step in front of the horse
before his feet slipped and he went rolling down an
incline.
'Whoa, whoa, whoa !' he said to himself as he fell,
and he tried to stop his fall but could not, and only
stopped when his feet plunged into a thick layer of
snow that had drifted to the bottom of the hollow.
The fringe of a drift of snow that hung on the
edge of the hollow, disturbed by Nikita's fall,
showered down on him and got inside his collar.
'What a thing to do!' said Nikita reproachfully,
addressing the drift and the hollow and shaking the
snow from under his collar.
'Nikita ! Hey, Nikita !' shouted Vasili Andreevich
from above.
io8 MASTER AND MAN
But Nikita did not reply. He was too occupied
in shaking out the snow and searching for the whip
he had dropped when rolling down the incline.
Having found the whip he tried to climb straight
up the bank where he had rolled down, but it was
impossible to do so: he kept rolling down again, and
so he had to go along at the foot of the hollow to
find a way up. About seven yards farther on he
managed with difficulty to crawl up the incline on
all fours, then he followed the edge of the hollow
back to the place where the horse should have been.
He could not see either horse or sledge, but as he
walked against the wind he heard Vasili Andre-
evich's shouts and Mukhorty's neighing, calling
him.
'I'm coming! I'm coming! What are you cack-
ling for?' he muttered.
Only when he had come up to the sledge could
he make out the horse, and Vasili Andreevich
standing beside it and looking gigantic.
'Where the devil did you vanish to? We must go
back, if only to Grishkino,' he began reproaching
Nikfta.
Td be glad to get back, Vasili Andreevich, but
which way are we to go? There is such a ravine
here that if we once get in it we shan't get out
again. I got stuck so fast there myself that I could
hardly get out.'
'What shall we do, then? We can't stay here!
We must go somewhere!' said Vasili Andreevich.
Nikita said nothing. He seated himself in the
sledge with his back to the wind, took off his boots,
shook out the snow that had got into them, and
taking some straw from the bottom of the sledge,
carefully plugged with it a hole in his left boot.
Vasili Andreevich remained silent, as though now
leaving everything to Nikita. Having put his boots
MASTER AND MAN 109
on again, Nikita drew his feet into the sledge, put
on his mittens and took up the reins, and directed
the horse along the side of the ravine. But they had
not gone a hundred yards before the horse again
stopped short. The ravine was in front of him
again.
Nikita again climbed out and again trudged
about in the snow. He did this for a considerable
time and at last appeared from the opposite side
to that from which he had started.
'Vasili Andreevich, are you alive?' he called out.
'Here! 5 replied Vasili Andreevich. 'Well, what
now?'
'I can't make anything out. It's too dark.
There 's nothing but ravines. We must drive against
the wind again.'
They set off once more. Again Nikita went
stumbling through the snow, again he fell in, again
climbed out and trudged about, and at last quite
out of breath he sat down beside the sledge.
'Well, how now?' asked Vasili Andreevich.
'Why, I am quite worn out and the horse won't
go-'
'Then what's to be done?'
'Why, wait a minute.'
Nikita went away again but soon returned.
'Follow me!' he said, going in front of the horse.
Vasili Andreevich no longer gave orders but im-
plicitly did what Nikita told him.
'Here, follow me!' Nikita shouted, stepping
quickly to the right, and seizing the rein he led
Mukhorty down towards a snow-drift.
At first the horse held back, then he jerked for-
ward, hoping to leap the drift, but he had not the
strength and sank into it up to his collar.
'Get out!' Nikita called to Vasili Andreevich who
still sat in the sledge, and taking hold of one shaft
i io MASTER AND MAN
he moved the sledge closer to the horse. 'It's hard,
brother!' he said to Mukh6rty, 'but it can't be
helped. Make an effort! Now, now, just a little
one!' he shouted.
The horse gave a tug, then another, but failed
to clear himself and settled down again as if con-
sidering something.
'Now, brother, this won't do !' Nikita admonished
him. 'Now once more !'
Again Nikita tugged at the shaft on his side, and
Vasili Andreevich did the same on the other.
Mukhorty lifted his head and then gave a sudden
jerk.
'That's it! That's it!' cried Nikita. 'Don't be
afraid you won't sink!'
One plunge, another, and a third, and at last
Mukhorty was out of the snow-drift, and stood still,
breathing heavily and shaking the snow off himself.
Nikita wished to lead him farther, but Vasili
Andreevich, in his two fur coats, was so out of
breath that he could not walk farther and dropped
into the sledge.
'Let me get my breath! 5 he said, unfastening the
kerchief with which he had tied the collar of his fur
coat at the village.
'It's all right here. You lie there,' said Nikita.
'I will lead him along.' And with Vasili Andreevich
in the sledge he led the horse by the bridle about ten
paces down and then up a slight rise, and stopped.
The place where Nikita had stopped was not
completely in the hollow where the snow sweeping
down from the hillocks might have buried them
altogether, but still it was partly sheltered from the
wind by the side of the ravine. There were moments
when the wind seemed to abate a little, but that
did not last long and as if to make up for that
respite the storm swept down with tenfold vigour
MASTER AND MAN in
and tore and whirled the more fiercely. Such a gust
struck them at the moment when Vasili Andreevich,
having recovered his breath, got out of the sledge
and went up to Nikita to consult him as to what
they should do. They both bent down involuntarily
and waited till the violence of the squall should
have passed. Mukhorty too laid back his ears and
shook his head discontentedly. As soon as the vio-
lence of the blast had abated a little, Nikita took off
his mittens, stuck them into his belt, breathed on
to his hands, and began to undo the straps of the
shaft-bow.
'What's that you are doing there?' asked Vasili
Andreevich.
'Unharnessing. What else is there to do? I have
no strength left,' said Nikita as though excusing
himself.
'Can't we drive somewhere?'
'No, we can't. We shall only kill the horse. Why,
the poor beast is not himself now,' said Nikita,
pointing to the horse, which was standing submis-
sively waiting for what might come, with his steep
wet sides heaving heavily. 'We shall have to stay
the night here,' he said, as if preparing to spend the
night at an inn, and he proceeded to unfasten the
collar-straps. The buckles came undone.
'But shan't we be frozen?' remarked Vasili
Andreevich.
'Well, if we are we can't help it,' said Nikita.
VI
Although Vasili Andreevich felt quite warm in
his two fur coats, especially after struggling in the
snow-drift, a cold shiver ran down his back on
realizing that he must really spend the night where
they were. To calm himself he sat down in the
sledge and got out his cigarettes and matches.
iia MASTER AND MAN
Nikita meanwhile unharnessed Mukh6rty. He
unstrapped the belly-band and the back-band, took
away the reins, loosened the collar-strap, and re-
moved the shaft-bow, talking to him all the time
to encourage him.
'Now come out ! Gome out!' he said, leading him
clear of the shafts. 'Now we'll tie you up here and
I'll put down some straw and take off your bridle.
When you've had a bite you'll feel more cheerful.'
But Mukhorty was restless and evidently not com-
forted by Nikita's remarks. He stepped now on one
foot and now on another, and pressed close against
the sledge, turning his back to the wind and rub-
bing his head on Nikita's sleeve. Then, as if not to
pain Nikita by refusing his offer of the straw he put
before him, he hurriedly snatched a wisp out of the
sledge, but immediately decided that it was now no
time to think of straw and threw it down, and the
wind instantly scattered it, carried it away, and
covered it with snow.
'Now we will set up a signal,' said Nikita, and
turning the front of the sledge to the wind he tied
the shafts together with a strap and set them up on
end in front of the sledge. 'There now, when the
snow covers us up, good folk will see the shafts and
dig us out,' he said, slapping his mittens together
and putting them on. 'That's what the old folk
taught us !'
Vasili Andreevich meanwhile had unfastened his
coat, and holding its skirts up for shelter, struck one
sulphur match after another on the steel box. But
his hands trembled, and one match after another
either did not kindle or was blown out by the wind
just as he was lifting it to the cigarette. At last
a match did burn up, and its flame lit up for a
moment the fur of his coat, his hand with the gold
ring on the bent forefinger, and the snow-sprinkled
MASTER AND MAN 113
oat-straw that stuck out from under the drugget.
The cigarette lighted, he eagerly took a whiff or
two, inhaled the smoke, let it out through his
moustache, and would have inhaled again, but the
wind tore off the burning tobacco and whirled it
away as it had done the straw.
But even these few puffs had cheered him.
'If we must spend the night here, we must!' he
said with decision. 'Wait a bit, I'll arrange a flag
as well, 5 he added, picking up the kerchief which
he had thrown down in the sledge after taking it
from round his collar, and drawing off his gloves
and standing up on the front of the sledge and
stretching himself to reach the strap, he tied the
handkerchief to it with a tight knot.
The kerchief immediately began to flutter wildly,
now clinging round the shaft, now suddenly stream-
ing out, stretching and flapping.
'Just see what a fine flag !' said Vasili Andreevich,
admiring his handiwork and letting himself down
into the sledge. 'We should be warmer together,
but there's not room enough for two,' he added.
Til find a place,' said Nikita. 'But I must cover
up the horse first he sweated so, poor thing. Let
go!' he added, drawing the drugget from under
Vasili Andreevich.
Having got the drugget he folded it in two, and
after taking off the breechband and pad, covered
Mukh6rty with it.
'Anyhow it will be warmer, silly !' he said, putting
back the breechband and the pad on the horse over
the drugget. Then having finished that business
he returned to the sledge, and addressing Vasili
Andreevich, said: 'You won't need the sackcloth,
will you? And let me have some straw.'
And having taken these things from under Vasili
Andreevich, Nikita went behind the sledge, dug out
ii 4 MASTER AND MAN
a hole for himself in the snow, put straw into it,
wrapped his coat well round him, covered himself
with the sackcloth, and pulling his cap well down
seated himself on the straw he had spread, and leant
against the wooden back of the sledge to shelter
himself from the wind and the snow.
Vasili Andreevich shook his head disapprovingly
at what Nikita was doing, as in general he olis-
approved of the peasants' stupidity and lack of
education, and he began to settle himself down for
the night.
He smoothed the remaining straw over the bot-
tom of the sledge, putting more of it under his side,
then he thrust his hands into his sleeves and settled
down, sheltering his head in the corner of the sledge
from the wind in front.
He did not wish to sleep. He lay and thought:
thought ever of the one thing that constituted the
sole aim, meaning, pleasure, and pride of his life
of how much money he had made and might still
make, of how much other people he knew had made
and possessed, and of how those others had made
and were making it, and how he, like them, might
still make much more. The purchase of the Goryach-
kin grove was a matter of immense importance to
him. By that one deal he hoped to make perhaps
ten thousand rubles. He began mentally to reckon
the value of the wood he had inspected in autumn,
and on five acres of which he had counted all the
trees.
'The oaks will go for sledge-runners. The under-
growth will take care of itself, and there'll still
be some thirty sazheens of fire-wood left on each
desyatin,' said he to himself. 'That means there
will be at least two hundred and twenty-five rubles'
worth left on each desyatin. Fifty-six desyatins
means fifty-six hundreds, and fifty-six hundreds,
MASTER AND MAN 115
and fifty-six tens, and another fifty-six tens, and
then fifty-six fives. . . .' He saw that it came out to
more than twelve thousand rubles, but could not
reckon it up exactly without a counting-frame.
'But I won't give ten thousand, anyhow. I'll give
about eight thousand with a deduction on account
of the glades. I'll grease the surveyor's palm give
him a hundred rubles, or a hundred and fifty, and
he'll reckon that there are some five desyatfns of
glade to be deducted. And he'll let it go for eight
thousand. Three thousand cash down. That'll
move him, no fear !' he thought, and he pressed his
pocket-book with his forearm.
'God only knows how we missed the turning. The
forest ought to be there, and a watchman's hut, and
dogs barking. But the damned things don't bark
when they're wanted.' He turned his collar down
from his ear and listened, but as before only the
whistling of the wind could be heard, the flapping
and fluttering of the kerchief tied to the shafts, and
the pelting of the snow against the woodwork of the
sledge. He again covered up his ear.
'If I had known I would have stayed the night.
Well, no matter, we'll get there to-morrow. It's
only one day lost. And the others won't travel in
such weather.' Then he remembered that on the
gth he had to receive payment from the butcher
for his oxen. 'He meant to come himself, but he
won't find me, and my wife won't know how to
receive the money. She doesn't know the right way
of doing things,' he thought, recalling how at their
party the day before she had not known how to
treat the police-officer who was their guest. 'Of
course she's only a woman! Where could she have
seen anything? In my father's time what was our
house like? Just a rich peasant's house: just an oat-
mill and an inn that was the whole property. But
u6 MASTER AND MAN
what have I done in these fifteen years? A shop,
two taverns, a flour-mill, a grain-store, two farms
leased out, and a house with an iron-roofed barn,'
he thought proudly. 'Not as it was in father's time !
Who is talked of in the whole district now? Brekhu-
nov! And why? Because I stick to business. I take
trouble, not like others who lie abed or waste their
time on foolishness while I don't sleep of nights.
Blizzard or no blizzard I start out. So business gets
done. They think money-making is a joke. No,
take pains and rack your brains ! You get overtaken
out of doors at night, like this, or keep awake night
after night till the thoughts whirling in your head
make the pillow turn,' he meditated with pride.
'They -think people get on through luck. After
all, the Mironovs are now millionaires. And why?
Take pains and God gives. If only He grants me
health!'
The thought that he might himself be a million-
aire like Mironov, who began with nothing, so
excited Vasili Andreevich that he felt the need of
talking to somebody. But there was no one to talk
to. ... If only he could have reached Goryachkin
he would have talked to the landlord and shown
him a thing or two.
'Just see how it blows ! It will snow us up so deep
that we shan't be able to get out in the morning!'
he thought, listening to a gust of wind that blew
against the front of the sledge, bending it and lash-
ing the snow against it. He raised himself and
looked round. All he could see through the whirl-
ing darkness was Mukhorty's dark head, his back
covered by the fluttering drugget, and his thick
knotted tail; while all round, in front and behind,
was the same fluctuating whity darkness, some-
times seeming to get a little lighter and sometimes
growing denser still.
MASTER AND MAN 117
'A pity I listened to Nikita,' he thought. 'We
ought to have driven on. We should have come out
somewhere, if only back to Grishkino and stayed
the night at Taras's. As it is we must sit here all
night. But what was I thinking about? Yes, that
God gives to those who take trouble, but not to
loafers, lie-abeds, or fools. I must have a smoke! 5
He sat down again, got out his cigarette-case, and
stretched himself flat on his stomach, screening the
matches with the skirt of his coat. But the wind
found its way in and put out match after match.
At last he got one to burn and lit a cigarette. He
was very glad that he had managed to do what he
wanted, and though the wind smoked more of the
cigarette than he did, he still got two or three puffs
and felt more cheerful. He again leant back,
wrapped himself up, started reflecting and remem-
bering, and suddenly and quite unexpectedly lost
consciousness and fell asleep.
Suddenly something seemed to give him a push
and awoke him. Whether it was Mukhorty who
had pulled some straw from under him, or whether
something within him had startled him, at all events
it woke him, and his heart began to beat faster and
faster so that the sledge seemed to tremble under
him. He opened his eyes. Everything around him
was just as before. 'It looks lighter,' he thought.
'I expect it won't be long before dawn. 5 But he
at once remembered that it was lighter because
the moon had risen. He sat up and looked first at
the horse. Mukhorty still stood with his back to the
wind, shivering all over. One side of the drugget,
which was completely covered with snow, had been
blown back, the breeching had slipped down and
the snow-covered head with its waving forelock and
mane were now more visible. Vasili Andr^evich
leant over the back of the sledge and looked behind.
ii8 MASTER AND MAN
Nikf ta still sat in the same position in which he had
settled himself. The sacking with which he was
covered, and his legs, were thickly covered with snow.
'If only that peasant doesn't freeze to death ! His
clothes are so wretched. I may be held responsible
for him. What shiftless people they are such a
want of education,' thought Vasili Andreevich, and
he felt like taking the drugget off the horse and
putting it over Nikita, but it would be very cold to
get out and move about and, moreover, the horse
might freeze to death. 'Why did I bring him with
me? It was all her stupidity!' he thought, recalling
his unloved wife, and he rolled over into his old
place at the front part of the sledge. 'My uncle
once spent a whole night like this,' he reflected,
'and was all right.' But another case came at once
to his mind. 'But when they dug Sebastian out he
was dead stiff like a frozen carcass. If I'd only
stopped the night in Grishkino all this would not
have happened !'
And wrapping his coat carefully round him so
that none of the warmth of the fur should be wasted
but should warm him all over, neck, knees, and
feet, he shut his eyes and tried to sleep again. But
try as he would he could not get drowsy, on the
contrary he felt wide awake and animated. Again
he began counting his gains and the debts due to
him, again he began bragging to himself and feeling
pleased with himself and his position, but all this
was continually disturbed by a stealthily approach-
ing fear and by the unpleasant regret that he had
not remained in Grishkino.
'How different it would be to be lying warm on
a bench!' He turned over several times in his
attempts to get into a more comfortable position
more sheltered from the wind, he wrapped up his
legs closer, shut his eyes, and lay still. But either
MASTER AND MAN 119
his legs in their strong felt boots began to ache from
being bent in one position, or the wind blew in
somewhere, and after lying still for a short time he
again began to recall the disturbing fact that he
might now have been lying quietly in the warm hut
at Grishkino. He again sat up, turned about,
muffled himself up, and settled down once more.
Once he fancied that he heard a distant cock-
crow. He felt glad, turned down his coat-collar and
listened with strained attention, but in spite of all
his efforts nothing could be heard but the wind
whistling between the shafts, the flapping of the
kerchief, and the snow pelting against the frame of
the sledge.
Nikita sat just as he had done all the time, not
moving and not even answering Vasili Andreevich
who had addressed him a couple of times. 'He
doesn't care a bit he's probably asleep!' thought
Vasili Andreevich with vexation, looking behind
the sledge at Nikita who was covered with a thick
layer of snow.
Vasili Andreevich got up and lay down again
some twenty times. It seemed to him that the night
would never end. 'It must be getting near morn-
ing,' he thought, getting up and looking around.
'Let's have a look at my watch. It will be cold to
unbutton, but if I only know that it's getting near
morning I shall at any rate feel more cheerful. We
could begin harnessing. 5
In the depth of his heart Vasili Andreevich knew
that it could not yet be near morning, but he was
growing more and more afraid, and wished both to
get to know and yet to deceive himself. He care-
fully undid the fastening of his sheepskin, pushed in
his hand, and felt about for a long time before he
got to his waistcoat. With great difficulty he man-
aged to draw out his silver watch with its enamelled
I 2 o MASTER AND MAN
flower design, and tried to make out the time. He
could not see anything without a light. Again he
went down on his knees and elbows as he had done
when he lighted a cigarette, got out his matches,
and proceeded to strike one. This time he went to
work more carefully, and feeling with his fingers for
a match with the largest head and the greatest
amount of phosphorus, lit it at the first try. Bring-
ing the face of the watch under the light he could
hardly believe his eyes. ... It was only ten minutes
past twelve. Almost the whole night was still before
him.
'Oh, how long the night is!' he thought, feeling
a cold shudder run down his back, and having
fastened his fur coats again and wrapped himself
up, he snuggled into a corner of the sledge intending
to wait patiently. Suddenly, above the monotonous
roar of the wind, he clearly distinguished another
new and living sound. It steadily strengthened,
and having become quite clear diminished just as
gradually. Beyond all doubt it was a wolf, and he
was so near that the movement of his jaws as he
changed his cry was brought down the wind. Vasili
Andreevich turned back the collar of his coat
and listened attentively. Mukhorty too strained to
listen, moving his ears, and when the wolf had
ceased its howling he shifted from foot to foot and
gave a warning snort. After this Vasili Andreevich
could not fall asleep again or even calm himself.
The more he tried to think of his accounts, his busi-
ness, his reputation, his worth and his wealth, the
more and more was he mastered by fear; and
regrets that he had not stayed the night at Grish-
kino dominated and mingled in all his thoughts.
'Devil take the forest ! Things were all right with-
out it, thank God. Ah, if we had only put up
for the night!' he said to himself. 'They say it's
MASTER AND MAN 121
drunkards that freeze,' he thought, 'and I have had
some drink.' And observing his sensations he
noticed that he was beginning to shiver, without
knowing whether it was from cold or from fear. He
tried to wrap himself up and lie down as before,
but could no longer do so. He could not stay in
one position. He wanted to get up, to do something
to master the gathering fear that was rising in him
and against which he felt himself powerless. He
again got out his cigarettes and matches, but only
three matches were left and they were bad ones.
The phosphorus rubbed off them all without
lighting.
*The devil take you ! Damned thing ! Curse you !'
he muttered, not knowing whom or what he was
cursing, and he flung away the crushed cigarette.
He was about to throw away the matchbox too, but
checked the movement of his hand and put the box
in his pocket instead. He was seized with such un-
rest that he could no longer remain in one spot. He
climbed out of the sledge and standing with his
back to the wind began to shift his belt again,
fastening it lower down in the waist and tighten-
ing it.
'What's the use of lying and waiting for death?
Better mount the horse and get away !' The thought
suddenly occurred to him. 'The horse will move
when he has someone on his back. As for him,' he
thought of Nikita 'it's all the same to him whether
he lives or dies. What is his life worth? He won't
grudge his life, but I have something to live for,
thank God.'
He untied the horse, threw the reins over his neck
and tried to mount, but his coats and boots were so
heavy that he failed. Then he clambered up in the
sledge and tried to mount from there, but the sledge
tilted under his weight, and he failed again. At last
122 MASTER AND MAN
he drew Mukhorty nearer to the sledge, cautiously
balanced on one side of it, and managed to lie on
his stomach across the horse's back. After lying like
that for a while he shifted forward once and again,
threw a leg over, and finally seated himself, sup-
porting his feet on the loose brceching-s traps. The
shaking of the sledge awoke Nikita. He raised him-
self, and it seemed to Vasili Andreevich that he said
something.
'Listen to such fools as you ! Am I to die like this
for nothing?' exclaimed Vasili Andreevich. And
tucking the loose skirts of his fur coat in under his
knees, he turned the horse and rode away from the
sledge in the direction in which he thought the
forest and the forester's hut must be.
VII
From the time he had covered himself with the
sackcloth and seated himself behind the sledge,
Nikita had not stirred. Like all those who live in
touch with nature and have known want, he was
patient and could wait for hours, even days, with-
out growing restless or irritable. He heard his
master call him, but did not answer because he did
not want to move or talk. Though he still felt some
warmth from the tea he had drunk and from his
energetic struggle when clambering about in the
snowdrift, he knew that this warmth would not last
long and that he had no strength left to warm him-
self again by moving about, for he felt as tired as a
horse when it stops and refuses to go further in spite
of the whip, and its master sees that it must be fed
before it can work again. The foot in the boot with
a hole in it had already grown numb, and he could
no longer feel his big toe. Besides that, his whole
body began to feel colder and colder.
The thought that he might, and very probably
MASTER AND MAN 123
would, die that night occurred to him, but did not
seem particularly unpleasant or dreadful. It did
not seem particularly unpleasant, because his
whole life had been not a continual holiday, but
on the contrary an unceasing round of toil of which
he was beginning to feel weary. And it did not
seem particularly dreadful, because besides the
masters he had served here, like Vasili Andreevich,
he always felt himself dependent on the Chief
Master, who had sent him into this life, and he
knew that when dying he would still be in that
Master's power and would not be ill-used by Him.
c lt seems a pity to give up what one is used to and
accustomed to. But there's nothing to be done; I
shall get used to the new things.'
'Sins?' he thought, and remembered his drunken-
ness, the money that had gone on drink, how he had
offended his wife, his cursing, his neglect of church
and of the fasts, and all the things the priest blamed
him for at confession. 'Of course they are sins. But
then, did I take them on of myself? That's evidently
how God made me. Well, and the sins? Where am
I to escape to?'
So at first he thought of what might happen to
him that night, and then did not return to such
thoughts but gave himself up to whatever recollec-
tions came into his head of themselves. Now he
thought of Martha's arrival, of the drunkenness
among the workers and his own renunciation of
drink, then of their present journey and of Taras's
house and the talk about the breaking-up of the
family, then of his own lad, and of Mukhorty now
sheltered under the drugget, and then of his master
who made the sledge creak as he tossed about in it.
'I expect you're sorry yourself that you started out,
dear man,' he thought. 'It would seem hard to
leave a life such as his ! It's not like the likes of us.'
124 MASTER AND MAN
Then all these recollections began to grow con-
fused and got mixed in his head, and he fell asleep.
But when Vasili Andr^evich, getting on the
horse, jerked the sledge against the back of which
Nikita was leaning, and it shifted away and hit him
in the back with one of its runners, he awoke and
had to change his position whether he liked it or not.
Straightening his legs with difficulty and shaking
the snow off them he got up, and an agonizing
cold immediately penetrated his whole body. On
making out what was happening he called to Vasili
Andreevich to leave him the drugget which the horse
no longer needed, so that he might wrap himself in it.
But Vasili Andreevich did not stop, but dis-
appeared amid the powdery snow.
Left alone, Nikita considered for a moment what
he should do. He felt that he had not the strength
to go off in search of a house. It. was no longer pos-
sible to sit down in his old place it was by now
all filled with snow. He felt that he could not get
warmer in the sledge either, for there was nothing
to cover himself with, and his coat and sheepskin
no longer warmed him at all. He felt as cold as
though he had nothing on but a shirt. He became
frightened. 'Lord, heavenly Father! 5 he muttered,
and was comforted by the consciousness that he was
not alone but that there was One who heard him
and would not abandon him. He gave a deep sigh,
and keeping the sackcloth over his head he got in-
side the sledge and lay down in the place where his
master had been.
But he could not get warm in the sledge either.
At first he shivered all over, then the shivering
ceased and little by little he began to lose conscious-
ness. He did not know whether he was dying or
falling asleep, but felt equally prepared for the one
as for the other.
MASTER AND MAN 125
VIII
Meanwhile Vasili Andr6evich, with his feet and
the ends of the reins, urged the horse on in the
direction in which for some reason he expected the
forest and the forester's hut to be. The snow covered
his eyes and the wind seemed intent on stopping
him, but bending forward and constantly lapping
his coat over and pushing it between himself and
the cold harness pad which prevented him from
sitting properly, he kept urging the horse on. Muk-
h6rty ambled on obediently though with difficulty,
in the direction in which he was driven.
Vasili Andreevich rode for about five minutes
straight ahead, as he thought, seeing nothing but the
horse's head and the white waste, and hearing only
the whistle of the wind about the horse's ears and
his coat collar.
Suddenly a dark patch showed up in front of him.
His heart beat with joy, and he rode towards the
object, already seeing in imagination the walls of
village houses. But the dark patch was not station-
ary, it kept moving; and it was not a village but
some tall stalks of wormwood sticking up through
the snow on the boundary between two fields, and
desperately tossing about under the pressure of the
wind which beat it all to one side and whistled
through it. The sight of that wormwood tormented
by the pitiless wind made Vasili Andr6evich shud-
der, he knew not why, and he hurriedly began
urging the horse on, not noticing that when riding
up to the wormwood he had quite changed his
direction and was now heading the opposite way,
though still imagining that he was riding towards
where the hut should be. But the horse kept making
towards the right, and Vasili Andreevich kept
guiding it to the left.
i 2 6 MASTER AND MAN
Again something dark appeared in front of him.
Again he rejoiced, convinced that now it was cer-
tainly a village. But once more it was the same
boundary line overgrown with wormwood, once
more the same wormwood desperately tossed by
the wind and carrying unreasoning terror to his
heart. But its being the same wormwood was not
all, for beside it there was a horse's track partly
snowed over. Vasili Andreevich stopped, stooped
down and looked carefully. It was a horse-track
only partially covered with snow, and could be
none but his own horse's hoofprints. He had
evidently gone round in a small circle. C I shall
perish like that!' he thought, and not to give way
to his terror he urged on the horse still more, peer-
ing into the snowy darkness in which he saw only
flitting and fitful points of light. Once he thought
he heard the barking of dogs or the howling of
wolves, but the sounds were so faint and indistinct
that he did not know whether he heard them or
merely imagined them, and he stopped and began
to listen intently.
Suddenly some terrible, deafening cry resounded
near his ears, and everything shivered and shook
under him. He seized Mukhorty's neck, but that
too was shaking all over and the terrible cry grew
still more frightful. For some seconds Vasili An-
dre"evich could not collect himself or understand
what was happening. It was only that Mukhorty,
whether to encourage himself or to call for help, had
neighed loudly and resonantly. 'Ugh, you wretch !
How you frightened me, damn you !' thought Vasili
Andreevich. But even when he understood the
cause of his terror he could not shake it off.
'I must calm myself and think things over,' he
said to himself, but yet he could not stop, and con-
tinued to urge the horse on, without noticing that
MASTER AND MAN 127
he was now going with the wind instead of against
it. His body, especially between his legs where it
touched the pad of the harness and was not covered
by his overcoats, was getting painfully cold, es-
pecially when the horse walked slowly. His legs
and arms trembled and his breathing came fast.
He saw himself perishing amid this dreadful snowy
waste, and could see no means of escape.
Suddenly the horse under him tumbled into
something and, sinking into a snow-drift, began to
plunge and fell on his side. Vasili Andreevich
jumped off, and in so doing dragged to one side
the breechband on which his foot was resting, and
twisted round the pad to which he held as he dis-
mounted. As soon as he had jumped off, the horse
struggled to his feet, plunged forward, gave one
leap and another, neighed again, and dragging the
drugget and the breechband after him, disappeared,
leaving Vasili Andreevich alone in the snow-drift.
The latter pressed on after the horse, but the
snow lay so deep and his coats were so heavy
that, sinking above his knees at each step, he
stopped breathless after taking not more than
twenty steps. 'The copse, the oxen, the leasehold,
the shop, the tavern, the house with the iron-roofed
barn, and my heir,' thought he. 'How can I
leave all that? What does this mean? It cannot
be!' These thoughts flashed through his mind.
Then he thought of the wormwood tossed by the
wind, which he had twice ridden past, and he was
seized with such terror that he did not believe in
the reality of what was happening to him. 'Can
this be a dream?' he thought, and tried to wake up
but could not. It was real snow that lashed his face
and covered him and chilled his right hand from
which he had lost the glove, and this was a real
desert in which he was now left alone like that
128 MASTER AND MAN
wormwood, awaiting an inevitable, speedy, and
meaningless death.
'Queen of Heaven! Holy Father Nicholas,
teacher of temperance!' he thought, recalling the
service of the day before and the holy icon with its
black face and gilt frame, and the tapers which he
sold to be set before that icon and which were al-
most immediately brought back to him scarcely
burnt at all, and which he put away in the store-
chest. 1 He began to pray to that same Nicholas the
Wonder-Worker to save him, promising him a
thanksgiving service and some candles. But he
clearly and indubitably realized that the icon, its
frame, the candles, the priest, and the thanksgiving
service, though very important and necessary in
church, could do nothing for him here, and that
there was and could be no connexion between those
candles and services and his present disastrous
plight. 'I must not despair, 5 he thought. 'I must
follow the horse's track before it is snowed under.
He will lead me out, or I may even catch him.
Only I must not hurry, or I shall stick fast and be
more lost than ever.'
But in spite of his resolution to go quietly, he
rushed forward and even ran, continually falling,
getting up and falling again. The horse's track was
already hardly visible in places where the snow
did not lie deep. 'I am lost!' thought Vasili An-
dreevich. 'I shall lose the track and not catch the
horse.' But at that moment he saw something
black. It was Mukhorty, and not only Mukh6rty,
but the sledge with the shafts and the kerchief.
Mukhorty, with the sacking and the breechband
1 As churchwarden Vasili Andre"evich sold the tapers the
worshippers bought to set before the icons. These were col-
lected at the end of the service, and could afterwards be resold
to the advantage of the church revenue. A. M.
MASTER AND MAN 129
twisted round to one side, was standing not in his
former place but nearer to the shafts, shaking his
head which the reins he was stepping on drew
downwards. It turned out that Vasili Andre*evich
had sunk in the same ravine Nikita had previously
fallen into, and that Mukhorty had been bringing
him back to the sledge and he had got off his back
no more than fifty paces from where the sledge was.
IX
Having stumbled back to the sledge Vasili An-
dre* evich caught hold of it and for a long time stood
motionless, trying to calm himself and recover his
breath. Nikita was not in his former place, but
something, already covered with snow, was lying
in the sledge and Vasili Andreevich concluded that
this was Nikita. His terror had now quite left him,
and if he felt any fear it was lest the dreadful terror
should return that he had experienced when on the
horse and especially when he was left alone in the
snow-drift. At any cost he had to avoid that terror,
and to keep it away he must do something occupy
himself with something. And the first thing he did
was to turn his back to the wind and open his fur
coat. Then, as soon as he recovered his breath a
little, he shook the snow out of his boots and out of
his left-hand glove (the right-hand glove was hope-
lessly lost and by this time probably lying some-
where under a dozen inches of snow), then as was
his custom when going out of his shop to buy grain
from the peasants, he pulled his girdle low down
and tightened it and prepared for action. The first
thing that occurred to him was to free Mukh6rty's
leg from the rein. Having done that, and tethered
him to the iron cramp at the front of the sledge
where he had been before, he was going round the
horse's quarters to put the breechband and pad
432 -
ISO MASTER AND MAN
straight and cover him with the cloth, but at that
moment he noticed that something was moving in
the sledge and Nikita's head rose up out of the snow
that covered it. Nikita, who was half frozen, rose
with great difficulty and sat up, moving his hand
before his nose in a strange manner just as if he
were driving away flies. He waved his hand and
said something, and seemed to Vasili Andreevich
to be calling him. Vasili Andreevich left the cloth
unadjusted and went up to the sledge.
'What is it?' he asked. 'What are you saying?'
'I'm dy . . . ing, that's what,' said Nikita brokenly
and with difficulty. 'Give what is owing to me to my
lad, or to my wife, no matter.'
'Why, are you really frozen?' asked Vasili Andre-
evich.
'I feel it's my death. Forgive me for Christ's
sake . . .' said Nikita in a tearful voice, continuing
to wave his hand before his face as if driving away
flies.
Vasili Andreevich stood silent and motionless for
half a minute. Then suddenly, with the same reso-
lution with which he used to strike hands when
making a good purchase, he took a step back and
turning up his sleeves began raking the snow off
Nikita and out of the sledge. Having done this he
hurriedly undid his girdle, opened out his fur coat,
and having pushed Nikita down, lay down on top
of him, covering him not only with his fur coat
but with the whole of his body, which glowed
with warmth. After pushing the skirts of his coat
between Nikita and the sides of the sledge, and
holding down its hem with his knees, Vasili Andre--
evich lay like that face down, with his head pressed
against the front of the sledge. Here he no longer
heard the horse's movements or the whistling of the
wind, but only Nikita's breathing. At first and for a
MASTER AND MAN 131
long time Nikfta lay motionless, then he sighed
deeply and moved.
'There, and you say you are dying ! Lie still and
get warm, that's our way . . .' began Vasili Andr6-
evich.
But to his great surprise he could say no more, for
tears came to his eyes and his lower jaw began
to quiver rapidly. He stopped speaking and only
gulped down the risings in his throat. 'Seems I was
badly frightened and have gone quite weak,' he
thought. But this weakness was not only not un-
pleasant, but gave him a peculiar joy such as he had
never felt before.
'That's our way !' he said to himself, experiencing
a strange and solemn tenderness. He lay like that
for a long time, wiping his eyes on the fur of his
coat and tucking under his knee the right skirt,
which the wind kept turning up.
But he longed so passionately to tell somebody of
his joyful condition that he said: 'Nikita!'
'It's comfortable, warm!' came a voice from
beneath.
'There, you see, friend, I was going to perish.
And you would have been frozen, and I should
have. . . .'
But again his jaws began to quiver and his eyes
to fill with tears, and he could say no more.
'Well, never mind,' he thought. 'I know about
myself what I know.'
He remained silent and lay like that for a long
time.
Nikita kept him warm from below and his fur
coats from above. Only his hands, with which he
kept his coat-skirts down round Nikita's sides, and his
legs which the wind kept uncovering, began to freeze,
especially his right hand which had no glove. But
he did not think of his legs or of his hands but only
134 MASTER AND MAN
he, and that his life was not in himself but in Nikita.
He strained his ears and heard Nikita breathing
and even slightly snoring. 'Nikita is aliye, so I too
am alive !' he said to himself triumphantly.
And he remembered his money, his shop, his
house, the buying and selling, and Mir6nov's
millions, and it was hard for him to understand why
that man, called Vasili Brekhunov, had troubled
himself with all those things with which he had been
troubled.
'Well, it was because he did not know what the
real thing was, 5 he thought, concerning that Vasili
Brekhunov. 'He did not know, but now I know and
know for sure. Now I know!' And again he heard
the voice of the one who had called him before.
'I'm coming! Coming!' he responded gladly, and
his whole being was filled with joyful emotion. He
felt himself free and that nothing could hold him
back any longer.
After that Vasili Andreevich neither saw, heard,
nor felt anything more in this world.
All around the snow still eddied. The same
whirlwinds of snow circled about, covering the dead
Vasili Andr6evich's fur coat, the shivering Muk-
horty, the sledge, now scarcely to be seen, and
Nikita lying at the bottom of it, kept warm beneath
his dead master.
X
Nikita awoke before daybreak. He was aroused
by the cold that had begun to creep down his back.
He had dreamt that he was coming from the mill
with a load of his master's flour and when crossing
the stream had missed the bridge and let the cart
get stuck. And he saw that he had crawled under
the cart and was trying to lift it by arching his back.
But strange to say the cart did not move, it stuck
MASTER AND MAN 135
to his back and he could neither lift it nor get out
from under it. It was crushing the whole of his
loins. And how cold it felt! Evidently he must
crawl out. 'Have done ! ' he exclaimed to whoever,
was pressing the cart down on him. 'Take out the
sacks!' But the cart pressed down colder and
colder, and then he heard a strange knocking,
awoke completely, and remembered everything.
The cold cart was his dead and frozen master lying
upon him. And the knock was produced by Muk-
horty, who had twice struck the sledge with his
hoof.
'Andreeich! Eh, Andreeich!" Nikita called
cautiously, beginning to realize the truth, and
straightening his back. But Vasili Andreevich did
not answer and his stomach and legs were stiff and
cold and heavy like iron weights.
'He must have died! May the Kingdom of
Heaven be his !' thought Nikita.
He turned his head, dug with his hand through
the snow about him and opened his eyes. It was
daylight; the wind was whistling as before between
the shafts, and the snow was falling in the same way,
except that it was no longer driving against the
frame of the sledge but silently covered both sledge
and horse deeper and deeper, and neither the
horse's movements nor his breathing were any
longer to be heard.
'He must have frozen too,' thought Nikita of
Mukhorty, and indeed those hoof knocks against
the sledge, which had awakened Nikita, were the
last efforts the already numbed Mukh6rty had
made to keep on his feet before dying.
'O Lord God, it seems Thou art calling me too !'
said Nikfta. 'Thy Holy Will be done. But it's
1 Again the characteristic peasant use of the patronymic
without the Christian name preceding it.
136 MASTER AND MAN
uncanny. . . . Still, a man can't die twice and must
die once. If only it would come soon !'
And he again drew in his head, closed his eyes,
and became unconscious, fully convinced that now
he was certainly and finally dying.
It was not till noon that day that peasants dug
Vasili Andreevich and Nikita out of the snow with
their shovels, not more than seventy yards from the
road and less than half a mile from the village.
The snow had hidden the sledge, but the shafts
and the kerchief tied to them were still visible.
Mukhorty, buried up to his belly in snow, with the
breeching and drugget hanging down, stood all
white, his dead head pressed against his frozen
throat: icicles hung from his nostrils, his eyes were
covered with hoar-frost as though filled with tears,
and he had grown so thin in that one night that he
was nothing but skin and bone.
Vasili Andreevich was stiff as a frozen carcase,
and when they rolled him off Nikita his legs re-
mained apart and his arms stretched out as they had
been. His bulging hawk eyes were frozen, and his
open mouth under his clipped moustache was full
of snow. But Nikita though chilled through was
still alive. When he had been brought to, he felt
sure that he was already dead and that what was
taking place with him was no longer happening
in this world but in the next. When he heard the
peasants shouting as they dug him out and rolled
the frozen body of Vasili Andreevich from off him,
he was at first surprised that in the other world
peasants should be shouting in the same old way
and had the same kind of body, and then when he
realized that he was still in this world he was sorry
rather than glad, especially when he found that the
toes on both his feet were frozen.
MASTER AND MAN 137
Nikita lay in hospital for two months. They cut
off three of his toes, but the others recovered so that
he was still able to work and went on living for
another twenty years, first as a farm-labourer, then
in his old age as a watchman. He died at home
as he had wished, only this year, under the icons
with a lighted taper in his hands. Before he died
he asked his wife's forgiveness and forgave her for
the cooper. He also took leave of his son and grand-
children, and died sincerely glad that he was re-
lieving his son and daughter-in-law of the burden
of having to feed him, and that he was now really
passing from this life of which he was weary into
that other life which every year and every hour
grew clearer and more desirable to him. Whether
he is better or worse off there where he awoke after
his death, whether he was disappointed or found
there what he expected, we shall all soon learn.
1895.
A TALK AMONG LEISURED PEOPLE
An Introduction to the story that follows
SOME guests assembled at a wealthy house one
day happened to start a serious conversation
about life.
They spoke of people present and absent, but
failed to find anyone who was satisfied with his life.
Not only could no one boast of happiness, but not
a single person considered that he was living as a
Christian should do. All confessed that they were
living worldly lives concerned only for themselves
and their families, none of them thinking of their
neighbours, still less of God.
So said all the guests, and all agreed in blaming
themselves for living godless and unchristian lives.
'Then why do we live so?' exclaimed a youth.
'Why do we do what we ourselves disapprove of?
Have we no power to change our way of life? We
ourselves admit that we are ruined by our luxury,
our effeminacy, our riches, and above all by our
pride our separation from our fellow-men. To be
noble and rich we have to deprive ourselves of all
that gives man joy. We crowd into towns, become
effeminate, ruin our health, and in spite of all our
amusements we die of ennui, and of regrets that our
life is not what it should be.
'Why do we live so? Why do we spoil our lives
and all the good that God gives us? I don't want
to live in that old way ! I will abandon the studies
I have begun they would only bring me to the
same tormenting life of which we are all now com-
plaining. I will renounce my property and go to the
country and live among the poor. I will work with
them, will learn to labour with my hands, and if
my education is of any use to the poor I will share
A TALK AMONG LEISURED PEOPLE 139
it with them, not through institutions and books
but directly by living with them in a brotherly
way.
'Yes, I have made up my mind,' he added, look-
ing inquiringly at his father, who was also present.
'Your wish is a worthy one,' said his father, 'but
thoughtless and ill-considered. It seems so easy to
you only because you do not know life. There are
many things that seem to us good, but the execu-
tion of what is good is complicated and difficult.
It is hard enough to walk well on a beaten track,
but it is harder still to lay out a new one. New
paths are made only by men who are thoroughly
mature and have mastered all that is attainable by
man. It seems to you easy to make new paths of
life only because you do not yet understand life.
It is an outcome of thoughtlessness and youthful
pride. We old folk are needed to moderate your
impulsiveness and guide you by our experience,
and you young folk should obey us in order to profit
by that experience. Your active life lies before you.
You are now growing up and developing. Finish
your education, make yourself thoroughly conver-
sant with things, get on to your own feet, have firm
convictions of your own, and then start a new life
if you feel you have strength to do so. But for the
present you should obey those who are guiding you
for your own good, and not try to open up new
paths of life.'
The youth was silent and the older guests agreed
with what the father had said.
'You are right,' said a middle-aged married man,
turning to the youth's father. 'It is true that the
lad, lacking experience of life, may blunder when
seeking new paths of life and his decision cannot be
a firm one. But you know we all agreed that our
life is contrary to our conscience and does not give
140 A TALK AMONG LEISURED PEOPLE
us happiness. So we cannot but recognize the jus-
tice of wishing to escape from it.
'The lad may mistake his fancy for a reasonable
deduction, but I, who am no longer young, tell you
for myself that as I listened to the talk this evening
the same thought occurred to me. It is plain to me
that the life I now live cannot give me peace of
mind or happiness. Experience and reason alike
show me that. Then what am I waiting for? We
struggle from morning to night for our families, but
it turns out that we and our families live ungodly
lives and get more and more sunk in sins. We
work for our families, but our families are no better
off, because we are not doing the right thing for
them. And so I often think that it would be better
if I changed my whole way of life and did just what
that young man proposed to do: ceased to bother
about my wife and children and began to think
about my soul. Not for nothing did Paul say: "He
that is married careth how he may please his wife,
but he that is unmarried careth how he may please
the Lord."'
But before he had finished speaking his wife and
all the women present began to attack him.
'You ought to have thought about that before, 9
said an elderly woman. 'You have put on the yoke,
so you must draw your load. Like that, everyone
will say he wishes to go off and save his soul when it
seems hard to him to support and feed his family.
That is false and cowardly. No ! A man should be
able to live in godly fashion with his family. Of
course it would be easy enough to save your own
soul all by yourself. But to behave like that would
be to run contrary to Christ's teaching. God bade
us love others; but in that way you would in His
name offend others. No. A married man has his
definite obligations and he must not shirk them.
A TALK AMONG LEISURED PEOPLE 141
It's different when your family are already on their
own feet. Then you may do as you please for your-
self, but no one has a right to force his family.'
But the man who had spoken did not agree. 'I
don't want to abandon my family,' he said. 'All I
say is that my family should not be brought up in a
worldly fashion, nor brought up to live for their own
pleasure, as we have just been saying, but should
be brought up from their early days to become ac-
customed to privation, to labour, to the service of
others, and above all to live a brotherly life with all
men. And for that we must relinquish our riches
and distinctions.'
'There is no need to upset others while you your-
self do not live a godly life, 5 exclaimed his wife
irritably. 'You yourself lived for your own pleasure
when you were young, then why do you want to
torment your children and your family? Let them
grow up quietly, and later on let them do as they
please without coercion from you !'
Her husband was silent, but an elderly man who
was there spoke up for him.
'Let us admit,' said he, 'that a married man,
having accustomed his family to a certain comfort,
cannot suddenly deprive them of it. It is true that
if you have begun to educate your children it is
better to finish it than to break up everything
especially as the children when grown up will
choose the path they consider best for themselves.
I agree that for a family man it is difficult and even
impossible to change his way of life without sinning.
But for us old men it is what God commands. Let
me say for myself: I am now living without any
obligations, and to tell the truth, simply for m/
belly. I eat, drink, rest, and am disgusting and
revolting even to myself. So it is time for me to give
u p such a life, to give away my property, and at
i 4 a A TALK AMONG LEISURED PEOPLE
least before I die to live for a while as God bids a
Christian live.'
But the others did not agree with the old man.
His niece and godchild was present, to all of whose
children he had stood sponsor and gave presents on
holidays. His son was also there. They both protested.
'No,' said the son. 'You worked in your time,
and it is time for you to rest and not trouble your-
self. You have lived for sixty years with certain
habits and must not change them now. You would
only torment yourself in vain.'
'Yes, yes,' confirmed his niece. 'You would be in
want and out of sorts, and would grumble and sin
more than ever. God is merciful and will forgive all
sinners to say nothing of such a kind old uncle as
you!'
'Yes, and why should you?' added another old
man of the same age. 'You and I have perhaps only
a couple of days to live, so why should we start new
ways?'
'What a strange thing!' exclaimed one of the
visitors who had hitherto been silent. 'What a
strange thing! We all say that it would be good to
live as God bids us and that we are living badly and
suffer in body and soul, but as soon as it comes to
practice it turns out that the children must not be
upset and must be brought up not in godly fashion
but in the old way. Young folk must not run
counter to their parents' will and must live not in
a godly fashion but in the old way. A married man
must not upset his wife and children and must live
not in a godly way but as of old. And there is no
need for old men to begin anything: they are not
accustomed to it and have only a couple of days
left to live. So it seems that none of us may live
rightly: we may only talk about it.'
1887.
WALK IN THE LIGHT WHILE THERE
IS LIGHT
A story of Early Christian times
IT happened in the reign of the Roman Emperor
Trajan a hundred years after the birth of Christ,
at a time when disciples of Christ's disciples were
still living and Christians held firmly to the
Teacher's law, as is told in the Acts:
And the multitude of them that believed were of
one heart and of one soul: neither said any of them
that ought of the things which he possessed was his
own; but they had all things in common. And with
great power gave the apostles witness of the resur-
rection of the Lord Jesus: and great grace was upon
them all. Neither was there any among them that
lacked; for as many as were possessors of lands or
houses sold them and brought the prices of the
things that were sold, and laid them down at the
apostles' feet: and distribution was made unto every
man according as he had need. (Acts iv. 32-5.)
In those early times there lived in the province of
Cilicia, in the city of Tarsus, a rich Syrian mer-
chant, Juvenal by name, who dealt in precious
stones. He was of poor and humble origin, but by
industry and skill in his business had earned wealth
and the respect of his fellow-citizens. He had
travelled much in foreign countries, and though
uneducated he had come to know and understand
much, and the townsfolk respected him for his
ability and probity. He professed the pagan Roman
faith that was held by all respectable citizens of the
Roman Empire, the ritual of which had been strictly
enforced since the time of the Emperor Augustus
and was still adhered to by the present Emperor
144 WALK IN THE LIGHT
Trajan. Cilicia was far from Rome, but was ruled
by Roman governors, and all that was done in
Rome was reflected in Cilicia, whose governors
imitated their Emperor.
Juvenal remembered the stories he had heard in
childhood of what Nero had done in Rome, and
later on he saw how the emperors perished one
after another, and being a clever man he under-
stood that there was nothing sacred in the Roman
religion but that it was all the work of human
hands. But being a clear-headed man he under-
stood that it would not be advantageous to struggle
against the existing order of things, and that for
his own tranquillity it was better to submit to it.
The senselessness of the life all around him, and
especially of what went on in Rome, where he
repeatedly went on business, often however per-
plexed him. He had his doubts, he could not grasp
it all, and he attributed this to his lack of learning.
He was married and had had four children, but
three of them had died young and only one son,
Julius, was left.
To him Juvenal devoted all his love and care.
He particularly wished to educate his son so that
that latter might not be tormented by such doubts
about life as perplexed himself. When Julius had
passed his fifteenth year his father entrusted him to
a philosopher who had settled in their town and
who received youths for their instruction. His
father gave his son to this philosopher, together
with his comrade Pamphilius, the son of a former
slave whom Juvenal had freed.
The lads were friends, of the same age, and both
handsome fellows. Both studied diligently and
both were well conducted. Julius distinguished
himself more in the study of the poets and in mathe-
matics, but Pamphilius in the study of philosophy.
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 145
A year before the completion of their studies, Pam-
philius at school one day informed his teacher that
his widowed mother was moving to the town of
Daphne, and that he would have to abandon his
studies.
The teacher was sorry to lose a pupil who was
doing him credit, Juvenal too was sorry, but sorriest
of all was Julius. But nothing would induce Pam-
philius to remain, and after thanking his friends for
their love and care, he took his leave.
Two years passed. Julius had finished his studies
and during all that time had not once seen his friend.
One day however he met him in the street,
invited him to his home, and began asking him
how and where he was living. Pamphilius told
him that he and his mother were still living in the
same place.
'We are not living alone,' said he, 'but among
many friends with whom we have everything in
common.'
'How "in common"?' inquired Julius.
'So that none of us considers anything his own.'
'Why do you do that?'
'We are Christians,' said Pamphilius.
'Is it possible?' exclaimed Julius. 'Why, I have
heard that the Christians kill children and eat
them! Is it possible that you take part in that?'
For to be a Christian in those days was the same
thing as in our days to be an anarchist. As soon as
a man was convicted of being a Christian he was
immediately thrown into prison, and if he did not
renounce his faith, was executed.
'Come and see,' replied Pamphilius. 'We do not
do anything strange. We live simply, trying to do
nothing bad.'
'But how can you live if you do not consider any-
thing your own?'
146 WALK IN THE LIGHT
'We manage to live. If we work for our brethren
they do the same for us.'
'But if your brethren take your labour and do not
give you theirs how then?'
'There are none of that sort,' said Pamphilius.
'Such people like to live in luxury and will not
come to us. Our life is simple and not luxurious.'
'But there are plenty of lazy people who would
be glad to be fed for nothing.'
'There are such, and we receive them gladly.
Lately a man of that kind came to us, a runaway
slave. At first, it is true, he was lazy and led a bad
life, but he soon changed his habits, and has now
become a good brother.'
'But suppose he had not improved?'
'There are such, too, and our Elder, Cyril, says
that we should treat these as our most valued
brethren, and love them even more.'
'How can one love a good-for-nothing fellow?'
'One cannot help but love a man!'
'But how can you give to all whatever they ask?'
queried Julius. 'If my father gave to all who ask he
would very soon have nothing left.'
'I don't know about that,' replied Pamphilius.
'We have enough left for our needs, and if it hap-
pens that we have nothing to eat or to wear, we ask
of others and they give to us. But that happens
rarely. It only once happened to me to go to bed
supperless, and then only because I was very tired
and did not wish to go to ask for anything.'
'I don't know how you manage,' said Julius, 'but
my father says that if you don't save what you have,
and if you give to all who ask, you will yourself die
of hunger.'
'We don't! Come and see. We live, and not only
do not suffer want, but even have plenty to spare.'
'How is that?'
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 147
'Why, this way. We all profess one and the same
faith, but the strength to fulfil it differs in each of us.
One has more and another less of it. One has ad-
vanced much in the true path of life, while another
is only just beginning it. In front of us all stands
Christ with his life, and we all try to emulate him
and see our welfare in that alone. Some of us, like
the Elder Cyril and his wife Pelagia, are leaders,
others stand behind them, others again are still
farther behind, but we are all following the same
path. Those in front already approach a fulfilment
of Christ's law self-renunciation and readiness to
lose their life to save it. These desire nothing. They
do not spare themselves, and in accord with Christ's
law are ready to give the last of their possessions to
those who ask. Others are feebler, they weaken and
are sorry for themselves when they lack their cus-
tomary clothing and food, and they do not give
away everything. There are others who are still
weaker such as have only recently started on the
path. These still live in the old way, keeping much
for themselves, and only giving away their super-
fluities. And it is these hindmost people who give
the largest material assistance to those in the van.
Besides this, we are all of us entangled by our
relationships with the pagans. One man's father is a
pagan who has property and gives to his son. The
son gives to those who ask, but then the father
again gives to him. Another has a pagan mother
who is sorry for her son and helps him. A third
is the mother of pagan children, who take care of
her and give her things, begging her not to give
them away, and she takes what they give her out
of love for them, but still gives to others. A fourth
has a pagan wife and a fifth a pagan husband.
So we are all entangled, and the foremost, who
would gladly give away their all, are not able
148 WALK IN THE LIGHT
to do so. That is why our life does not prove too
hard for those weak in the faith, and why it happens
that we have much that is superfluous.'
To this Julius said:
'But if that is so, then you fail to observe Christ's
teaching and only pretend to do so. If you do not
give up everything there is no difference between
you and us. To my mind if a man is a Christian
he ought to fulfil Christ's whole law give up every-
thing and become a pauper.'
'That would be best of all,' said Pamphilius.
'Why do you not do it?'
'Yes, I will when I see you do it.'
'We don't want to do anything for show. And I
don't advise you to come to us and renounce your
present way of life for the sake of appearances. We
act as we do not for appearances, but according to
our faith.'
'What does "according to our faith" mean?'
' "According to our faith" means that salvation
from the evils of the world, from death, is only to be
found in a life according to the teaching of Christ.
We are indifferent to what people may say of us.
We act as we do not for men's approval, but because
in this alone do we see life and welfare.'
'It is impossible not to live for oneself,' said
Julius. 'The gods themselves have implanted it in
us that we love ourselves more than others and seek
pleasure for ourselves. And you do the same. You
yourself say that some among you have pity on
themselves. They will seek pleasures for themselves
more and more, and will more and more abandon
your faith and behave just as we do.'
'No,' said Pamphilius, 'our brethren are travel-
ling another path and will not weaken but will grow
ever stronger, just as a fire will never go out when
more wood is laid on it. That is our faith.'
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 149
'I don't understand what this faith of yours is !'
'Our faith consists in this, that we understand
life as Christ has explained it to us.'
'How is that?'
'Christ once told this parable. Certain men kept
a vineyard and had to pay rent to its owner. That
is, we men who live in the world must pay rent to
God by doing His will. But these men, in accord
with their worldly belief, considered that the vine-
yard was theirs and that they need pay no rent for
it, but had only to enjoy its fruits. The owner sent
a messenger to them to collect the rent, but they
drove him away. Then the owner sent his son, but
him they killed, thinking that after that no one
would disturb them. That is the faith of the world
by which all worldly people live who do not
acknowledge that life is only given us that we may
serve God. But Christ has taught us that this
worldly belief that it is better for man if he drives
the messenger and the owner's son out of the vine-
yard and avoids paying the rent is a false one, for
there is no avoiding the fact that we must either
pay the rent or be driven out of the garden. He has
taught us that all the things we call pleasures
eating, drinking, and merry-making cannot be
pleasures if we devote our lives to them, but are
pleasures only when we are seeking something else
to live a life in conformity with the will of God.
Only then do these pleasures follow as a natural
reward of the fulfilment of His will. To wish to
take the pleasures without the labour of fulfilling
God's will to tear the pleasures away from duty
is the same as to tear up a flower and replant
it without its roots. We believe this, and so we
cannot follow error when we see the truth. Our
faith is that the good of life is not in its pleasures
but in the fulfilment of God's will, without any
150 WALK IN THE LIGHT
thought of present or future pleasures. And the
longer we live the more we see that the pleasures
and the good come in the wake of a fulfilment of
God's will, as a wheel follows the shafts. Our Teacher
said: "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my
yoke upon you, and learn of me, for I am meek
and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto
your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden
is light." 5
So spoke Pamphilius. Julius listened and his
heart was touched, but what Pamphilius had said
was not clear to him. At first it seemed to him that
Pamphilius was deceiving him; but then he looked
into his friend's kindly eyes and remembered his
goodness, and it seemed to him that Pamphilius
was deceiving himself.
Pamphilius invited Julius to come to see their
way of life and, if it pleased him, to remain to live
with them.
And Julius promised, but he did not go to see
Pamphilius, and being absorbed by his own affairs
he forgot about him.
II
Julius's father was wealthy, and as he loved his
only son and was proud of him, he did not grudge
him money. Julius lived the usual life of a rich
young man, in idleness, luxury, and dissipated
amusements, which have always been and still re-
main the same: wine, gambling, and loose women.
But the pleasures to which Julius abandoned him-
self demanded more and more money, and he began
to find that he had not enough. On one occasion
he asked his father for more than he usually gave
him. His father gave what he asked, but reproved
his son. Julius, feeling himself to blame, but un-
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 151
willing to admit it, became angry and was rude to
his father, as those who know they are to blame and
do not wish to acknowledge it, always do.
The money Julius got from his father was very
soon all spent. And just at that time it happened
that he and a drunken companion became involved
in a brawl and killed a man. The city prefect heard
of this and would have had him arrested, but his
father intervened and obtained his pardon. Julius
now needed still more money for dissipation, and
this time he borrowed it from a companion, pro-
mising to repay it. Moreover his mistress de-
manded a present: she had taken a fancy to a pearl
necklace, and Julius knew that if he did not gratify
her wish she would abandon him and attach herself
to a rich man who had long been trying to entice
her away.
Julius went to his mother and told her that he
must have some money, and that he would kill him-
self if he could not get what he needed. He placed
the blame for his being in such a position not on
himself but on his father. He said: 'My father
accustomed me to a life of luxury and then began
to grudge me money. Had he given me at first and
without reproaches what he gave me later, I should
have arranged my life properly and should not have
been in such difficulties, but as he never gave me
enough I had to go to the money-lenders and they
squeezed everything out of me, and I had nothing
left on which to live the life natural to me as a rich
young man, and was made to feel ashamed among
my companions. But my father does not wish to
understand anything of all this. He forgets that he
was young once himself. He has brought me to this
state, and now if he will not give me what I ask
I shall kill myself.'
The mother, who spoilt her son, went to his
i 5 a WALK IN THE LIGHT
father, and Juvenal called his son and began to up-
braid both him and his mother. Julius answered
his father rudely and Juvenal struck him. Julius
seized his father's arm, at which Juvenal shouted
to his slaves and bade them bind his son and lock
him up.
Julius was left alone, and he cursed his father and
his own life.
It seemed to him that the only way of escape from
his present position was either by his own or his
father's death.
Julius's mother suffered even more than he did.
She did not try to understand who was to blame
for all this. She only pitied her adored son. She
went again to her husband to implore him to for-
give the youth, but he would not listen to her, and
reproached her for having spoilt their son. She in
turn reproached him, and it ended by Juvenal
beating his wife. Disregarding this, however, she
went to her son and persuaded him to beg his
father's pardon and yield to his wishes, in return
for which she promised to take the money he needed
from her husband by stealth, and give it him. Julius
agreed, and then his mother again went to Juvenal
and urged him to forgive his son. Juvenal scolded
his wife and son for a long time, but at last decided
that he would forgive Julius, on condition that he
should abandon his dissolute life and marry the
daughter of a rich merchant a match Juvenal was
very anxious to arrange.
'He will get money from me and also have his
wife's dowry,' said Juvenal, 'and then let him settle
down to a decent life. If he promises to obey my
wishes, I will forgive him; but I will not give him
anything at present, and the first time he trans-
gresses I will hand him over to the prefect.'
Julius submitted to his father's conditions and
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 153
was released. He promised to marry and to aban-
don his bad life, but he had no intention of doing so.
Life at home now became a hell for him. His
father did not speak to him and quarrelled with
his mother on his account, and his mother wept.
One day she called him into her apartments and
secretly handed him a precious stone which she had
taken irom her husband's room.
'Go and sell it,' she said, 'not here but in another
town, and then do what you have to do. I shall be
able to conceal its loss for the present, and if it is
discovered I will lay the blame on one of the slaves.'
Julius's heart was pierced by his mother's words.
He was horrified at what she had done, and without
taking the precious stone he left the house.
He did not himself know where he was going or
with what aim. He walked on and on out of the
town, feeling that he needed to be alone, and thinking
over all that had happened to him and that awaited
him. Going farther and farther away at last he
reached the sacred grove of the goddess Diana.
Coming to a secluded spot he began to think, and
the first thought that occurred to him was to seek
the goddess's aid. But he no longer believed in the
gods, and knew that he could not expect aid from
them. And if not from them, then from whom?
To think out his position for himself seemed to
him too strange. All was darkness and confusion in
his soul. But there was nothing else to be done. He
had to listen to his conscience, and began to con-
sider his life and his actions in the light of it. And
both appeared to him bad, and above all stupid.
Why had he tormented himself like this? Why had
he ruined his young life in such a way? It had
brought him little happiness and much sorrow and
unhappiness. But chiefly he felt himself alone.
Formerly he had had a mother whom he loved, a
154 WALK IN THE LIGHT
father, and friends. Now there was no one. No-
body loved him ! He was a burden to them all. He
had been a cause of suffering to all who knew him.
For his mother he was the cause of discord with his
father. For his father he was the dissipator of the
wealth collected by a lifetime of labour. For his
friends he was a dangerous and disagreeable rival.
They must all desire his death.
Passing his life in review he remembered Pam-
philius and his last meeting with him, and how
Pamphilius had invited him to go there, to the
Christians. And it occurred to him not to return
home, but to go straight to the Christians and
remain with them.
But could his position be so desperate? he won-
dered. Again he recalled all that had happened to
him, and again he was horrified at the idea that
nobody loved him and that he loved no one. His
mother, father, and friends did not care for him and
must wish for his death. But did he himself love
anyone? His friends? He felt that he loved none
of them: they were all his rivals and would be piti-
less to him now that he was in distress. His father?
He was seized with horror when he put himself that
question. He looked into his heart and found that
not only did he not love his father, he even hated
him for the restraint and insult he had put upon
him. He hated him, and more than that he saw
clearly that his father's death was necessary for his
own happiness.
'Yes,' he said to himself. 'If I knew that no one
would see it or ever know of it, what should I do
if I could immediately, at one stroke, deprive him
of life and free myself?'
And he answered his own question: 'I should kill
him !' And he was horrified at that reply.
'My mother? I am sorry for her but I do not
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 155
love her: it is all the same to me what becomes of
her. All I need is her help. ... I am a beast, and
a wretched, hunted one at that. I only differ from a
beast in that I can by my own will quit this false
and evil life. I can do what a beast cannot do
I can kill myself. I hate my father. There is no
one I love . . . neither my mother nor my friends . . .
unless, perhaps, Pamphilius alone? 5
And he again thought of him. He recalled their
last meeting, their conversation, and Pamphilius's
words that, according to their teaching, Christ had
said: 'Gome unto me all ye that labour and are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Could that
be true?
He went on thinking, and remembering Pam-
philius's gentle, fearless, and happy face, he wished
to believe what Pamphilius had said.
'What indeed am I?' he said to himself. 'Who
am I ? A man seeking happiness. I sought it in my
lusts and did not find it. And all who live as I did
fail to find it. They are all evil and suffer. But
there is a man who is always full of joy because he
demands nothing. He says that there are many like
him and that all men will be such if they follow
their Master's teaching. What if this be true? True
or not it attracts me and I will go there. 9
So said Julius to himself, and he left the grove,
having decided not to return home but to go to the
village where the Christians lived.
Ill
Julius went along briskly and joyously, and the
farther he went the more vividly did he imagine to
himself the life of the Christians, recalling all that
Pamphilius had said, and the happier he felt. The
sun was already declining towards evening and he
wished to rest, when he came upon a man seated
i 5 6 WALK IN THE LIGHT
by the roadside having a meal. He was a man of
middle age with an intelligent face, and was sitting
there eating olives and a flat cake. On seeing Julius
he smiled and said:
'Greeting to you, young man! The way is still
long. Sit down and rest.'
Julius thanked him and sat down.
'Where are you going?' asked the stranger.
'To the Christians,' said Julius, and by degrees
he recounted to the unknown his whole life and his
decision.
The stranger listened attentively and asked
about some details without himself expressing an
opinion, but when Julius had ended he packed the
remaining food in his wallet, adjusted his dress,
and said:
'Young man, do not pursue your intention. You
would be making a mistake. I know life; you do
not. I know the Christians; you do not. Listen!
I will review your life and your thoughts, and when
you have heard them from me, you will take what
decision seems to you wisest. You are young, rich,
handsome, strong, and the passions boil in your
veins. You wish to find a quiet refuge where they
will not agitate you and you would not suffer from
their consequences. And you think that you can
find such a shelter among the Christians.
'There is no such refuge, dear young man, be-
cause what troubles you does not dwell in Cilicia
or in Rome but in yourself. In the quiet solitude
of a village the same passions will torment you, only
a hundred times more strongly. The deception of
the Christians, or their delusion for I do not wish
to judge them consists in not wishing to recognize
human nature. Only an old man who has outlived
all his passions could fully carry out their teaching.
But a man in the vigour of life, or a youth like you
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 157
who has not yet tested life and tried himself, cannot
submit to their law, because it is based not on
human nature but on idle speculations. If you go
to them you will suffer from what makes you suffer
now, only to a much greater extent. Now your
passions lead you into wrong paths, but having once
mistaken your road you can correct it. Now at any
rate you have the satisfaction of desires fulfilled
that is life. But among the Christians, forcibly re-
straining your passions, you will err yet more and
in a similar way, and besides that suffering you will
have the incessant suffering of unsatisfied desires.
Release the water from a dam and it will irrigate
the earth and the meadows and supply drink for
the animals, but confine it and it will burst its banks
and flow away as mud. So it is with the passions.
The teaching of the Christians (besides the belief
in another life with which they console themselves
and of which I will not speak) their practical
teaching is this: They do not approve of violence,
do not recognize wars, or tribunals, or property, or
the sciences and arts, or anything that makes life
easy and pleasant.
'That might be well enough if all men were such
as they describe their Teacher as having been. But
that is not and cannot be so. Men are evil and
subject to passions. That play of passions and the
conflicts caused by them are what keep men in the
social condition in which they live. The barbarians
know no restraint, and for the satisfaction of his
desires one such man would destroy the whole
world if all men submitted as these Christians do.
If the gods implanted in men the sentiments of
anger, revenge, and even of vindictiveness against
the wicked, they did so because these sentiments are
necessary for human life. The Christians teach that
these feelings are bad, and that without them men
158 WALK IN THE LIGHT
would be happy, and there would be no murders,
executions, and wars. That is true, but it is like
supposing that people would be happy if they did
not eat food. There would then indeed be no greed
or hunger, or any of the calamities that result from
them. But that supposition would not change
human nature. And if some two or three dozen
people believed in it, and did actually refrain from
food and die of hunger, it would still not alter
human nature. The same is true of man's other
passions: indignation, anger, revenge, even the love
of women, of luxury, or of the pomp and grandeur
characteristic of the gods and therefore unalterable
characteristics of man too. Abolish man's nutrition
and man will be destroyed. And similarly abolish
the passions natural to man and mankind will
be unable to exist. It is the same with ownership,
which the Christians are supposed to reject. Look
around you: every vineyard, every enclosure, every
house, every ass, has been produced by man under
conditions of ownership. Abandon the rights of
property and not one vineyard will be tilled or
one animal raised and tended. The Christians say
that they have no property, but they enjoy the fruits
of it. They say that they have all things in common
and that everything is brought together into a com-
mon pool. But what they bring together they have
received from people who owned property. They
merely deceive others, or at best deceive themselves.
You say that they themselves work to support them-
selves, but what they get by work would not support
them if they did not avail themselves of what men
who recognize ownership have produced. Even if
they could support themselves it would be a bare
subsistence, and there would be no place among
them for the sciences or arts. They do not even
recognize the use of our sciences and arts. Nor can
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 159
it be otherwise. Their whole teaching tends to re-
duce them to a primitive condition of savagery to
an animal existence.
'They cannot serve humanity by our arts and
sciences, and being ignorant of them they condemn
them. Nor can they serve humanity in any of the
ways which constitute man's peculiar prerogative
and ally him to the gods. They have neither
temples nor statues nor theatres nor museums.
They say they do not need these things. The easiest
way to avoid being ashamed of one's degradation
is to scorn what is lofty, and that is what they do.
They are atheists. They do not acknowledge the
gods or their participation in human affairs. They
believe only in the Father of their Teacher, whom
they also call their Father, and the Teacher him-
self, who they think has revealed to them all the
mysteries of life. Their teaching is a pitiful fraud !
Consider just this. Our religion says: The world
depends on the gods, the gods protect men, and in
order to live well men must respect the gods, and
must themselves search and think. In this way our
life is guided on the one hand by the will of the
gods, and on the other by the collective wisdom of
mankind. We live, think, search, and thus advance
towards the truth.
'But these Christians have neither the gods, nor
their own will, nor the wisdom of humanity. They
have only a blind faith in their crucified Teacher
and in all that he said to them. Now consider
which is the more trustworthy guide the will of
the gods and the free activity of collective human
wisdom, or the compulsory, blind belief in the
words of one man?'
Julius was struck by what the stranger said and
particularly by his last words. Not only was his
intention of going to the Christians shaken, but
i6o WALK IN THE LIGHT
it now appeared to him strange that, under the
influence of his misfortunes, he could ever have
decided on such an insanity. But the question still
remained of what he was to do now, and what exit
to find from the difficult circumstances in which he
was placed, and so, having explained his position,
he asked the stranger's advice.
'It was just of that matter I now wished to speak
to you,' replied the stranger. 'What are you to do?
Your path in as far as human wisdom is accessible
to me is clear. All your misfortunes have resulted
from the passions natural to mankind. Passion has
seduced you and led you so far that you have suf-
fered. Such are the ordinary lessons of life. We
should avail ourselves of them. You have learnt
much and know what is bitter and what is sweet,
you cannot now repeat those mistakes. Profit by
your experience. What distresses you most is your
enmity towards your father. That enmity is due to
your position. Choose another and it will cease, or
at least will not manifest itself so painfully. All your
misfortunes are the result of the irregularity of
your situation. You gave yourself up to youthful
pleasures: that was natural and therefore good. But
it was good only as long as it corresponded to your
age. That time passed, but though you had grown
to manhood you still devoted yourself to the frivo-
lities of youth, and this was bad. You have reached
an age when you should recognize that you are a
man, a citizen, and should serve the State and work
on its behalf. Your father wishes you to marry.
His advice is wise. You have outlived one phase of
life your youth and have reached another. All
your troubles are indications of a period of transi-
tion. Recognize that youth has passed, boldly
throw aside all that was natural to it but not natural
for a man, and enter upon a new path. Marry, give
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 161
up the amusements of youth, apply yourself to com-
merce, public affairs, the sciences and arts, and
you will not only be reconciled to your father and
friends, but will yourself find peace and happiness.
You have reached manhood, and should marry and
be a husband. So my chief advice is: accede to your
father's wish and marry. If you are attracted by
the seclusion you thought to find among the Chris-
tians, if you are inclined to philosophy and not
towards an active life, you can with advantage de-
vote yourself to it only after you have experienced
the real meaning of life. But you will know that
only as an independent citizen and the head of a
family. If afterwards you still feel drawn to soli-
tude, yield to that feeling. It will then be a true
desire and not a mere flash of vexation such as it
is now. Then go!'
These last words persuaded Julius more than
anything else. He thanked the stranger and re-
turned home.
His mother welcomed him with joy. His father
too, on hearing of his intention to submit to his will
and marry the girl he had chosen for him, was
reconciled to his son.
IV
Three months later the marriage of Julius with
the beautiful Eulampia was celebrated. The young
couple lived in a separate house belonging to Julius,
and he took over a branch of his father's business
which was transferred to him. He had now changed
his way of life entirely.
One day he went on business to a neighbouring
town, and there, while sitting in a shop, he saw
Pamphilius passing by with a girl whom Julius did
not know. They both carried heavy baskets of
grapes which they were selling. On seeing his
432 r .
i6a WALK IN THE LIGHT
friend, Julius went out to him and asked him into
the shop to have a talk.
The girl, seeing that Pamphilius wished to go
with his friend but hesitated to leave her alone,
hastened to assure him that she did not need his
help, but would sit down with the grapes and wait
for customers. Pamphilius thanked her, and he and
Julius went into the shop.
Julius asked the shopkeeper, whom he knew, to
let him take his friend into a private room at the
back of the shop, and having received permission
they went there.
The two friends questioned each other about
their lives. Pamphilius was still living as before in
the Christian community and had not married, and
he assured his friend that his life had been growing
happier and happier each year, each day, and each
hour.
Julius told his friend what had happened to him-
self, and how he had actually been on his way to
join the Christians when an encounter with a
stranger cleared up for him the mistakes of the
Christians and showed him what he ought to do,
and how he had followed that advice and had
married.
'Well, and are you happy now?' inquired Pam-
philius. 'Have you found in marriage what the
stranger promised you?'
'Happy?' said Julius. 'What is happiness? If you
mean the complete satisfaction of my desires, then
of course I am not happy. I am at present manag-
ing my business successfully, people begin to respect
me, and in both these things I find some satisfac-
tion. Though I see many men richer and more
highly regarded than myself, I foresee the possibility
of equalling or even surpassing them. That side of
my life is full, but marriage, I will say frankly, does
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 163
not satisfy me. More than that, I feel that it is just
my marriage which should have given me happi-
ness that has failed. The joy I at first experienced
gradually diminished and at last vanished, and in-
stead of happiness came sorrow. My wife is beauti-
ful, clever, well-educated, and kind. At first I was
perfectly happy. But now not having a wife you
will not have experienced this differences arise,
sometimes because she desires my attentions when
I am indifferent to her, and sometimes for the con-
trary reason. Besides this, for passion novelty is
essential. A woman less fascinating than my wife
attracts me more when I first know her, but after-
wards becomes still less attractive than my wife:
I have experienced that. No, I have not found
satisfaction in marriage. Yes, my friend,' Julius
concluded, 'the philosophers are right. Life does
not afford us what the soul desires. I have now
experienced that in marriage. But the fact that life
does not give the happiness that the soul desires
does not prove that your deception can give it, } he
added with a smile.
'In what do you see our "deception"?' asked
Pamphilius.
'Your deception consists in this: that to deliver
man from the evils connected with life, you reject
all life repudiate life itself. To avoid disenchant-
ment you reject enchantment. You reject marriage
itself.'
'We do not reject marriage,' said Pamphilius.
'Well, if you don't reject marriage, at any rate
you reject love.'
'On the contrary, we reject everything except
love. For us it is the basis of everything.'
'I do not understand you,' said Julius. 'As far as
I have heard from others and from yourself, and
judging by the fact that you are not yet married
164 WALK IN THE LIGHT
though you are the same age as myself, I conclude
that your people do not marry. Those who are
already married continue to be so, but the others
do not form fresh marriages. You do not concern
yourself about continuing the human race. And if
you were the only people the human race would
long ago have died out,' he concluded, repeating
what he had often heard said.
'That is unjust,' replied Pamphilius. 'It is true
that we do not set ourselves the aim of continuing
the human race, and do not make it our concern
in the way I have often heard your philosophers
speak of it. We suppose that our Father has already
provided for that. Our aim is simply to live in
accord with His will. If it is His will that the human
race should continue, it will do so, if not it will end.
That is not our affair, nor our care. Our care is to
live in accord with His will. And His will is ex-
pressed both in our teaching and in our revelation,
in which it is said that a husband shall cleave unto
his wife and they twain shall be one flesh.
'Marriage among us is not only not forbidden,
but it is encouraged by our elders and teachers.
The difference between marriage among us and
marriage among you consists only in the fact that
our law reveals to us that every lustful look at a
woman is a sin, and so we and our women, instead
of adorning ourselves to stimulate desire, try so
to avoid it that the feeling of love between us as
between brothers and sisters, may be stronger than
the feeling of desire for a woman which you call
love.'
'But all the same you cannot suppress admiration
for beauty,' said Julius. 'I feel sure, for instance,
that the beautiful girl with whom you were bringing
the grapes evokes in you the feeling of desire in
spite of the dress which hides her charms.'
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 165
'I do not yet know,' said Pamphilius, blushing.
'I have not thought about her beauty. You are the
first to speak to me of it. To me she is as a sister.
But to continue what I was saying about the dif-
ference between our marriages and yours, that
difference arises from the fact that among you lust,
under the name of beauty and love, and the wor-
ship of the goddess Venus, is evoked and developed
in people. With us on the contrary lust is con-
sidered, not as an evil for God did not create evil
but as a good which begets evil when it is out of
place: a temptation as we call it. And we try by
all means to avoid it. And that is why I am not yet
married, though very possibly I may marry to-
morrow.'
'But what will decide that?'
'The will of God.'
'How will you know it?'
'If you never seek its indications you will never
discern it, but if you constantly seek them they
become clear, as divinations from sacrifices and
birds are for you. And as you have your wise men
who interpret for you the will of the gods by their
wisdom and from the entrails of their sacrificed ani-
mals and by the flight of birds, so we too have our
wise men who explain to us the will of the Father
according to Ghrisfs revelation and the promptings
of their hearts and the thoughts of others, and
chiefly by their love of men.'
'But all this is very indefinite,' retorted Julius.
'Who will indicate to you, for instance, when and
whom to marry? When I was about to marry I had
the choice of three girls. Those three were chosen
from among others because they were beautiful and
rich, and my father was agreeable to my marrying
any one of them. Of the three I chose Eulampia
because she was the most beautiful, and more
166 WALK IN THE LIGHT
attractive to me than the others. That is easily
understood. But what will guide you in your
choice?'
'To answer you,' said Pamphilius, 'I must first
tell you that as by our teaching all men are equal
in our Father's eyes, therefore they are also equal
in our eyes both in their station and in their
spiritual and bodily qualities, and consequently our
choice (to use a word we consider meaningless) can-
not in any way be limited. Anyone in the whole
world may be the husband or wife of a Christian.'
'That makes it still more impossible to decide '
said Julius.
'I will tell you what our Elder said to me about
the difference between the marriage of a Christian
and a pagan. A pagan, such as yourself, chooses the
wife who in his opinion will give him the greatest
amount of personal enjoyment. In such circum-
stances the eye wanders and it is difficult to decide,
especially as the enjoyment is to be in the future.
But a Christian has no such choice to make, or
rather, when choosing, his personal enjoyment oc-
cupies not the first but a secondary place. For a
Christian the question is how not to infringe the
will of God by his marriage.'
'But in what way can there be an infringement
of God's will by marriage?'
'I might have forgotten the Iliad which we used
to read and study together, but you who live among
sages and poets cannot have forgotten it. What is
the whole Iliad? It is a story of the infringement
of God's will in relation to marriage. Menelaus and
Paris and Helen; Achilles and Agamemnon and
Chryseis it is all a description of the terrible ills
that flowed and still flow from such infringements.'
'But in what does the infringement consist?'
'In this: that a man loves a woman for the enjoy-
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 167
ment he can get by connexion with her and not
because she is a human being like himself. He
marries her solely for his own enjoyment. Christian
marriage is possible only when a man loves his
fellow men, and when the object of his carnal love
is first of all an object of this brotherly love. As
a house can only be built rationally and durably
when there is a foundation, and a picture can be
painted only when something has been prepared on
which to paint it, so carnal love is only legitimate,
reasonable, and permanent when it is based on the
respect and love of one human being for another.
Only on that foundation can a reasonable Christian
family life be established.'
'But still,' said Julius, 'I do not see why such a
Christian marriage, as you call it, excludes the kind
of love for a woman that Paris experienced. . . .'
'I do not say that Christian marriage does not
admit of any exclusive feeling for one woman: on
the contrary, only then is it reasonable and holy.
But an exclusive love for one woman can arise only
when the previously existent love for all men is not
infringed.
'The exclusive love for one woman which the
poets sing, considering it as good in itself without
being based on the general love of man, has no
right to be called love. It is animal lust and very
often changes into hatred. The best examples of
how such so-called love (eros) becomes bestial when
it is not based on brotherly love for all men, are
cases of the violation of the very woman the man
is supposed to love, but who causes her to suffer
and ruins her. In such violence there is evidently
no brotherly love, for the man torments the one
he loves. In un-Christian marriage there is often
a concealed violence as when a man who marries
a girl who does not love him, or who loves another,
i68 WALK IN THE LIGHT
compels her to suffer, and has no compassion for
her, using her merely to satisfy his "love".'
'Granted that that is so,' said Julius, 'but if the
maiden loves him there is no injustice and I don't
see the difference between Christian and pagan
marriage.'
'I do not know the details of your marriage,'
replied Pamphilius, 'but I know that every mar-
riage based on nothing but personal happiness can-
not but result in discord, just as among animals, or
men differing little from animals, the simple act of
taking food cannot occur without quarrelling and
strife. Each wants a nice morsel, and as there are
not enough choice morsels for all, discord results.
Even if it is not expressed openly it is still there
secretly. The weak man desires a dainty morsel but
knows that the strong man will not give it to him,
and though he knows it is impossible to take it away
directly from the strong man, he watches him with
secret and envious malice and avails himself of the
first opportunity to take it from him by guile. The
same is true of pagan marriage, but there it is twice
as bad because the object of desire is a human
being, so that the enmity arises between husband
and wife.'
'But how can married couples possibly love no
one but each other? There will always be some
man or woman who loves the one or the other, and
then, in your opinion, marriage is impossible. So
I see the justice of what is said of you that you
deny marriage. That is why you are not married
and probably will not marry. It is not possible for
a man to marry a woman without ever having
aroused the feeling of love in some other woman,
or for a girl to reach maturity without having
aroused any man's feeling for herself. What ought
Helen to have done?'
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 169
'Our Elder Cyril speaks thus about it: In the
pagan world men, without thinking of loving their
brethren without cultivating that sentiment
think only of arousing in themselves passionate love
for a woman, and they foster that passion in them-
selves. And so in their world Helen, and every
woman like her, arouses the love of many men.
Rivals fight one another and strive to surpass one
another, as animals do to possess a female. And to
a greater or lesser extent their marriage is an act of
violence. In our community we not only do not
think about the personal enjoyment a woman's
beauty may afford, but we avoid all temptations
which lead to this which in the pagan world is
regarded as a merit and an object of worship. We,
on the contrary, think of those obligations of respect
and love of our neighbour which we feel for all men,
for the greatest beauty and the greatest deformity.
We cultivate them with all our might, and so the
feeling of brotherly love supplants the seduction of
beauty, vanquishes it, and eliminates the discords
arising from sexual intercourse. A Christian marries
only when he knows that his union with the woman
will not cause pain to anyone.'
'But is that possible?' rejoined Julius. 'Can men
control their passions?'
'It is impossible if they are allowed free play, but
we can prevent their awakening and being aroused.
Take, for example, the relations of a father and his
daughter, a mother and her son, or of brothers and
sisters. However beautiful she may be, the mother
is for her son an object of pure love and not of
personal enjoyment. And it is the same with a
daughter and her father, and a sister and her
brother. Feelings of desire are not awakened. They
would awaken only if the father learnt that she
whom he considered to be his daughter was not his
170 WALK IN THE LIGHT
daughter, and similarly in the relation of a mother
and son, and a brother and sister. But even then
the sensation would be very feeble and easily sup-
pressed, and it would be in the man's power to
restrain it. The feeling of desire would be feeble
because at its base would lie the sentiment of
maternal, paternal, or fraternal love. Why do you
not wish to believe that such a feeling towards all
women as mothers, sisters, and daughters may
be cultivated and confirmed in men, and that the
feeling of conjugal love could grow up on the basis
of that feeling? As the brother will only allow a
feeling of love for her as a woman to arise in himself
after he has learnt that she is not his sister, so also
a Christian will only allow that feeling to arise in
his soul when he feels that his love will cause pain
to no one.'
'But suppose two men love the same girl?'
'Then one will sacrifice his happiness for that of
the other.'
'But how if she loves one of them?'
'Then the one whom she loves less will sacrifice
his feeling for her happiness.'
'And if she loves both of them and they both
sacrifice themselves, she will not marry at all?'
'No, in that case the elders will look into the
matter and advise so that there may be the greatest
good for all with the greatest amount of love.'
'But you know that is not done! It is not done
because it would be contrary to human nature.'
'Contrary to human nature? What human
nature? A man is a human being besides being an
animal, and while it is true that such a relation
to a woman is not consonant with man's animal
nature, it is consonant with his rational nature.
When man uses his reason to serve his animal
nature he becomes worse than an animal, and
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 171
descends to violence and incest and to things no
animal would do. But when he uses his reason to
restrain his animal nature, then that animal nature
serves his reason, and only then does he attain a
happiness that satisfies him.'
'But tell me about yourself,' said Julius. 'I see
you with that lovely girl, it seems that you live near
her and help her. Is it possible that you do not
wish to become her husband?'
'I do not think about it,' said Pamphilius. 'She
is the daughter of a Christian widow. I serve them
as others do. You ask whether I love her so that
I wish to unite my life with hers? That question is
hard for me to answer, but I will do so frankly.
That thought has occurred to me but I dare not
as yet entertain it, for there is another young man
who loves her. That young man is a Christian and
loves us both, and so I cannot do anything that
would cause him pain. I live without thinking of
it. I seek only one thing: to fulfil the law of love
of man. That is the one thing needful. I shall
marry when I see that it is necessary.'
'But it cannot be a matter of indifference to her
mother to get a good industrious son-in-law. She
will want you and not someone else.'
'No, it is a matter of indifference to her, because
she knows that we are all ready to serve her, as we
would anyone else, and that I should serve her
neither more nor less whether I became her son-in-
law or not. If it comes about that I marry her
daughter, I shall accept it gladly, as I should do
her marriage with someone else.'
'That is impossible !' exclaimed Julius. 'What is
so terrible about you is that you deceive yourselves
and so deceive others. What that stranger told me
172 WALK IN THE LIGHT
about you was correct. When I listen to you I in-
voluntarily yield to the beauty of the life you
describe, but when I reflect I see that it is all a
deception leading to savagery, to a coarseness of life
resembling that of the animals.'
'In what do you see this savagery?'
'In this, that supporting yourselves by labour,
you can have neither leisure nor opportunity to
occupy yourselves with the sciences and arts. Here
you are in ragged garments, with coarsened hands
and feet; and your companion, who could be a god-
dess of beauty, resembles a slave. You have neither
songs to Apollo, nor temples, nor poetry, nor games
none of the things the gods have given for the
adornment of man's life. To work, to work like
slaves or like oxen, merely to feed coarsely is not
this a voluntary and impious renunciation of man's
will and of human nature?'
'Again "human nature"!' said Pamphilius. 'But
in what does this nature consist? In tormenting
slaves to work beyond their strength, in killing one's
brother-men and enslaving them, and making
women into instruments of pleasure? All this is
needed for that beauty of life which you consider
natural for human beings. Is that man's nature?
Or is it to live in love and concord with all men,
feeling oneself a member of one universal brother-
hood?
'You are much mistaken, too, if you think that
we do not recognize the arts and sciences. We value
highly all the capacities with which human nature
is endowed, but we regard all man's inherent capa-
cities as means for the attainment of one and the
same end, to which we consecrate our lives, namely
the fulfilment of God's will. We do not regard art
and science as an amusement, of use only to while
away the time of idle people. We demand of science
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 173
and art, as of all human occupations, that in them
should be realized that activity of love of God and
of our neighbours which should be the aim of all
Christian activities. We regard as true science only
such knowledge as helps us to live a better life, and
we esteem as art only what purifies our thoughts,
elevates our souls, and strengthens the powers we
need for a life of labour and love. Such knowledge
we do not fail to develop in ourselves and in our
children as far as we can, and to such art we will-
ingly devote our leisure time. We read and study
the works bequeathed to us by the wisdom of those
who lived before us. We sing songs and paint
pictures, and our poems and pictures brace our
spirit and console us in moments of grief. That is
why we cannot approve of the applications you
make of the arts and sciences. Your learned men
employ their mental capacities to devise new means
of injuring men. They perfect methods of warfare,
that is of murder. They contrive new methods of
gain, by getting rich at the expense of others. Your
art serves for the erection and adornment of temples
in honour of gods in whom the more educated
among you have long ceased to believe, but whom
you encourage others to believe in, in order by such
deception the better to keep them in your power.
You erect statues in honour of the most powerful
and cruel of your tyrants, whom none respect but
all fear. In your theatres performances are given
extolling guilty love. Music serves for the delecta-
tion of your rich, who glut themselves with food and
drink at their luxurious feasts. Painting is employed
in houses of debauchery to depict scenes such as no
sober man, or man not stupefied by animal passion,
could look at without blushing. No, not for such
ends have those higher capacities which distinguish
him from the animals been given to man. They
174 WALK IN THE LIGHT
must not be employed for bodily gratification. De-
voting our whole lives to the fulfilment of God's
will, we employ our highest faculties especially in
that service.'
'Yes,' said Julius. 'All that would be excellent if
life were possible under such conditions, but one
cannot live so. You deceive yourselves. You con-
demn our laws, our institutions, and our armies.
You do not recognize the protection we afford. If
it were not for the Roman legions could you live
at peace? You profit by the protection of the State
without acknowledging it. Some of your people, as
you told me yourself, have even defended them-
selves. You do not recognize the right of private
property, but you make use of it. Our people have
it and give to you. You yourself do not give away
your grapes, but sell them and buy other things.
It is all a deception ! If you did what you say that
would be all right, but as it is you deceive your-
selves and others !'
He spoke heatedly and said all that he had in his
mind. Pamphilius waited in silence, and when
Julius had finished, he said:
'You are wrong in thinking that we avail our-
selves of your protection without acknowledging it.
Our welfare consists in not requiring defence, and
this no one can take from us. Even if material
things which in your eyes constitute property pass
through our hands, we do not regard them as our
own, and we give them to anyone who needs them
for their sustenance. We sell the grapes to those
who wish to buy them, not for the sake of personal
gain, but solely to acquire necessities for those who
need them. If someone wished to take those grapes
from us we should give them up without resistance.
For the same reason we are not afraid of an incur-
sion of the barbarians. If they began to take from
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 175
us the product of our toil we should let them have
it, and if they demanded that we should work for
them, we should also do that gladly; and they
would not merely have no reason to kill or ill-treat
us, but it would conflict with their own interests to
do so. They would soon understand and learn to
love us, and we should have less to suffer from them
than from the civilized people who now surround
us and persecute us.
'You say that the things necessary for existence
can only be produced under a system of private
property. But consider who really produces the
necessaries of life. To whose labour do we owe all
these riches of which you are so proud? Were they
produced by those who issued orders to their slaves
and workmen without themselves moving a finger,
and who now possess all the property; or were they
produced by the poor slaves who carried out their
masters' orders for their daily bread, and who now
possess no property and have barely enough to sup-
ply their daily needs? And do you suppose that
these slaves, who expend all their strength in exe-
cuting orders often quite incomprehensible to them,
would not work for themselves and for those they
love and care for if they were allowed to do so
that is to say, if they might work for aims they
clearly understood and approved of?
'You accuse us of not completely achieving what
we strive for, and for taking advantage of violence
and property even while we do not recognize them.
If we are cheats, it is no use talking to us and we
are worthy neither of anger nor of exposure, but
only of contempt. And we willingly accept your
contempt, for one of our precepts is the recognition
of our insignificance. But if we sincerely strive to-
wards what we profess, then your accusation of
fraud is unjust. If we strive, as I and my brethren
I 7 6 WALK IN THE LIGHT
do, to fulfil our Master's law and to live without
violence and without private property which is
the result of violence we do so not for external
ends, riches or honours we account these as no-
thing but for something else. We seek happiness
just as you do, only we have a different conception
of what it is. You believe that happiness is to be
found in wealth and honours, but we believe it is
found in something else. Our belief shows us that
happiness lies not in violence, but in submissiveness;
not in wealth, but in giving everything up. And
we, like plants striving towards the light, cannot
help but press forward in the direction of our happi-
ness. We do not accomplish all that we desire for
our own welfare. That is true. But can it be other-
wise? You strive to have the most beautiful wife
and the largest fortune. But have you, or has any-
one else, ever attained them? If an archer does not
hit the mark will he cease to aim at it because he
often fails? So it is with us. Our happiness, accord-
ing to Christ's teaching, lies in love. We seek our
happiness, but attain it far from fully and each in
his own way.'
'Yes, but why do you disbelieve all human wis-
dom? Why have you turned away from it? Why
do you believe only in your crucified Master? Your
slavish submission to him that is what repels
me.'
'There again you are mistaken, and so is anyone
who thinks that we hold our faith because we were
bidden to do so by the man in whom we believe.
On the contrary, those who with their whole soul
seek a knowledge of the truth and communion with
the Father all those who seek for the good in-
voluntarily come to the path which Christ followed,
and so cannot but see him before them, and follow
Hm! All who love God will meet on that path,
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 177
and you will, too ! Our master is the son of God and
a mediator between God and men, not because
someone has said so and we blindly believe it, but
because all who seek God find His son before them
on the path, and involuntarily come to understand,
to see, and to know God, only through him.'
Julius did not reply, and they sat in silence for
a long time.
'Are you happy?' he asked.
'I wish for nothing better. More than that, I
generally experience a feeling of perplexity and am
conscious of a kind of injustice that I am so tre-
mendously happy,' said Pamphilius with a smile.
'Yes,' said Julius, 'perhaps I should be happier
if I had not met that stranger and had come to you.'
'If you think so, what keeps you back?'
'How about my wife?'
'You say that she is inclined towards Christianity
so she might come with you.'
'Yes, but we have already begun a different kind
of life. How can we break it up? As it has been
begun we must live it out,' said Julius, picturing to
himself the dissatisfaction of his father, his mother,
his friends, and above all the effort that would have
to be made to effect the change.
Just then the maiden, Pamphilius's companion,
came to the door accompanied by a young man.
Pamphilius went out to them, and in Julius's pre-
sence the young man explained that he had been
sent by Cyril to buy some hides. The grapes were
already sold and some wheat purchased. Pam-
philius proposed that the young man should go with
Magdalene and take the wheat home, while he
would himself buy and bring home the hides. 'It
will be better for you,' he said.
'No, Magdalene had better go with you,' said the
young man, and went away.
178 WALK IN THE LIGHT
Julius took Pamphilius into the shop of a trades-
man he knew, and Pamphilius poured the wheat
into bags, and having given Magdalene a small
share to carry, took up his own heavy load, bid
farewell to Julius, and left the town with the
maiden. At the turning of the street he looked
round and nodded to Julius with a smile. Then,
with a still more joyous smile, he said something to
Magdalene and they disappeared from view.
'Yes, I should have done better had I then gone
to them,' thought Julius. And in his imagination
two pictures alternated: the kindly bright faces of
the lusty Pamphilius and the tall strong maiden as
they carried the baskets on their heads; and then
the domestic hearth from which he had come that
morning and to which he must soon return, where his
beautiful, but pampered and wearisome wife, who
had become repulsive to him, would be lying on rugs
and cushions, wearing bracelets and rich attire.
But Julius had no time to think of this. Some
merchant companions of his came up to him, and
they began their usual occupations, finishing up
with dinner and drinking, and spending the night
with women.
VI
Ten years passed. Julius had not met Pam-
philius again, and the meeting with him had slowly
passed from his memory, and the impression of him
and of the Christian life wore off.
Julius's life ran its usual course. During these ten
years his father had died and he had taken over the
management of his whole business, which was a
complicated one. There were the regular cus-
tomers, salesmen in Africa, clerks, and debts to be
collected and paid. Julius found himself involun-
tarily absorbed in it all and gave his whole time to
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 179
it. Besides this, new cares presented themselves.
He was elected to a public office, and this new occu-
pation, which flattered his vanity, attracted him.
In addition to his business affairs he now attended
to public matters also, and being capable and a
good speaker he began to distinguish himself among
his fellows, and appeared likely to reach high public
office. In his family life a considerable and un-
pleasant change had occurred during these ten
years. Three children had been born to him, and
this had separated him from his wife. In the first
place she had lost much of her beauty and fresh-
ness, and in the second place she paid less attention
to her husband. All her tenderness and endear-
ments were devoted to her children. Though ac-
cording to the pagan custom the children were
handed over to wet-nurses and attendants, Julius
often found them with their mother, or found her
with them instead of in her own apartments. For
the most part Julius found the children a burden,
affording him more annoyance than pleasure.
Occupied with business and public affairs he had
abandoned his former dissipated life, but considered
that he needed some refined recreation after his
labours. This, however, he did not find with his
wife, the more so as during this time she had culti-
vated an acquaintance with her Christian slave-
girl, had become more and more attracted by the
new teaching, and had discarded from her life all
the external, pagan things that had attracted Julius.
Not finding what he wanted in his wife, Julius
formed an intimacy with a woman of light con-
duct, and passed with her the leisure that remained
after his business.
Had he been asked whether he was happy or
unhappy during those years he would have been
unable to answer.
i8o WALK IN THE LIGHT
He was so busy ! From one affair or pleasure he
passed to another affair or pleasure, but not one of
them was such as fully to satisfy him or make him
wish it to continue. Everything he did was of such
a nature that the quicker he could free himself
from it the better he was pleased, and his pleasures
were all poisoned in some way, or the tedium of
satiety mingled with them.
In this way he was living when something hap-
pened that came near to altering his whole manner
of life. He took part in the races at the Olympic
Games, and was driving his chariot successfully
to the end of the course when he suddenly col-
lided with another which was overtaking him. His
wheel broke, and he was thrown out and broke
his arm and two ribs. His injuries were serious,
though they did not endanger his life, and he was
taken home and had to keep to his bed for three
months.
During these three months of severe physical suf-
fering his mind worked, and he had leisure to think
about his life as if it were someone else's. And his
life presented itself to him in a gloomy light, the
more so as during that time three unpleasant events
occurred which much distressed him.
The first was that a slave, who had been his
father's trusted servant, decamped with some
precious jewels he had received in Africa, thus
causing a heavy loss and a disorganization of
Julius's affairs.
The second was that his mistress deserted him and
found herself another protector.
The third and most unpleasant event for him,
was that during his illness there was an election,
and his opponent secured the position he had hoped
to obtain.
All this, it seemed to Julius, came about because
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 181
his chariot-wheel had swerved a finger-breadth to
the left.
Lying alone on his couch he began involuntarily
to reflect on the fact that his happiness depended
on such insignificant happenings, and these thoughts
led him on to others, and to the recollection of his
former misfortunes of his attempt to go to the
Christians, and of Pamphilius, whom he had now
not seen for ten years. These recollections were
strengthened by conversations with his wife, who
was often with him during his illness and told him
everything she had learnt about Christianity from
her slave-girl.
This slave-girl had at one time been in the same
community with Pamphilius, and knew him. Julius
wished to see her, and when she came to his couch
questioned her about everything in detail, and
especially about Pamphilius.
Pamphilius, the slave-girl said, was one of the
best of the brethren, and was loved and esteemed
by them all. He had married that same Magdalene
whom Julius had seen ten years ago, and they
already had several children.
'Yes, any man who does not believe that God has
created men for happiness should go to see their
life,' concluded the slave-girl.
Julius let the slave-girl go, and remained alone,
thinking of what he had heard. It made him
envious to compare Pamphilius's life with his own,
and he did not wish to think about it.
To distract himself he took up a Greek manu-
script which his wife had left by his couch, and
began to read as follows: 1
1 The following text reproduces, in substance, the first part
of The Teaching of the Twelve Apostles (The Didache), a very
early Christian manuscript discovered at Constantinople in
*875 which greatly interested Tolst6y. A. M.
1 82 WALK IN THE LIGHT
'There are two ways: one of life and the other of
death. The way of life is this: First, thou shalt love
God who has created thee, secondly, thou shalt
love thy neighbour as thyself; and thou shalt do
to no one what thou wouldst not have him do to
thee.
'Now this is the meaning of these words: Bless
them that curse you, pray for your enemies and for
those that persecute you. For what merit have you
if you love only those who love you? Do not the
heathen so? Love them that hate you, and you shall
have no enemies. Put away from you all carnal
and worldly desires. If a man smites you on the
right cheek, turn to him the other also, and you
shall be perfect. If a man compelleth thee to walk
a mile with him, go with him two. If he taketh
what belongeth to thee, demand it not again, for
this thou shalt not do; if he taketh thy outer gar-
ment, give him thy shirt also. Give to everyone
that asketh of thee, and demand nothing back, for
the Father wishes that His abundant gifts should
be received by all. Blessed is he who giveth accord-
ing to the commandment!
'The second commandment of the teaching is
this: Do not kill, do not commit adultery, do not
be wanton, do not steal, do not employ sorcery, do
not poison, do not covet thy neighbour's goods.
Take no oath, do not bear false witness, speak no
evil, do not remember injuries. Shun duplicity
in thy thoughts and be not double-tongued. Let
not thy words be false nor empty, but in accord
with thy deeds. Be not covetous, nor rapacious, nor
hypocritical, nor ill-tempered, nor proud. Have
no evil intention against thy neighbour. Cherish
no hatred of any man, but rebuke some, pray
for others, and love some more than thine own
soul.
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 183
'My child! Shun evil and all appearance of
evil. Be not angry, for anger leadeth to murder.
Be not jealous, nor quarrelsome, nor passionate, for
of all these things cometh murder.
'My child ! Be not lustful, for lust leadeth to wan-
tonness, and be not foul-mouthed, for of this
cometh adultery.
'My child! Be not untruthful, for lying leadeth
to theft; neither be fond of money, nor vain, for
of all these cometh theft also.
'My child! Do not repine, for that leadeth to
blasphemy; neither be arrogant, nor a thinker of
evil, for of all these things cometh blasphemy also.
Be humble, for the meek shall inherit the earth.
Be long-suffering, merciful, forgiving, humble, and
kind, and take heed of the words that ye hear. Do
not exalt thyself, and yield not thy soul to arro-
gance nor let thy soul cleave to the proud, but have
converse with the humble and just. Accept as a
blessing all that befalleth thee, knowing that
nothing happens without God's will. . . .
'My child ! Do not sow dissensions, but reconcile
those that are at strife. Stretch not out thy hand to
receive, nor hold it back from giving. Be not slow
in giving, nor repine when giving, for thou shalt
know the good Giver of rewards. Turn not away
from the needy, but in everything have communion
with thy brother, and call not anything thy own,
for if ye are partakers in that which is incorruptible,
how much more so in that which is corruptible.
Teach thy children the fear of God from their
youth. Deal not with thy slave in anger, lest he
cease to fear God who is above you both, for He is
no respecter of persons but calleth those whom the
Spirit hath prepared.
'But this is the way of death: First of all it is
wrathful and full of curses; here are murder,
184 WALK IN THE LIGHT
adultery, lust, wantonness, theft, idolatry, sorcery,
poisoning, plundering, false witness, hypocrisy,
deceitfulness, insidiousness, pride, malice, arro-
gance, avarice, obscenity, envy, insolence, presump-
tion, and vanity. Here are the persecutors of the
righteous, haters of the truth, lovers of falsehood,
who do not acknowledge the reward for righteous-
ness nor cleave to what is good or to righteous
judgements, who are vigilant not for what is good
but for evil, from whom meekness and patience are
far removed. Here are those that love vanity, who
follow after rewards, who have no pity for their
neighbours and do not labour for the oppressed or
know their Creator. Here are the murderers of
children, destroyers of God's image, who turn
away from the needy. Here are the oppressors
of the oppressed, defenders of the rich, unjust
judges of the poor, sinners in all things. Beware,
children, of all these I'
Long before he had read the manuscript to the
end, Julius had entered with his whole soul into
communion with those who had inspired it as
often happens to men who read a book (that is,
another person's thoughts) with a sincere desire to
discern the truth. He read on, guessing in advance
what was coming, and not only agreed with the
thoughts expressed in the book but seemed to be
expressing them himself.
He experienced that ordinary, but mysterious
and significant phenomenon, unnoticed by many
people: of a man, supposed to be alive, becoming
really alive on entering into communion with those
accounted dead, and uniting and living one life
with them.
Julius's soul united with him who had written
and inspired those thoughts, and in the light of this
communion he contemplated himself and his life.
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 185
And it appeared to him to be all a terrible mistake.
He had not lived, but had only destroyed in him-
self the possibility of living by all the cares and
temptations of life.
'I do not wish to ruin my life. I want to live and
to follow the path of life!' he said to himself.
He remembered all that Pamphilius had said to
him in their former conversations, and it all now
seemed so clear and unquestionable that he was
surprised that he could have listened to the stranger
and not have held to his intention of going to the
Christians. He remembered also that the stranger
had said to him: 'Go when you have had experience
of life!'
'I have now had experience of life, and have
found nothing in it!' thought Julius.
He also recalled the words of Pamphilius: that
whenever he might go to the Christians, they would
be glad to receive him.
'No, I have erred and suffered enough!' he said
to himself. 'I will give up everything and go to
them and live as it says here!'
He told his wife of his plan, and she was delighted
with it. She was ready for everything. The only
difficulty was to decide how to put the plan into
execution. What was to be done with the children?
Were they to be taken with them or left with their
grandmother? How could they be taken? How,
after the delicacy of their upbringing, could they
be subjected to all the difficulties of a rough life?
The slave-girl proposed to go with them, but the
mother was afraid for the children, and said that
it would be better to leave them with their grand-
mother and to go alone. And to this they agreed.
All was decided. Only Julius's illness delayed the
execution of their plans.
1 86 WALK IN THE LIGHT
VII
In that state of mind Julius fell asleep. In the
morning he was told that a skilful physician was
visiting the town and wished to see him, promising
him speedy relief. Julius willingly consented to see
him, and the physician proved to be none other
than the stranger whom he had met when he
started to join the Christians. Having examined
his injuries the physician prescribed certain potions
of herbs to strengthen him.
'Shall I be able to work with my hands?' in-
quired Julius.
'Oh yes ! You will be able to write and to drive
a chariot.'
'But hard work digging?'
'I was not thinking of that,' said the physician,
'because it cannot be necessary for a man in your
position.'
'On the contrary, it is just what is wanted,' said
Julius, and he told the physician that since he had
last seen him he had followed his advice and had
experienced life; and that life had not given him
what it promised, but on the contrary had dis-
illusioned him, and' that he now wished to carry
out the intention he had then spoken of.
'They have evidently employed all their decep-
tions and have enchanted you so that in spite of
your position and the responsibilities that rest upon
you especially in regard to your children you
still do not see their error.'
'Read that!' was all Julius said in reply, handing
him the manuscript he had been reading.
The physician took the manuscript and looked at it.
'I know this,' he said. 'I know this deception,
and am surprised that such a man as you should be
caught by such a snare.'
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 187
'I don't understand you. Where is the snare?'
'It is all tested by life! These sophists and rebels
against men and gods propose a way of life in which
all men will be happy, and there will be no wars
or executions, no poverty or depravity, no strife or
anger. And they insist that this condition will come
about when all men fulfil the law of Christnot to
quarrel, nor yield to lust, nor take oaths, nor do
violence, nor take arms against another nation.
But they deceive themselves and others by taking
the end for the means.
'Their aim is not to quarrel, not to bind them-
selves by oaths, not to be wanton, and so forth, and
this aim can only be attained by means of public
life. But what they say is as if a teacher of archery
should say: "You will hit the target when your
arrow flies to it in a straight line." The problem
is how to make it fly straight. And that result is
attained in archery by having a taut bow-string, a
flexible bow, and a straight arrow. It is the same
in life. The best life, in which men have no need to
quarrel, to be wanton, or to commit murder, is
attained by having a taut bow-string (the rulers),
a flexible bow (the power of government), and a
straight arrow (the justice of the law). But they,
under pretext of living a better life, destroy all that
has improved or does improve it. They recognize
neither government, nor the authorities, nor the
laws.'
'But they say that if men fulfil the law of Christ,
life will be better without rulers, authorities, and
laws.'
'Yes, but what guarantee is there that men will
fulfil it? None! They say: "You have experienced
life under rulers and laws, and life has not been
perfected. Try it now without rulers and laws and
it will become perfect. You cannot deny this, for
1 88 WALK IN THE LIGHT
you have not tried it." But this is the obvious
sophistry of these impious people. In saying that,
is it not in effect as though a man should say to a
farmer: "You sow your seed in the ground and
cover it up, and yet the harvest is not what you
would wish. I advise you to sow in the sea. It will
be better like that and you cannot deny my pro-
position, for you have not tried it"?'
'Yes, that is true,' said Julius, who was beginning
to waver.
'But that is not all,' continued the physician.
'Let us assume the absurd and impossible. Let us
assume that the principles of the Christian teaching
can be poured into men like medicine, and that
suddenly all men will begin to fulfil Christ's teach-
ing, to love God and their fellows, and to fulfil his
commandments. Even assuming all that, the path
of life inculcated by them would still not stand
examination. Life would come to an end and the
race would die out. Their Teacher was a young
vagabond, and such will his followers be, and ac-
cording to our supposition such would the whole
world become if it followed his teaching. Those
living would last their time, but their children
would not survive, or hardly one in ten would do so.
According to their teaching all children should be
alike to every mother and to every father, whether
they are their own children or not. How will these
children be looked after, when we see that all the
devotion and all the love implanted in mothers
hardly preserves their own children from perishing?
What will happen when this devotion is replaced
by a compassion shared by all children alike?
Which child is to be taken and preserved? Who
will sit up at night with a sick and malodorous
child except its own mother? Nature has provided
a protection for the child in its mother's love, but
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 189
the Christians want to deprive it of that protection,
and offer nothing in exchange! Who will train a
son, who will penetrate into his soul like his father?
Who will defend him from dangers? All this they
reject! All life that is, the continuation of the
human race is made away with.'
'That also is true,' said Julius, carried away by
the physician's eloquence.
'Yes, my friend, have nothing to do with these
ravings. Live rationally, especially now that you
have such great and serious and pressing responsi-
bilities. It is a matter of honour for you to fulfil
them. You have reached the second period of your
doubts, but go on and your doubts will vanish.
Your first and evident duty is the education of your
children, which you have neglected. You must
train them to be worthy servants of their country.
The existing political structure has given you every-
thing you have, and you must serve it yourself and
give it worthy servants in the persons of your
children, on whom you will thereby also confer a
benefit. Another obligation you have is the service
of the community. You are mortified and dis-
couraged by your accidental and temporary failure.
But nothing is achieved without effort and struggle,
and the joy of triumph is great only when the vic-
tory has been hardly won. Leave it to your wife
to amuse herself with the babble of the Christian
writers. You should be a man, and bring up your
children to be men. Begin to live with the con-
sciousness of duty, and all your doubts will fall away
of themselves. They were caused by your illness.
Fulfil your duty to the State by serving it and by
preparing your children for its service. Set them
on their feet, so that they may be able to take your
place, and then peacefully abandon yourself to the
life which attracts you. Till then you have no right
igo WALK IN THE LIGHT
to do so, and were you to do so you would encounter
nothing but suffering.'
VIII
Whether it was the effect of the medicinal herbs
or the advice given him by the wise physician,
Julius speedily recovered, and his plans of adopting
a Christian life now appeared to him like ravings.
After staying a few days the physician left the
city. Soon afterwards Julius left his sick bed and
began a new life in accord with the advice he had
received. He engaged teachers for his children and
supervised their studies himself. He spent his own
time on public affairs and soon acquired great in-
fluence in the city.
So a year passed, and during that time Julius did
not even think about the Christians. But at the end
of the year a legate from the Roman Emperor ar-
rived in Cilicia to suppress the Christian movement,
and a trial was arranged to take place in Tarsus.
Julius heard of the measures that were being under-
taken against the Christians, but he paid no atten-
tion to them, not thinking that they related to the
commune in which Pamphilius was living. But one
day as he was walking in the forum to attend to his
duties, a poorly dressed elderly man approached
him whom he did not at first recognize. It was
Pamphilius. He came up to Julius leading a child
by the hand, and said:
* Greetings, friend! I have a great favour to ask
of you, but now that the Christians are being per-
secuted I do not know whether you will wish to
acknowledge me as your friend, or whether you
will not be afraid of losing your post if you have
anything to do with me.'
'I am not afraid of anyone,' replied Julius, 'and
as a proof of it I ask you to come with me to my
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 191
house. I will even neglect my business in the forum
to have a talk with you and help you. Come with
me. Whose child is that?'
'He is my son.'
'I need not have asked. I recognize your features
in him, and I also recognize those light-blue eyes,
and need not ask who your wife is. She is the lovely
girl I saw you with several years ago.'
'You have guessed right,' replied Pamphilius.
'She became my wife soon after you saw us.'
On reaching the house, Julius called his wife and
handed the boy over to her, and then led Pam-
philius to his luxurious private room.
'You can speak freely here,' he said. 'No one will
hear us.'
'I am not afraid of being heard,' replied Pam-
philius. 'My request is not that the Christians who
have been arrested should not be judged and exe-
cuted, but only that they should be allowed to
announce their faith in public.'
And Pamphilius told how the Christians who had
been seized by the authorities had succeeded in
sending word from their prison to the community
telling of their condition. Cyril the Elder, knowing
of Pamphilius's relations with Julius, had sent him
to intercede for the Christians. They did not ask
for mercy. They looked upon it as their vocation
to testify to the truth of Christ's teaching, and they
could do this equally well by suffering martyrdom as
by a life of eighty years. They would accept either
fate with equal indifference, and physical death,
which must inevitably overtake them, was as wel-
come and void of terror now as it would be fifty
years hence. But they wished by their death to
serve their fellow-men, and therefore Pamphilius
had been sent to ask that their trial and execution
should be public.
1 92 WALK IN THE LIGHT
Julius was surprised at Pamphilius's request, but
promised to do all in his power to aid him.
'I have promised to help you,' he said, 'out of
friendship, and because of the particular feeling of
tenderness you have always aroused in me, but I
must say that I consider your teaching most sense-
less and harmful. I can judge of this because some
time ago, when I was ill, disappointed, and low-
spirited, I myself once again shared your views and
came very near to abandoning everything and
joining your community. I know now on what
your error is based, for I have myself experienced
it. It is based on love of self, weakness of spirit,
and sickly enervation. It is a creed for women, not
for men.'
'But why?'
'Because, while you recognize the fact that dis-
cord lies in man's nature and that strife results
therefrom, you do not wish to take part in that strife
or to teach others to do so; and without taking your
share of the burden you avail yourselves of the
organization of the world, which is based on vio-
lence. Is that fair? Our world owes its existence
to the fact that there have always been rulers.
Those rulers took on themselves the trouble and all
the responsibility of defending us from foreign and
domestic foes, and in return for that we subjects
submitted to them and rendered them honour, or
helped them by serving the State. But you, out of
pride, instead of taking your part in the affairs of
the State and rising higher and higher in men's
regard by your labours and to the extent of your
deserts you in your pride at once declare all men
to be equal, in order that you may consider no one
higher than yourself, but may reckon yourself equal
to Caesar. That is what you yourself think and
teach others to think. And for weak and idle people
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 193
that is a great temptation ! Every slave, instead of
labouring, at once considers himself Caesar's equal.
But you do more than this: you deny taxes, and
slavery, and the courts, and executions, and war
everything that holds people together. If people
listened to you, society would fall to pieces and we
should return to primitive savagery.
'Living under a government you preach the de-
struction of government. But your very existence
is dependent on that government. Without it you
would not exist. You would all be slaves of the
Scythians or the barbarians the first people who
happened to hear of your existence. You are like
a tumour which destroys the body but can only
nourish itself on the body. And a living body
resists that tumour and overcomes it! We do the
same with you, and cannot but do so. And in
spite of my promise to help you obtain your wish,
I look upon your teaching as most harmful and
despicable: despicable because I consider it dis-
honourable and unjust to gnaw the breast that
feeds you to avail yourselves of the advantages
of governmental order, and to destroy that order
by which the State is maintained, without taking
part in it!'
'If we really lived as you suppose there would be
much justice in what you say,' replied Pamphilius.
'But you do not know our life, and have formed a
false conception of it. The means of subsistence
which we employ are obtainable without the aid
of violence. It is difficult for you, with your
luxurious habits, to realize on how little a man can
live without privation. A healthy man is so con-
stituted that he can produce with his hands far
more than he needs for his subsistence. Living
together in a community we are able by our com-
mon work to feed without difficulty our children,
432 H
194 WALK IN THE LIGHT
our old people, and the sick and weak. You say of
the rulers that they protect people from external
and internal enemies but we love our enemies,
and so we have none. You assert that we Christians
stir up in the slave a desire to be Caesar, but on the
contrary, both by word and deed we profess one
thing: patient humility and labour, the humblest of
labour, that of a working man. We neither know
nor understand anything about political matters.
We only know one thing, and we know that with
certainty, that our welfare lies solely in the good of
others, and we seek that welfare. The welfare of all
men lies in their union with one another, and union
is attained not by violence but by love. The vio-
lence of a brigand inflicted on a traveller is as
atrocious to us as the violence of an army to its
prisoners, or of a judge to those who are executed,
and we cannot intentionally participate in the one
or the other. Nor can we profit by the labour of
others enforced by violence. Violence is reflected
on us, but our participation in violence consists
not in inflicting it but in submissively enduring its
infliction on ourselves.'
'Yes,' said Julius, 'you preach about love, but
when one looks at the results it turns out to be
quite another thing. It leads to barbarism and a
reversion to savagery, murder, robbery, and vio-
lence, which according to your doctrine must not
be repressed in any way.'
'No, that is not so,' said Pamphilius, 'and if you
really examine the results of our teaching and of
our lives carefully and impartially, you will see that
not only do they not lead to murder, robbery, and
violence, but on the contrary those crimes can only
be opposed by the means we practice. Murder,
robbery, and all evils, existed long before Chris-
tianity, and men have always contended with
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 195
them, but unsuccessfully, because they employed
means that we deplore, meeting violence by
violence; and this never checks crime, but on
the contrary provokes it by sowing hatred and
exasperation.
'Look at the mighty Roman Empire. Nowhere
else is such trouble taken about the laws as in Rome.
Studying and perfecting the laws constitutes a
special science. The laws are taught in the schools,
discussed in the Senate, and reformed and ad-
ministered by the most educated citizens. Legal
justice is considered the highest virtue, and the
office of Judge is held in peculiar respect. Yet in
spite of this it is known that there is now no city
in the world so steeped in crime and corruption as
Rome. Remember Roman history: in olden times
when the laws were very primitive the Roman
people possessed many virtues, but in our days,
despite the elaboration and administration of law,
the morals of the citizens are becoming worse and
worse. The number of crimes constantly increases,
and they become more varied and more elaborate
every day.
'Nor can it be otherwise. Crime and evil can be
successfully opposed only by the Christian method
of love, and not by the heathen methods of revenge,
punishment, and violence. I am sure you would
like men to abstain from evil voluntarily and not
from fear of punishment. You would not wish men
to be like prisoners who only refrain from crime
because they are watched by their gaolers. But no
laws or restrictions or punishments make men
averse to doing evil or desirous of doing good. That
can only be attained by destroying evil at its root,
which is in the heart of man. That is what we aim
at, while you only try to repress the outward mani-
festations of evil. You do not look for its source
196 WALK IN THE LIGHT
and do not know where it is, and so you can never
find it.
'The commonest crimes murder, robbery, and
fraud are the result of men's desire to increase
their possessions, or even to obtain the necessaries
of life which they have been unable to procure in
any other way. Some of these crimes are punished
by the law, but the most important and far-reach-
ing in their consequences are perpetrated under the
wing of the law, as, for instance, the huge com-
mercial frauds and the innumerable ways in which
the rich rob the poor. Those crimes which are
punished by law may indeed to a certain extent
be repressed or rendered more difficult of execu-
tion and the criminals for fear of punishment
become more prudent and cunning and invent new
forms of crime which the law does not punish. But
by leading a Christian life a man preserves himself
from all these crimes, which result on the one hand
from the struggle for money and possessions, and on
the other from the unequal concentration of riches
in the hands of the few. Our one way of checking
theft and murder is to keep for ourselves only as
much as is indispensable for life, and to give to
others all the superfluous products of our toil. We
Christians do not lead men into temptation by the
sight of accumulated wealth, for we rarely possess
more than enough for our daily bread. A hungry
man, driven to despair and ready to commit a
crime for a piece of bread, if he comes to us will find
all he wants without committing any crime, be-
cause that is what we live for to share all we have
with those who are cold and hungry. And the result
is that one sort of evil-doer avoids us, while others
turn to us, give up their criminal life, and are saved,
and gradually become workers labouring for the
good of all.
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 197
'Other crimes are prompted by the passions of
jealousy, revenge, carnal love, anger and hatred.
Such crimes cannot be suppressed by law. A man
who commits them is in a brutal state of unbridled
passion; he is incapable of reflecting on the con-
sequences of his actions, opposition only exasperates
him, and so the law is powerless to restrain these
crimes. We however believe that man can find
satisfaction and the meaning of life only in the
spirit, and that as long as he serves his passions he
can never find happiness. We curb our passions by
a life of love and labour, and develop in ourselves
the power of the spirit, and the more deeply and
widely our faith spreads the rarer will crime in-
evitably become.
'A third class of crime,' Pamphilius continued,
'arises from the desire to help men. Some men
revolutionary conspirators are anxious to alle-
viate the people's lot, and kill tyrants, imagining
that they are thereby doing good to the majority
of the people. The origin of such crimes is the
belief that one can do good by committing evil.
Such crimes, prompted by an idea, are not crushed
out by legal punishments: on the contrary they
are inflamed and evoked by them. In spite of their
errors the men who commit them do so from a
noble motive a desire to serve mankind. They
are sincere, they readily sacrifice themselves and do
not shrink from danger. And so the fear of punish-
ment does not stop them. On the contrary, danger
stimulates them, and sufferirgs and executions exalt
them to the dignity of heroes, gain sympathy for
them, and incite others to follow their example.
We see this in the history of all nations. But we
Christians believe that evil will only pass away
when men understand the misery that results from
it both for themselves and for others. We know
198 WALK IN THE LIGHT
that brotherhood can only be attained when we are
all brothers that brotherhood without brothers is
impossible.
'And though we see the errors of the revolution-
ary conspirators, yet we appreciate their sincerity
and unselfishness, and are attracted by the good
that is in them.
'Which of us then is more successful in the struggle
with crime and does more to suppress evil we
Christians, who prove by our life the happiness of
a spiritual existence from which no evil results and
whose means of influence are example and love; or
you, whose rulers and judges pass sentences in ac-
cord with the dead letter of the law, ruin their
victims, and drive them to the last extremity of
exasperation?'
'When one listens to you,' said Julius, c one almost
begins to think that you may be right. But tell me,
Pamphilius, why are people hostile to you? Why
do they persecute you, hunt you down, and kill you?
Why does your teaching of love lead to discord?'
'The reason of that lies not in us but outside us.
Till now I have been speaking of crimes which are
regarded as such both by the State and by us.
These crimes constitute a form of violence which
infringes the temporary laws of any State. But
besides these there are other laws implanted in man
laws that are eternal, common to all men, and
written in their hearts. We Christians obey these
Divine, universal laws, and find their fullest, clear-
est, and most perfect realization in the words and
life of our Master, and we regard as a crime any
violence that transgresses the commands of Christ,
because they express God's law. We consider that
to avoid discord we must also obey the State laws
of the country we live in, but we regard the law of
God, which governs our conscience and reason, as
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 199
supreme, and we can only obey those human laws
which do not conflict with the Divine Law. ' 'Render
unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and unto
God the things that are God's." Our struggle
against crime is therefore both deeper and wider
than the State's, for while we avoid transgressing
the laws of the particular country we happen to live
in, we seek above all not to infringe the will of God
the law common to all human nature. And
because we regard the law of God as the highest
law, men hate and fear us, for they consider some
particular laws as supreme the legislation of their
own country, for instance, or even very often some
custom of their own class. They are incapable of
becoming, or unwilling to become, real human
beings, in the sense of Christ's saying that "The
truth shall make you free". They are content with
their position as subjects of this or that State or as
members of society, and so they naturally feel
enmity towards those who see and proclaim the
higher destiny of man. Incapable of understanding,
or unwilling to understand, this higher destiny for
themselves, they are unwilling to admit it for others.
It was of such that Christ said: "Woe unto you,
Pharisees! for ye take away the key of knowledge:
ye enter not in yourselves, and them that are enter-
ing in ye hinder." They are the authors of those
persecutions which raise doubts in your mind.
'We have no enmity towards any man, not even
towards those who persecute us, and our life brings
harm and injury to no one. If men are irritated
against us and even hate us, the reason can only
be that our life is a thorn in their side, a constant
condemnation of their own life which is founded
on violence. We are unable to prevent this enmity
against us, which does not proceed from us, for we
cannot forget the truth we have understood, and
aoo WALK IN THE LIGHT
cannot begin to live contrary to our conscience and
our reason. Of this hostility which our belief pro-
vokes against us in others our Teacher said: "Think
not that I come to bring peace upon earth. I come
not to bring peece, but a sword!" Christ himself
experienced this hostility, and he warned us, his
pupils, of it more than once. He said: "The world
hateth me, because its deeds are evil. If ye were of
the world, the world would love you, but because
ye are not of the world and I have delivered you
from the world, therefore the world hateth you.
The time cometh that whosoever killeth you will
think that he doeth God service."
'But we, like Christ, fear not them that kill the
body and then can do nothing more to us. Suffer-
ings and the death of the flesh will not pass any man
by, but we live in the light and therefore our life
does not depend on the body. It is not we who
suffer from the attacks upon us, but our persecutors
and enemies, who suffer from the feeling of enmity
and hatred they nurse like a serpent in their
breasts. "And this is the condemnation, that light
is come into the world, and men loved darkness
rather than light, because their deeds were evil."
There is no need to be disconcerted about this,
for the truth will prevail. The sheep hear the voice
of the shepherd and follow him, because they know
his voice. And Christ's flock will not perish, but
increase, drawing new sheep to itself from all the
countries of the earth, for the Spirit bloweth where
it Usteth, and thou hearest the sound thereof but
canst not tell whence it cometh nor whither it
goeth.'
'Yes/ Julius interrupted him, 'but are there many
among you who are sincere? You are often accused
of only pretending to be martyrs and glad to die for
the truth, but the truth is not on your side. You are
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 201
proud madmen, destroying all the foundations of
social life!'
Pamphilius made no reply, and looked sorrow-
fully at Julius.
IX
Just then Pamphilius's little son ran into the room
and pressed close to his father's side.
Despite the caresses Julius's wife had bestowed
upon him, he had run away from her to find his
father. Pamphilius sighed, caressed the child, and
got up to go, but Julius detained him, asking him
to stay to dinner and have a further talk.
'It surprises me,' he said, 'to see that you are
married and have children. I cannot understand
how you Christians can bring up a family while
having no property. How can the mothers among
you live at peace, knowing that their children are
not provided for?'
'Why are our children less provided for than yours ?'
'Because you have neither slaves nor property.
My wife is much inclined to Christianity. She even
at one time wished to give up our way of life, and
I intended to go away with her. But she feared
the insecurity and poverty she foresaw for the
children, and I could not but agree with her. That
was at the time of my illness. My whole way of life
was repulsive to me just then and I wished to aban-
don it. But my wife's fears, and the explanation
given me by the physician who was treating me,
convinced me that though a Christian life as you live
it may be right and possible for people who have
no family, it is impossible for family people, or for
mothers with children: that with your outlook life
itself the human race would cease to exist. And
it seems to me that that is quite correct. So your
appearance with a son greatly surprised me.'
202 WALK IN THE LIGHT
'Not only a son- there is also one at the breast
and a three-year-old girl, who have remained at
home.'
'But I don't understand it ! Not so long ago I was
ready to give up everything and become one of you.
But I had children, and it was clear to me that,
however good your life might be for myself, I had
no right to sacrifice my children. So for their sake
I remained here, living as before, that they might
be brought up in the conditions in which I myself
grew up and have lived.'
'It is strange how differently we look at things,'
said Pamphilius. 'We say that if adults live in the
worldly way it may be excused, for they are already
spoilt, but for children it is terrible. To bring them
up in worldly fashion and expose them to tempta-
tion! "Woe unto the world because of occasions
of stumbling; for it must needs be that the occa-
sions come; but woe to that man through whom
the occasion cometh!" So says our Teacher, and I
repeat it to you not as a retort, but because it is
really true. The chief necessity for us to live as we
do comes from the fact that there are children
among us; those children of whom it is said: "Ex-
cept ye become as little children ye shall not enter
the kingdom of heaven."'
'But how can a Christian family manage to live
without definite means of livelihood?'
'According to our belief there is only one means
that of loving work for men. Your method is
violence. But that method may fail and be de-
stroyed, as riches are destroyed, and then only work
and the love of men is left. We consider that love
is the basis of all, and should be firmly held to and
increased. And when that is so, families live and
prosper. No,' continued Pamphilius, 'if I doubted
the truth of Christ's teaching, or hesitated to fol-
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 203
low it, my doubts and hesitations would vanish
when I thought of the fate of children brought up
among the pagans in the conditions in which you
and your children have been and are being brought
up. Whatever arrangement of life some people
may make, with palaces, slaves, and the imported
produce of other lands, the life of the majority of
men will remain as it should be. And the security
for that life will always be the same brotherly love
and labour. We wish to exempt ourselves and our
children from these conditions, and make men work
for us by means of violence and not by love, and
strange to say the more we apparently secure our-
selves thereby, the more do we actually deprive
ourselves of the true, natural, and reliable security
that of love. The greater a ruler's power the less he
is loved. It is the same with the other security
labour. The more a man frees himself from labour
and accustoms himself to luxury, the less capable
of work he becomes and the more he deprives him-
self of true and reliable security. And yet when
people have placed their children in these condi-
tions they say they have "provided for them" ! Take
your son and mine and send the two of them to find
their way anywhere, to transmit instructions, or to
do some necessary thing, and you will see which of
the two will do it better. Or offer them for educa-
tion, and you will see which of the two would be
accepted the more readily. No ! Do not make that
terrible statement that a Christian life is only pos-
sible for the childless. On the contrary it might be
said that a pagan life may be pardonable only for
those who have no children. "But woe unto him
that shall cause one of these little ones to stumble." *
Julius was silent for some time.
'Yes,' he said at last. 'Perhaps you are right.
But my children's education has been begun, they
204 WALK IN THE LIGHT
have the best teachers. Let them learn all we know
there can be no harm in that. There is time
enough both for me and for them. They can come
to you when they are grown up if they find it
necessary. And I can do the same when I have set
them on their feet and am left free. 9
'Know the truth, and the truth shall make you
free,' said Pamphilius. 'Christ gives perfect freedom
at once: the world's teaching will never give it.
Farewell!' And Pamphilius called his son and
went away.
The Christians were condemned and executed
publicly, and Julius saw Pamphilius with other
Christians clearing away the bodies of the martyrs.
He saw him, but from fear of the higher authori-
ties did not approach him or invite him to his
house.
X
Another twenty years passed. Julius's wife died.
His life flowed on in public activity and in efforts
to obtain power, which sometimes seemed within
his reach and sometimes eluded him. His wealth
was great and continued to increase.
His sons had grown up; and the second, especially,
began to lead an extravagant life. He made holes
in the bottom of the bucket which held his father's
wealth, and in proportion as that wealth increased
so did the rapidity of the outflow through those
holes. And here began for Julius a conflict with
his sons such as he had had with his father anger,
hatred, and jealousy.
About this time a new Prefect was appointed and
deprived Julius of favour. His former flatterers
abandoned him, and he was in danger of banish-
ment. He went to Rome to explain matters but
was not received, and was ordered to return.
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 205
On reaching home he found his son carousing
with dissolute companions. A report had spread
in Cilicia that Julius was dead, and the son was
celebrating his father's death! Julius lost control
of himself and felled his son to the ground. He then
retired to his wife's rooms. There he found a copy
of the Gospels, and read:
'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy
laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon
you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in
heart; and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For
my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.'
'Yes,' thought Julius, 'he has long been calling
me. I did not believe him but was refractory and
wicked, and my yoke was heavy and my burden
grievous.'
He sat there for a long time with the open Gospel
on his knee, thinking over his whole past life and
remembering all that Pamphilius had said to him
at different times. At last he rose and went to his
son. To his surprise he found him on his feet, and
was inexpressibly glad to find that he had sustained
no injury.
Without saying a word to his son Julius went out
into the street and set off towards the Christian
settlement. He walked all day, and in the evening
stopped at a villager's for the night. In the room
which he entered lay a man, who got up at the
sound of footsteps. It was his acquaintance the
physician.
'No, this time you shall not dissuade me!' cried
Julius. 'This is the third time I have started to go
thither, and now I know that only there shall I find
peace of mind.'
'Where?' asked the physician.
'Among the Christians.'
'Yes, perhaps you may find peace of mind, but
ao6 WALK IN THE LIGHT
you will not have fulfilled your duty. You lack
manliness: misfortunes crush your spirit. Not so do
true philosophers behave ! Misfortunes are only the
fire in which gold is tried. You have passed through
a test. And now that you are wanted you run away !
Now is the time to try people and yourself. You
have acquired true wisdom and should employ it
for the good of your country. What would happen
to the people if all who have learnt to know men,
their passions, and the conditions of life, were to
bury their knowledge and experience in their search
for peace of mind, instead of sharing them for the
benefit of society? Your experience of life was
gained among men and you ought to use it for their
benefit.'
'But I have no wisdom at all ! I am altogether
sunk in error ! My errors have not become wisdom
because they are ancient, any more than water
becomes wine because it is stale and foul.'
And seizing his cloak Julius hastily left the house
and set out to walk farther, without staying to rest.
By the close of another day he reached the Chris-
tian settlement.
They received him gladly, though they did not
know that he was a friend of Pamphilius, whom
they all loved and respected. At the refectory Pam-
philius, seeing his friend, ran to him gladly and
embraced him.
'At last I have come, 9 said Julius. 'Tell me what
I am to do and I will obey you.'
'Don't trouble about that,' said Pamphilius.
'Come with me.' And he led Julius into the guest-
house, and showing him a bed, said:
'When you have had time to observe our life you
will see for yourself how you can best be of use to
men. But I will show you something to do to-
morrow to occupy your time for the present. We are
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 207
gathering grapes in our vineyards. Go there and
help. You will see yourself what you can do.'
Next morning Julius went into the vineyards.
The first was of young vines which were loaded
with clusters. Young people were plucking and
gathering them. The places were all occupied and
Julius, having walked about for some time, found
no place for himself. He went on farther and came
to an older vineyard where there was less fruit. But
here also there was nothing for him to do; the
gatherers were all working in pairs and there was
no place for him. He went still farther and entered
a very old, deserted vineyard. The vine-stocks
were gnarled and crooked and Julius could see no
grapes.
'There, that is like my life,' he said to himself.
'Had I come the first time, it would have been like
the fruit in the first vineyard. Had I come when
I started the second time, it would have been like
the fruit in the second vineyard. But now here is
my life like these useless superannuated vines,
only fit for fuel !' And Julius was terrified at what he
had done, terrified at the punishment awaiting him
for having uselessly wasted his life. And he became
sad and said aloud:
'I am no longer good for anything and can now
do nothing I' And he sat down and wept because
he had wasted what he could never recover. Sud-
denly he heard the voice of an old man calling
him:
'Work, brother!' said the voice.
Julius looked round and saw an old man, grey
and bowed by age and scarcely able to move his
feet. He was standing by the vines and gathering
the few sweet bunches that still remained here and
there. Julius went up to him.
'Work, dear brother ! Work is joyous !' And the
ao8 WALK IN THE LIGHT
old man showed him where to look for bunches of
the grapes that still remained. Julius began to look
for them, and finding some, brought them and laid
them in the old man's basket. And the old man said
to him:
'Look, in what way are these bunches any worse
than those they are gathering in the other vine-
yards? "Walk while ye have the light!" said our
Teacher. "The will of Him that sent me is that
every one who seeth the son, and believeth on him,
may have everlasting life: and I will raise him up
at the last day. For God sent not His son into the
world to condemn the world; but that the world
through him might be saved. He that believeth
on him is not condemned, but he that believeth not
is condemned already, because he hath not believed
in the son, who is of one nature with God. And this
is the condemnation, that light is come into the
world, and men loved darkness rather than light,
because their deeds were evil. For every one that
doeth evil hateth the light, neither cometh to the
light, lest his deeds should be reproved. But he that
doeth truth cometh to the light, that his deeds may
be made manifest, that they are wrought in God."
My son, be not unhappy ! We are all sons of God and
His servants! We are all one army! Do you think
that He has no servants besides you, and that if you
had devoted yourself to His service with your whole
strength you could have done all that He needs
all that is needful for the establishment of His king-
dom? You say you would do twice, ten times, a
hundred times, more than you did. But if you did
ten thousand times ten thousand more than all men
have done, what would that have been in the work
of God? A mere nothing! God's work, like Him-
self, is infinite. God's work is you. Come to Him,
and be not a labourer but a son, and you will
WHILE THERE IS LIGHT 209
become a partner of the infinite God and of His
world. In God's sight there is neither small nor
great, there is only what is straight and what is
crooked. Enter into the straight path of life and
you will be with God and your work will be neither
small nor great, it will be God's work. Remember
that in heaven there is more joy over one sinner
than over a hundred just persons. The world's
work all that you have neglected to do has only
shown you your sin, and you have repented. And
when you repented you found the straight path.
Go forward and follow it, and do not think of the
past nor of what is great or small. All men are
equal in God's sight! There is one God and one
life!'
And Julius was comforted, and from that day he
lived and worked for the brethren according to his
strength. And so he lived joyfully for another
twenty years, and did not notice how death took
his body.
Yasnaya Polyana.
September 1890.
THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN
20th October 1883.
rrnoDAY I was taken to the Provincial Govern-
A ment Board to be certified. Opinions differed.
They disputed, and finally decided that I was not
insane but they arrived at this decision only
because during the examination I did my utmost
to restrain myself and not give myself away. I did
not speak out, because I am afraid of the madhouse,
where they would prevent me from doing my mad
work. So they came to the conclusion that I am
subject to hallucinations and something else, but
am of sound mind.
They came to that conclusion, but I myself know
that I am mad. A doctor prescribed a treatment
for me, and assured me that if I would follow his
instructions exactly all would be right all that
troubled me would pass. Ah, what would I not
give that it might pass ! The torment is too great. I
will tell in due order how and from what this medi-
cal certification came about how I went mad and
how I betrayed myself.
Up to the age of thirty-five I lived just as every-
body else does and nothing strange was noticed
about me. Perhaps in early childhood, before the
age of ten, there was at times something resembling
my present condition, but only by fits, and not con-
tinually as now. Moreover in childhood it used to
affect me rather differently. For instance I remem-
ber that once when going to bed, at the age of five
or six, my nurse Eupraxia, a tall thin woman who
wore a brown dress and a cap and had flabby skin
under her chin, was undressing me and lifting me up
to put me into my cot. 'I will get into bed by myself
myself!' I said, and stepped over the side of the cot.
THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN an
'Well, lie down then. Lie down, F&Iya! Look
at Mftya. He's a good boy and is lying down
already,' she said, indicating my brother with a
jerk of her head.
I jumped into the bed still holding her hand, and
then let it go, kicked about under my bedclothes,
and wrapped myself up. And I had such a pleasant
feeling. I grew quiet and thought: 'I love Nurse;
Nurse loves me and Mitya; and I love Mftya, and
Mitya loves me and Nurse. Nurse loves Taras, and
I love Taras, and Mitya loves him. And Taras
loves me and Nurse. And Mamma loves me and
Nurse, and Nurse loves Mamma and me and Papa
and everybody loves everybody and everybody is
happy !'
Then suddenly I heard the housekeeper run in
and angrily shout something about a sugar-basin,
and nurse answering indignantly that she had not
taken it. And I felt pained, frightened, and be-
wildered, and horror, cold horror, seized me, and I
hid my head under the bedclothes but felt no better
in the dark.
I also remembered how a serf-boy was once
beaten in my presence, how he screamed, and how
dreadful F6ka's face looked when he was beating
the boy. 'Then you won't do it any more, you
won't?' he kept repeating as he went on beating.
The boy cried, 'I won't!' but F6ka still repeated,
'You won't!' and went on beating him.
And then it came upon me ! I began to sob, and
went on so that they could not quiet me for a long
time. That sobbing and despair were the first
attacks of my present madness.
I remember another attack when my aunt told us
about Christ. She told the story and was about to
go away, but we said: 'Tell us some more about
Jesus Christ!'
212 THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN
'No, I have no time now,' she said.
'Yes, do tell us!'
Mitya also asked her to, and my aunt began to
repeat what she had told us. She told us how they
crucified, beat, and tortured him, and how he went
on praying and did not reproach them.
'Why did they torment him, Auntie?'
'They were cruel people.'
'But why, when he was good?'
'There, that's enough. It's past eight! Do you
hear?'
'Why did they beat him? He forgave them, then
why did they hit him? Did it hurt him, Auntie?
Did it hurt?'
'That will do! I'm going to have tea now.'
'But perhaps it isn't true and they didn't beat
him?'
'Now, now, that will do!'
'No, no ! Don't go away !'
And again I was overcome by it. I sobbed and
sobbed, and began knocking my head against the
wall.
That was how it befell me in my childhood. But
by the time I was fourteen, and from the time the
instincts of sex were aroused and I yielded to vice,
all that passed away and I became a boy like other
boys, like all the rest of us reared on rich, over-
abundant food, effeminate, doing no physical work,
surrounded by all possible temptations that in-
flamed sensuality, and among other equally spoilt
children. Boys of my own age taught me vice, and
I indulged in it. Later on that vice was replaced
by another, and I began to know women. And so,
seeking enjoyments and finding them, I lived till
the age of thirty-five. I was perfectly well and there
were no signs of my madness.
Those twenty years of my healthy life passed for
THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN 213
me so that I can hardly remember anything of
them, and now recall them with difficulty and dis-
gust. Like all mentally healthy boys of our circle
I entered the high school and afterwards the univer-
sity, where I completed the course of law-studies.
Then I was in the Civil Service for a short time, and
then I met my present wife, married, had a post in
the country and, as it is called, 'brought up' our
children, managed the estates, and was Justice of
the Peace.
In the tenth year of my married life I again had
an attack the first since my childhood.
My wife and I had saved money some inherited
by her and some from the bonds I, like other land-
owners, received from the Government at the time
of the emancipation of the serfs and we decided
to buy an estate. I was much interested, as was
proper, in the growth of our property and in in-
creasing it in the shrewdest way better than other
people. At that time I inquired everywhere where
there were estates for sale, and read all the adver-
tisements in the papers. I wanted to buy an estate
so that the income from it, or the timber on it,
should cover the whole purchase price and I should
get it for nothing. I looked out for some fool who
did not understand business, and thought I had
found such a man.
An estate with large forests was being sold in
Penza province. From all I could learn about it, it
seemed that its owner was just such a fool as I
wanted and the timber would cover the whole
cost of the estate. So I got ready and set out.
We (my servant and I) travelled at first by rail
and then by road in a post-chaise. The journey was
a very pleasant one for me. My servant, a young
good-natured fellow, was in just as good spirits as
I. We saw new places and met new people and
214 THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN
enjoyed ourselves. To reach our destination we had
to go about a hundred and forty miles, and decided
to go without stopping except to change horses.
Night came and we still went on. We grew drowsy.
I fell asleep, but suddenly awoke feeling that there
was something terrifying. As often happens, I woke
up thoroughly alert and feeling as if sleep had gone
for ever. 'Why am I going? Where am I going to?'
I suddenly asked myself. It was not that I did not
like the idea of buying an estate cheaply, but it
suddenly occurred to me that there was no need
for me to travel all that distance, that I should die
here in this strange place, and I was filled with
dread. Sergey, my servant, woke up, and I availed
myself of the opportunity to talk to him. I spoke
about that part of the country, he replied and joked,
but I felt depressed. I spoke about our folks at
home, and of the business before us, and I was sur-
prised that his answers were so cheerful. Every-
thing seemed pleasant and amusing to him while
it nauseated me. But for all that while we were
talking I felt easier. But besides everything seem-
ing wearisome and uncanny, I began to feel tired
and wished to stop. It seemed to me that I should
feel better if I could enter a house, see people,
drink tea, and above all have some sleep.
We were nearing the town of Arzamas.
'Shall we put up here and rest a bit?'
'Why not? Splendid!'
'Are we still far from the town?'
'About five miles from the last mile-post.'
The driver was a respectable man, careful and
taciturn, and he drove rather slowly and wearily.
We drove on. I remained silent and felt better
because I was looking forward to a rest and hoped
that the discomfort would pass. We went on and
on in the darkness for a terribly long time as it
THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN 215
seemed to me. We reached the town. Everybody
was already in bed. Mean little houses showed up
through the darkness, and the sound of our jingling
bells and the clatter of the horses' feet re-echoed,
especially near the houses, and all this was far from
cheerful. We passed large white houses here and
there. I was impatient to get to the post-station
and a samovar, and to lie down and rest.
At last we came up to a small house with a post
beside it. The house was white, but appeared
terribly melancholy to me, so much so that it seemed
uncanny and I got out of the carriage slowly.
Sergey briskly took out all that would be wanted,
running clattering up the porch, and the sound of
his steps depressed me. I entered a little corridor.
A sleepy man with a spot on his cheek (which
seemed to me terrifying) showed us into a room. It
was gloomy. I entered, and the uncanny feeling
grew worse.
'Haven't you got a bed-room? I should like to
rest.'
'Yes, we have. This is it.'
It was a small square room, with whitewashed
walls. I remember that it tormented me that it
should be square. It had one window with a red
curtain, a birch wood table, and a sofa with bent-
wood arms. We went in. Serge*y prepared the
samovar and made tea, while I took a pillow and
lay down on the sofa. I was not asleep and heard
how Sergey was busy with the tea and called me to
have some. But I was afraid of getting up and
arousing myself completely, and I thought how
frightful it would be to sit up in that room. I did
not get up but began to doze. I must have fallen
asleep, for when I awoke I found myself alone in
the room and it was dark. I was again as wide
awake as I had been in the chaise. I felt that to
216 THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN
sleep would be quite impossible. 'Why have I come
here? Where am I betaking myself? Why and
whither am I escaping? I am running away from
something dreadful and cannot escape it. I am
always with myself, and it is I who am my tormentor.
Here I am, the whole of me. Neither the P<nza nor
any other property will add anything to or take
anything from me. And it is myself I am weary of
and find intolerable and a torment. I want to fall
asleep and forget myself and cannot. I cannot get
away from myself!'
I went out into the passage. Sergey was sleeping
on a narrow bench with one arm hanging down,
but he was sleeping peacefully and the man with
the spot was also asleep. I had gone out into the
corridor thinking to escape from what tormented
me. But it had come out with me and cast a gloom
over everything. I felt just as filled with horror or
even more so.
'But what folly this is!' I said to myself. 'Why
am I depressed? What am I afraid of?'
'Me!' answered the voice of Death, inaudibly.
'I am here!'
A cold shudder ran down my back. Yes ! Death !
It will come here it is and it ought not to be.
Had I been actually facing death I could not have
suffered as much as I did then. Then I should have
been frightened. But now I was not frightened. I
saw and felt the approach of death, and at the same
time I felt that such a thing ought not to exist.
My whole being was conscious of the necessity
and the right to live, and yet I felt that Death was
being accomplished. And this inward conflict was
terrible. I tried to throw off the horror. I found a
brass candlestick, the candle in which had a long
wick, and lighted it. The red glow of the candle and
its size little less than the candlestick itself told
THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN 217
me the same thing. Everything told me the same:
'There is nothing in life. Death is the only real
thing, and death ought not to exist.'
I tried to turn my thoughts to things that had
interested me to the estate I was to buy, and to
my wife but found nothing to cheer me. It had
all become nothing. Everything was hidden by the
terrible consciousness that my life was ebbing away.
I needed sleep. I lay down, but the next instant I
jumped up again in terror. A fit of the spleen seized
me spleen such as the feeling before one is sick,
but spiritual spleen. It was uncanny and dreadful.
It seems that death is terrible, but when remember-
ing and thinking of life it is one's dying life that is
terrible. Life and death somehow merged into one
another. Something was tearing my soul apart
and could not complete the severance. Again I
went to look at the sleepers, and again I tried to go
to sleep. Always the same horror: red, white, and
square. Something tearing within that yet could
not be torn apart. A painful, painfully dry and
spiteful feeling, no atom of kindliness, but just a dull
and steady spitefulness towards myself and towards
that which had made me.
What created me? God, they say. God . . . what
about prayer? I remembered. For some twenty
years I had not prayed, and I did not believe in
anything, though as a matter of propriety I fasted
and went to communion every year. Now I began
to pray. 'Lord have mercy!' 'Our Father.' 'Holy
Virgin.' I began to compose new prayers, crossing
myself, bowing down to the ground and glancing
around me for fear that I might be seen. This
seemed to divert me the fear of being seen dis-
tracted my terror and I lay down. But I had only
to lie down and close my eyes for the same feeling
of terror to knock and rouse me. I could bear it no
ai8 THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN
longer. I woke the hotel servant and Sergey, gave
orders to harness, and we drove off again.
The fresh air and the drive made me feel better.
But I realized that something new had come into
my soul and poisoned my former life.
By nightfall we reached our destination. The
whole day I had been fighting my depression and
had mastered it, but it had left its terrible dregs in
my soul as if some misfortune had befallen me, and
I could forget it only for a time. There it remained
at the bottom of my soul and had me in its power.
The old steward of the estate received me well,
though without any pleasure. He was sorry the
estate was to be sold.
The furniture in the little rooms was upholstered.
There was a new, brightly polished samovar, a
large-sized tea-service, and honey for tea. Every-
thing was good. But I questioned him about the
estate unwillingly, as if it were some old forgotten
lesson. However, I fell asleep without any depres-
sion, and this I attributed to my having prayed
again before going to bed.
After that I went on living as before, but the fear
of that spleen always hung over me. I had to live
without stopping to think, and above all to live in
my accustomed surroundings. As a schoolboy re-
peats a lesson learnt by heart without thinking, so
I had to live to avoid falling a prey to that awful
depression I had first experienced at Arzamas.
I returned home safely. I did not buy the estate
I had not enough money and I continued to
live as before, only with this difference, that I began
to pray and went to church. As before it seemed
to me, but I now remember that it was not as before
I lived on what had been previously begun. I
THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN 219
continued to go along the rails already laid by my
former strength, but I did not undertake anything
new. And I took less part in those things I had
previously begun. Everything seemed dull to me
and I became pious. My wife noticed this, and
scolded and nagged me on account of it. But my
spleen did not recur at home.
But once I had unexpectedly to go to Moscow.
I got ready in the afternoon and left in the evening.
It was in connexion with a lawsuit. T arrived in
Moscow cheerful. On the way I had talked with a
landowner from Kharkov about estate-manage-
ment and banks, and about where to put up, and
about the theatre. We both decided to stop at the
Moscow Hotel on the Myasnitsky Street, and to go
to see Faust that same evening.
When we arrived I was shown into a small room.
The oppressive air of the corridor filled my nostrils.
A porter brought in my portmanteau and a
chambermaid lighted a candle. The wick was
lighted and then as usual the flame went down. In
the next room someone coughed, probably an old
man. The maid went out, but the porter remained
and asked if he should uncord my luggage. The
flame of the candle burnt up, revealing the blue
wallpaper with yellow stripes on the partition, a
shabby table, a small sofa, a looking-glass, a win-
dow, and the narrow dimensions of the room. And
suddenly I was seized with an attack of the same
horror as in Arzamas. 'My God! How can I stay
here all night?' I thought.
'Yes, uncord, my good fellow, 5 I told the porter
to keep him longer in the room. 'I'll dress quickly
and go to the theatre.' When the porter had un-
corded, I said: 'Please go to Number Eight and tell
the gentleman who came here with me that I shall
be ready immediately and will come to him.'
220 THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN
The porter went out and I dressed hurriedly,
afraid to look at the walls. 'What nonsense!' I
thought. 'What am I afraid of? Just like a child !
I am not afraid of ghosts. Ghosts ! Ghosts would
be better than what I am afraid of. Why, what is it?
Nothing. Myself. . . . Oh, nonsense!'
However, I put on a hard, cold, starched shirt,
inserted the studs, donned my evening coat and new
boots, and went to find the Kharkov landowner,
who was ready. We started for the opera. He
stopped on the way at a hairdresser's to have his
hair curled, and I had mine cut by a French assis-
tant and had a chat with him, and bought a pair
of gloves. All was well, and I quite forgot my oblong
room with its partition. In the theatre, too, it was
pleasant. After the opera the Kharkov landowner
suggested that we should have supper. That was
contrary to my habit, but just then I again remem-
bered the partition in my room and accepted his
suggestion.
We got back after one. I had had two glasses of
wine, to which I was unaccustomed, but in spite of
that I felt cheerful. But no sooner had we entered
the corridor in which the lamp was turned low and
I was surrounded by the hotel smell, than a shiver
of horror ran down my spine. There was nothing
to be done however, and I pressed my companion's
hand and went into my room.
I spent a terrible night worse than at Arzamas.
Not till dawn, when the old man at the other side
of the door was coughing again, did I fall asleep,
and then not in the bed, in which I had lain down
several times during the night, but on the sofa. I
had suffered all night unbearably. Again my soul
and body were being painfully torn asunder. 'I
am living, have lived, and ought to live, and sud-
denly here is death to destroy everything. Then
THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN 221
what is life for? To die? To kill myself at once?
No, I am afraid. To wait for death till it comes? I
fear that even more. Then I must live. But what
for? In order to die?' And I could not escape from
that circle. I took up a book, read, and forgot my-
self for a moment, but then again the same question
and the same horror. I lay down in bed and closed
my eyes. It was worse still !
God has so arranged it. Why? They say: 'Don't
ask, but pray!' Very well. I prayed, and prayed as
I had done at Arzamas. Then and afterwards I
prayed simply, like a child. But now my prayers
had a meaning. 'If Thou dost exist, reveal to me
why and what I am!' I bowed down, repeated all
the prayers I knew, composed my own, and added:
'Then reveal it!' and became silent, awaiting an
answer. But no answer came. It was just as if there
were no one who could give an answer. And I
remained alone with myself. And in place of Him
who would not reply I answered my own questions.
'Why? In order to live in a future life,' I said to
myself. 'Then why this obscurity, this torment? I
cannot believe in a future life. I believed when I
did not ask with my whole soul, but now I cannot,
I cannot. If Thou didst exist Thou wouldst speak
to me and to all men. And if Thou dost not exist
there is nothing but despair. And I do not want
that. I do not want that!'
I became indignant. I asked Him to reveal the
truth to me, to reveal Himself to me. I did all that
everybody does, but He did not reveal Himself.
'Ask and it shall be given you' I remembered, and
I had asked and in that asking had found not con-
solation but relaxation. Perhaps I did not pray to
Him but repudiated Him. 'You recede a span and
He recedes a mile* as the proverb has it. I did not
believe in Him but I asked, and He did not reveal
222 THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN
anything to me. I was balancing accounts with Him
and blaming Him. I simply did not believe.
The next day I did all in my power to get through
my ordinary affairs so as to avoid another night in
the hotel. Although I did not finish everything, I
left for home that evening. I did not feel any spleen.
That night in Moscow still further changed my life
which had begun to change from the time I was at
Arzamas. I now attended still less to my affairs and
became apathetic. I also grew weaker in health.
My wife insisted that I should undergo a treatment.
She said that my talks about faith and God arose
from ill health. But I knew that my weakness and
ill health were the effect of the unsolved question
within me. I tried not to let that question dominate
me, and tried to fill my life amid my customary sur-
roundings. I went to church on Sundays and feast
days, prepared to receive Communion, and even
fasted, as I had begun to do since my visit to P^nza,
and I prayed, though more as a custom. I did not
expect any result from this, but as it were kept the
demand-note and presented it at the due date,
though I knew it was impossible to secure payment.
I only did it on the chance. I did not fill my life
by estate management it repelled me by the
struggle it involved (I had no energy) but by
reading magazines, newspapers, and novels, and
playing cards for small stakes. I only showed
energy by hunting, which I did from habit. I had
been fond of hunting all my life.
One winter day a neighbouring huntsman came
with his wolf-hounds. I rode out with him. When
we reached the place we put on snow-shoes and
went to the spot where the wolf might be found.
The hunt was unsuccessful, the wolves broke
THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN 223
through the ring of beaters. I became aware of
this from a distance and went through the forest
following the fresh tracks of a hare. These led me
far into a glade, where I spied the hare, but it
jumped out so that I lost it. I went back through
the thick forest. The snow was deep, my snow-
shoes sank in, and branches of the trees entangled
me. The trees grew ever more and more dense. I
began to ask myself: 'Where am I? 5 The snow had
altered the look of everything.
Suddenly I realized that I had lost my way. I
was far from the house and from the hunters too,
and could hear nothing. I was tired and bathed
in perspiration. If I stopped I should freeze. If I
went on my strength would fail me. I shouted. All
was still. No one answered. I turned back, but it
was the same again. I looked around nothing but
trees, impossible to tell which was east or west.
Again I turned back. My legs were tired. I grew
frightened, stopped, and was seized with the same
horror as in Arzamas and Moscow, but a hundred
times worse. My heart palpitated, my arms and
legs trembled. 'Is this death? I won't have it!
Why death? What is death?' Once again I
wanted to question and reproach God, but here
I suddenly felt that I dare not and must not do
so, that it is impossible to present one's account
to God, that He had said what is needful and I
alone was to blame. I began to implore His for-
giveness, and felt disgusted with myself.
The horror did not last long. I stood there for
awhile, came to myself, went on in one direction
and soon emerged from the forest. I had not been
far from its edge, and came out on to the road. My
arms and legs still trembled and my heart was beat-
ing, but I felt happy. I found the hunting party
and we returned home. I was cheerful, but I knew
224 THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN
there was something joyful which I would make out
when alone. And so it was. I remained by myself
in my study and began to pray, asking forgiveness
and remembering my sins. There seemed to me to
be but few, but when I recalled them they became
hateful to me.
After that I began to read the scriptures. The
Old Testament I found unintelligible though en-
chanting, but the Gospels moved me profoundly.
But most of all I read the Lives of the Saints, and
that reading consoled me, presenting examples that
it seemed more and more possible to follow. From
that time forth farming and family matters occu-
pied me less and less. They even repelled me. They
all seemed to me wrong. What it was that was 'right'
I did not know, but what had formerly constituted
my life had now ceased to do so. This became plain
to me when I was going to buy another estate.
Not far from us an estate was for sale on very
advantageous terms. I went to see it. Everything was
excellent and advantageous; especially so was the
fact that the peasants there had no land of their
own except their kitchen-gardens. I saw that they
would have to work on the landlord's land merely
for permission to use his pastures. And so it was. I
grasped all this, and by old habit felt pleased about
it. But on my way home I met an old woman who
asked her way. I had a talk with her, during which
she told me about her poverty. I got home, and
when telling my wife of the advantages that estate
offered, I suddenly felt ashamed and disgusted. I
told her I could not buy it because the advantages
we should get would be based on the peasants'
destitution and sorrow. As I said this I suddenly
realized the truth of what I was saying the chief
THE MEMOIRS OF A MADMAN 225
truth, that the peasants, like ourselves, want to live,
that they are human beings, our brothers, and sons
of the Father as the Gospels say. Suddenly some-
thing that had long troubled me seemed to have
broken away, as though it had come to birth. My
wife was vexed and scolded me, but I felt glad.
That was the beginning of my madness. But my
utter madness began later about a month after
that.
It began by my going to church. I stood there
through the liturgy and prayed well, and listened
and was touched. Then suddenly they brought me
some consecrated bread: after that we went up to
the Gross, and people began pushing one another.
Then at the exit there were beggars. And it sud-
denly became clear to me that this ought not to be,
and not only ought not to be but in reality was not.
And if this was not, then neither was there either
death or fear, and there was no longer the former
tearing asunder within me and I no longer feared
anything.
Then the light fully illumined me and I be-
came what I now am. If there is nothing of all that
then it certainly does not exist within me. And
there at the church door I gave away to the beggars
all I had with me some thirty-five rubles and
went home on foot talking with the peasants.
432
A LIST OF TARTAR WORDS USED IN
C HADJI MURAD'
THROUGHOUT this edition I have tried to avoid the use
of Russian words, employing their English equivalents
wherever possible. In the following story, however, Tol-
st6y makes use of a number of Tartar words which he
does not translate. As there are generally no one- or two-
word equivalents for them in English, it would be difficult
to avoid following his example and retaining these Tartar
words. I have therefore done so, and the reader should
refer to the following alphabetical list when he encounters
one of them that needs explanation.
AYLMER MAUDE.
Aoul A Tartar village.
Bar Have.
Beshmtt A Tartar undergarment with sleeves.
Btirka A long round felt cape.
Dsjiigit The same as a brave among the Red Indians,
but the word is inseparably connected with
the idea of skilful horsemanship.
Gazaodt Holy War against the infidels.
Imdm The leader in the Holy War, uniting in him-
self supreme spiritual and temporal power.
Khansha Khan's wife.
Kizydk A fuel made of straw and manure.
Kundk A sworn friend, an adopted brother.
Murid A disciple or follower : 'One who desires' to find
the way in Muridism.
Mwridism Almost identical with Sufism.
Murshtd 'One who shows' the way in Muridism.
Naib A Tartar lieutenant or governor.
Pilau An Oriental dish, prepared with rice and
mutton or chicken.
Sdklya A Caucasian house, clay-plastered and often
built of earth.
Sharidt The written Mohammedan law.
Tarikdt 'The Path* leading to the higher life.
Tok No, not.
HADJI MURAD
I
I WAS returning home by the fields. It was mid-
summer, the hay harvest was over and they were
just beginning to reap the rye. At that season of the
year there is a delightful variety of flowers red,
white, and pink scented tufty clover; milk-white
ox-eye daisies with their bright yellow centres and
S'easant spicy smell; yellow honey-scented rape
ossoms; tall campanulas with white and lilac
bells, tulip-shaped; creeping vetch; yellow, red, and
pink scabious; faintly scented, neatly arranged
purple plantains with blossoms slightly tinged with
pink; cornflowers, the newly opened blossoms bright
blue in the sunshine but growing paler and red-
der towards evening or when growing old; and deli-
cate almond-scented dodder flowers that withered
quickly. I gathered myself a large nosegay and
was going home when I noticed in a ditch, in
full bloom, a beautiful thistle plant of the crimson
variety, which in our neighbourhood they call
'Tartar* and carefully avoid when mowing or,
if they do happen to cut it down, throw out
from among the grass for fear of pricking their
hands. Thinking to pick this thistle and put it in
the centre of my nosegay, I climbed down into the
ditch, and after driving away a velvety humble-bee
that had penetrated deep into one of the flowers and
had there fallen sweetly asleep, I set to work to pluck
the flower. But this proved a very difficult task.
Not only did the stalk prick on every side even
through the handkerchief I wrapped round my hand
but it was so tough that I had to struggle with it
for nearly five minutes, breaking the fibres one by
one; and when I had at last plucked it, the stalk was
228 HADJI MURAD
all frayed and the flower itself no longer seemed so
fresh and beautiful. Moreover, owing to its coarse-
ness and stiffness, it did not seem in place among the
delicate blossoms of my nosegay. I threw it away
feeling sorry to have vainly destroyed a flower that
looked beautiful in its proper place.
'But what energy and tenacity ! With what deter-
mination it defended itself, and how dearly it sold
its life !' thought I, remembering the effort it had cost
me to pluck the flower. The way home led across
black-earth fields that had just been ploughed up.
I ascended the dusty path. The ploughed field
belonged to a landed proprietor and was so large
that on both sides and before me to the top of the
hill nothing was visible but evenly furrowed and
moist earth. The land was well tilled and nowhere
was there a blade of grass or any kind of plant to
be seen, it was all black. 'Ah, what a destructive
creature is man. . . . How many different plant-
lives he destroys to support his own existence!'
thought I, involuntarily looking around for some
living thing in this lifeless black field. In front of
me to the right of the road I saw some kind of little
clump, and drawing nearer I found it was the same
kind of thistle as that which I had vainly plucked
and thrown away. This 'Tartar 5 plant had three
branches. One was broken and stuck out like the
stump of a mutilated arm. Each of the other two
bore a flower, once red but now blackened. One
stalk was broken, and half of it hung down with a
soiled flower at its tip. The other, though also
soiled with black mud, still stood erect. Evidently
a cartwheel had passed over the plant but it had
risen again, and that was why, though erect, it stood
twisted to one side, as if a piece of its body had been
torn from it, its bowels drawn out, an arm torn off,
and one of its eyes plucked out. Yet it stood firm
HADJI MURAD 229
and did not surrender to man who had destroyed
all its brothers around it. ...
'What vitality!' I thought. 'Man has conquered
everything and destroyed millions of plants, yet
this one won't submit.' And I remembered a
Caucasian episode of years ago, which I had partly
seen myself, partly heard of from eye-witnesses, and
in part imagined.
The episode, as it has taken shape in my memory
and imagination, was as follows.
It happened towards the end of 1851.
On a cold November evening Hadji Murad rode
into Makhmet, a hostile Chechen aoul 1 that lay
some fifteen miles from Russian territory and was
filled with the scented smoke of burning kizydk. 2
The strained chant of the muezzin had just ceased,
and through the clear mountain air, impregnated
with kizydk smoke, above the lowing of the cattle and
the bleating of the sheep that were dispersing among
the sdklyas 3 (which were crowded together like the
cells of a honeycomb), could be clearly heard the
guttural voices of disputing men, and sounds of
women's and children's voices rising from near the
fountain below.
This Hadji Murad was ShamiFs naib,* famous for
his exploits, who used never to ride out without his
banner and some dozens of murids, who caracoled
and showed off before him. Now wrapped in hood
and biirka, 5 from under which protruded a rifle, he
rode, a fugitive, with one murid only, trying to
attract as little attention as possible and peering with
1 Aoul, Tartar village.
2 Kizydky fuel made of straw and manure.
3 Sdklya, a Caucasian house, clay-plastered and often built
of earth. 4 Naib, lieutenant or governor.
5 Burka, a long, round felt cape.
230 HADJI MURAD
his quick black eyes into the faces of those he met
on his way.
When he entered the aoul, instead of riding up
the road leading to the open square, he turned to
the left into a narrow side street, and on reaching
the second sdklya, which was cut into the hill-side,
he stopped and looked round. There was no one
under the penthouse in front, but on the roof of the
sdklya itself, behind the freshly plastered clay chim-
ney, lay a man covered with a sheepskin. Hadji
Murad touched him with the handle of his leather-
plaited whip and clicked his tongue, and an old
man, wearing a greasy old beshmti 1 and a nightcap,
rose from under the sheepskin. His moist red eyelids
had no lashes, and he blinked to get them unstuck.
Hadji Murad, repeating the customary 'Selaam alei-
kum! 9 uncovered his face. 'Aleihum, selaam!' said
the old man, recognizing him, and smiling with
his toothless mouth. And raising himself on his thin
legs he began thrusting his feet into the wooden-
heeled slippers that stood by the chimney. Then he
leisurely slipped his arms into the sleeves of his
crumpled sheepskin, and going to the ladder that
leant against the roof he descended backwards.
While he dressed and as he climbed down he kept
shaking his head on its thin, shrivelled sunburnt neck
and mumbling something with his toothless mouth.
As soon as he reached the ground he hospitably
seized Hadji Murad's bridle and right stirrup; but
the strong active murid had quickly dismounted and,
motioning the old man aside, took his place. Hadji
Murad also dismounted, and walking with a slight
limp, entered under the penthouse. A boy of
fifteen, coming quickly out of the door, met him
and wonderingly fixed his sparkling eyes, black as
ripe sloes, on the new arrivals.
1 Beshmtt, a Tartar undergarment with sleeves.
HADJI MURAD 231
'Run to the mosque and call your father,'
ordered the old man as he hurried forward to open
the thin, creaking door into the sdklya.
As Hadji Murad entered the outer door, a slight,
spare, middle-aged woman in a yellow smock, red
beshmit) and wide blue trousers came through an
inner door carrying cushions.
'May thy coming bring happiness!' said she, and
bending nearly double began arranging the cushions
along the front wall for the guest to sit on.
'May thy sons live!' answered Hadji Murad,
taking off his biirka, his rifle, and his sword, and
handing them to the old man who carefully hung
the rifle and sword on a nail beside the weapons
of the master of the house, which were suspended
between two large basins that glittered against the
clean clay-plastered and carefully whitewashed wall.
Hadji Murad adjusted the pistol at his back,
came up to the cushions, and wrapping his Circas-
sian coat closer round him, sat down. The old man
squatted on his bare heels beside him, closed his
eyes, and lifted his hands palms upwards. Hadji
Murad did the same; then after repeating a prayer
they both stroked their faces, passing their hands
downwards till the palms joined at the end of their
beards.
'Ne habar? 9 ('Is there anything new?') asked
Hadji Murad, addressing the old man.
1 Habar yok* ('Nothing new'), replied the old man,
looking with his lifeless red eyes not at Hadji
Murad's face but at his breast. 'I live at the apiary
and have only to-day come to see my son. ... He
knows.'
Hadji Murad, understanding that the old man
did not wish to say what he knew and what Hadji
Murad wanted to know, slightly nodded his head
and asked no more questions.
238 HADJI MURAD
'There is no good news/ said the old man. 'The
only news is that the hares keep discussing how to
drive away the eagles, and the eagles tear first one
and then another of them. The other day the
Russian dogs burnt the hay in the Mitchit aoul. . . .
May their faces be torn I' he added hoarsely and
angrily.
Hadji Murad's murid entered the room, his strong
legs striding softly over the earthen floor. Retaining
only his dagger and pistol, he took off his btirka, rifle,
and sword as Hadji Murad had done, and hung
them up on the same nails as his leader's weapons.
'Who is he?' asked the old man, pointing to the
newcomer.
'My murid. Eldar is his name, 5 said Hadji Murad.
'That is well,' said the old man, and motioned
Eldar to a place on a piece of felt beside Hadji
Murad. Eldar sat down, crossing his legs and fix-
ing his fine ram-like eyes on the old man who,
having now started talking, was telling how their
brave fellows had caught two Russian soldiers the
week before and had killed one and sent the other
to Shamil in Vede"n.
Hadji Murad heard him absently, looking at the
door and listening to the sounds outside. Under
the penthouse steps were heard, the door creaked,
and Sado, the master of the house, came in. He
was a man of about forty, with a small beard, long
nose, and eyes as black, though not as glittering, as
those of his fifteen-year-old son who had run to call
him home and who now entered with his father and
sat down by the door. The master of the house took
off his wooden slippers at the door, and pushing his
old and much-worn cap to the back of his head
(which had remained unshaved so long that it was
beginning to be overgrown with black hair), at once
squatted down in front of Hadji Murad.
HADJI MURAD 233
He too lifted his hands palms upwards, as the
old man had done, repeated a prayer, and then
stroked his face downwards. Only after that did he
begin to speak. He told how an order had come
from Shamil to seize Hadji Murad alive or dead,
that Shamil's envoys had left only the day before,
that the people were afraid to disobey ShamiPs
orders, and that therefore it was necessary to be
careful.
'In my house,' said Sado, 'no one shall injure my
kundk 1 while I live, but how will it be in the open
fields? . . . We must think it over.'
Hadji Murad listened with attention and nodded
approvingly. When Sado had finished he said:
'Very well. Now we must send a man with a
letter to the Russians. My murid will go but he will
need a guide.'
'I will send brother Bata,' said Sado. 'Go and
call Bata,' he added, turning to his son.
The boy instantly bounded to his nimble feet as
if he were on springs, and swinging his arms, rapidly
left the sdklya. Some ten minutes later he returned
with a sinewy, short-legged Chechen, burnt almost
black by the sun, wearing a worn and tattered
yellow Circassian coat with frayed sleeves, and
crumpled black leggings.
Hadji Murad greeted the newcomer, and again
without wasting a single word, immediately
asked:
'Canst thou conduct my murid to the Russians?'
'I can,' gaily replied Bata. 'I can certainly do
it. There is not another Chechen who would pass
as I can. Another might agree to go and might pro-
mise anything, but would do nothing; but I can
do it!'
'All right,' said Hadji Murad. Thou shalt
1 Ktmdk, sworn friend, brother by adoption.
234 HADJI MURAD
receive three for thy trouble,' and he held up three
fingers.
Bata nodded to show that he understood, and
added that it was not money he prized, but that
he was ready to serve Hadji Murad for the honour
alone. Every one in the mountains knew Hadji
Murad, and how he slew the Russian swine.
'Very well. ... A rope should be long but a
speech short,' said Hadji Murad.
'Well then I'll hold my tongue,' said Bata.
'Where the river Argun bends by the cliff,' said
Hadji Murad, 'there are two stacks in a glade in the
forest thou knowest?'
'I know.'
'There my four horsemen are waiting for me,'
said Hadji Murad.
'Aye,' answered Bata, nodding.
'Ask for Khan Mahoma. He knows what to do
and what to say. Canst thou lead him to the
Russian commander, Prince Voronts6v?'
'Yes, I'll take him.'
'Canst thou take him and bring him back again?'
'I can.'
'Then take him there and return to the wood. I
shall be there too.'
'I will do it all,' said Bata, rising, and putting his
hands on his heart he went out.
Hadji Murad turned to his host.
'A man must also be sent to Chekhi,' he began,
and took hold of one of the cartridge pouches of his
Circassian coat, but let his hand drop immediately
and became silent on seeing two women enter the
sdklya.
One was Sado's wife the thin middle-aged
woman who had arranged the cushions. The other
was quite a young girl, wearing red trousers and a
green beshmtt. A necklace of silver coins covered
HADJI MURAD 235
the whole front of her dress, and at the end of the
short but thick plait of hard black hair that hung
between her thin shoulder-blades a silver ruble was
suspended. Her eyes, as sloe-black as those of her
father and brother, sparkled brightly in her young
face which tried to be stern. She did not look at the
visitors, but evidently felt their presence.
Sado's wife brought in a low round table on
which stood tea, pancakes in butter, cheese, churek
(that is, thinly rolled out bread), and honey. The
girl carried a basin, a ewer, and a towel.
Sado and Hadji Murad kept silent as long as the
women, with their coin ornaments tinkling, moved
softly about in their red soft-soled slippers, setting
out before the visitors the things they had brought.
Eldar sat motionless as a statue, his ram-like eyes
fixed on his crossed legs, all the time the women
were in the sdklya. Only after they had gone and
their soft footsteps could no longer be heard behind
the door, did he give a sigh of relief.
Hadji Murad having pulled out a bullet from
one of the cartridge-pouches of his Circassian coat,
and having taken out a rolled-up note that lay
beneath it, held it out, saying:
'To be handed to my son.'
'Where must the answer be sent?'
'To thee; and thou must forward it to me.'
'It shall be done,' said Sado, and placed the note
in a cartridge-pocket of his own coat. Then he took
up the metal ewer and moved the basin towards
Hadji Murad.
Hadji Murad turned up the sleeves of his beshmtt
on his white muscular arms, held out his hands
under the clear cold water which Sado poured from
the ewer, and having wiped them on a clean un-
bleached towel, turned to the table. Eldar did the
same. While the visitors ate, Sado sat opposite and
236 HADJI MURAD
thanked them several times for their visit. The boy
sat by the door never taking his sparkling eyes off
Hadji Murad's face, and smiled as if in confirmation
of his father's words.
Though he had eaten nothing for more than
twenty-four hours Hadji Murad ate only a little
bread and cheese; then, drawing out a small knife
from under his dagger, he spread some honey on a
piece of bread.
'Our honey is good,' said the old man, evidently
pleased to see Hadji Murad eating his honey. 'This
year, above all other years, it is plentiful and good.'
'I thank thee,' said Hadji Murad and turned
from the table. Eldar would have liked to go on
eating but he followed his leader's example, and
having moved away from the table, handed him
the ewer and basin.
Sado knew that he was risking his life by receiving
such a guest in his house, for after his quarrel with
Shamil the latter had issued a proclamation to all
the inhabitants of Chechnya forbidding them to
receive Hadji Murad on pain of death. He knew
that the inhabitants of the aoul might at any
moment become aware of Hadji Murad's presence
in his house and might demand his surrender. But
this not only did not frighten Sado, it even gave
him pleasure: he considered it his duty to protect
his guest though it should cost him his life, and he
was proud and pleased with himself because he was
doing his duty.
'Whilst thou art in my house and my head is on
my shoulders no one shall harm thee,' he repeated
to Hadji Murad.
Hadji Murad looked into his glittering eyes and
understanding that this was true, said with some
solemnity
'Mayest thou receive joy and life !'
HADJI MURAD 237
Sado silently laid his hand on his heart in token
of thanks for these kind words.
Having closed the shutters of the sdklya and laid
some sticks in the fireplace, Sado, in an exception-
ally bright and animated mood, left the room and
went into that part of his sdklya where his family all
lived. The women had not yet gone to sleep, and
were talking about the dangerous visitors who were
spending the night in their guest-chamber.
II
At Vozdvizhensk, the advanced fort situated
some ten miles from the aoul in which Hadji Murad
was spending the night, three soldiers and a non-
commissioned officer left the fort and went beyond
the Shahgirfnsk Gate. The soldiers, dressed as
Caucasian soldiers used to be in those days, wore
sheepskin coats and caps, and boots that reached
above their knees, and they carried their cloaks
tightly rolled up and fastened across their shoulders.
Shouldering arms, they first went some five hundred
paces along the road and then turned off it and
went some twenty paces to the right the dead
leaves rustling under their boots till they reached
the blackened trunk of a broken plane tree just
visible through the darkness. There they stopped.
It was at this plane tree that an ambush party was
usually placed.
The bright stars, that had seemed to be running
along the tree-tops while the soldiers were walking
through the forest, now stood still, shining brightly
between the bare branches of the trees.
'A good job it's dry,' said the non-commissioned
officer Pan6v, bringing down his long gun and
bayonet with a clang from his shoulder and placing
it against the plane tree.
The three soldiers did the same.
238 HADJI MURAD
'Sure enough I've lost it!' muttered Pan6v
crossly. 'Must have left it behind or I've dropped
it on the way.'
'What are you looking for?' asked one of the
soldiers in a bright, cheerful voice.
'The bowl of my pipe. Where the devil has it
got to?'
'Have you got the stem?' asked the cheerful voice.
'Here it is.'
'Then why not stick it straight into the ground?'
'Not worth bothering!'
'We'll manage that in a minute.'
Smoking in ambush was forbidden, but this am-
bush hardly deserved the name. It was rather an
outpost to prevent the mountaineers from bringing
up a cannon unobserved and firing at the fort as
they used to. Panov did not consider it necessary
to forego the pleasure of smoking, and therefore
accepted the cheerful soldier's offer. The latter
took a knife from his pocket and made a small
round hole in the ground. Having smoothed it, he
adjusted the pipe-stem to it, then filled the hole
with tobacco and pressed it down, and the pipe was
ready. A sulphur match flared and for a moment
lit up the broad-cheeked face of the soldier who lay
on his stomach, the air whistled in the stem, and
Pan6v smelt the pleasant odour of burning tobacco.
'Fixed it up?' said he, rising to his feet.
'Why, of course!'
'What a smart chap you are, Avd^ev! ... As
wise as a judge! Now then, lad.'
Avddev rolled over on his side to make room for
Pan6v, letting smoke escape from his mouth.
Pan6v lay down prone, and after wiping the
mouthpiece with his sleeve, began to inhale.
When they had had their smoke the soldiers
began to talk.
HADJI MURAD 239
'They say the commander has had his fingers in
the cash-box again,' remarked one of them in a
lazy voice. 'He lost at cards, you see.'
'He'll pay it back again,' said Pan6v.
'Of course he will ! He 's a good officer,' assented
Avdeev.
'Good! good!' gloomily repeated the man who
had started the conversation. 'In my opinion the
company ought to speak to him. "If you've taken
the money, tell us how much and when you'll
repay it." '
'That will be as the company decides,' said
Panov, tearing himself away from the pipe.
'Of course. "The community is a strong man,"'
assented Avdeev, quoting a proverb.
'There will be oats to buy and boots to get to-
wards spring. The money will be wanted, and
what shall we do if he's pocketed it?' insisted the
dissatisfied one.
'I tell you it will be as the company wishes,' re-
peated Panov. 'It's not the first time: he takes it
and gives it back.'
In the Caucasus in those days each company
chose men to manage its own commissariat. They
received 6 rubles 50 kopeks 1 a month per man from
the treasury, and catered for the company. They
planted cabbages, made hay, had their own carts,
and prided themselves on their well-fed horses. The
company's money was kept in a chest of which the
commander had the key, and it often happened
that he borrowed from the chest. This had just
happened again, and the soldiers were talking
about it. The morose soldier, Nikitin, wished to
demand an account from the commander, while
Pan6v and Avdeev considered that unnecessary.
1 About i 9 for at that time the ruble was worth about
three shillings. A. M.
240 HADJI MURAD
After Panov, Nikitin had a smoke, and then
spreading his cloak on the ground sat down on it
leaning against the trunk of the plane tree. The
soldiers were silent. Far above their heads the
crowns of the trees rustled in the wind and sud-
denly, above this incessant low rustling, rose the
howling, whining, weeping, and chuckling of
jackals.
'Just listen to those accursed creatures how they
caterwaul !'
'They're laughing at you because your mouth 's
all on one side, 5 remarked the high voice of the third
soldier, an Ukrainian.
All was silent again, except for the wind that
swayed the branches, now revealing and now hiding
the stars.
'I say, Panov,' suddenly asked the cheerful Av-
deev, 'do you ever feel dull?'
'Dull, why?' replied Panov reluctantly.
'Well, I do. ... I feel so dull sometimes that I
don't know what I might not be ready to do to
myself.'
'There now!' was all Pan6v replied.
'That time when I drank all the money it was
from dullness. It took hold of me . . . took hold of
me till I thought to myself, "I'll just get blind
drunk!"'
'But sometimes drinking makes it still worse.'
'Yes, that 's happened to me too. But what is a
man to do with himself?'
'But what makes you feel so dull?'
'What, me? . . . Why, it's the longing for home.'
'Is yours a wealthy home then?'
'No; we weren't wealthy, but things went
properly we lived well.' And Avde*ev began to
relate what he had already told Panov many times.
'You see, I went as a soldier of my own free will,
HADJI MURAD 241
instead of my brother,' he said. 'He has children.
They were five in family and I had only just mar-
ried. Mother began begging me to go. So I thought,
"Well, maybe they will remember what I've done."
So I went to our proprietor ... he was a good
master and he said, "You're a fine fellow, go!" So
I went instead of my brother.'
'Well, that was right,' said Panov.
'And yet, will you believe me, Panov, it's chiefly
because of that that I feel so dull now? "Why did
you go instead of your brother?" I say to myself.
"He's living like a king now over there, while you
have to suffer here;" and the more I think of it the
worse I feel. ... It seems just a piece of ill-luck!'
Avdeev was silent.
'Perhaps we'd better have another smoke,' said
he after a pause.
'Well then, fix it up!'
But the soldiers were not to have their smoke.
Hardly had Avdeev risen to fix the pipe-stem in its
place when above the rustling of the trees they
heard footsteps along the road. Panov took his gun
and pushed Nikftin with his foot.
Nikitin rose and picked up his cloak.
The third soldier, Bondarenko, rose also, and
said:
'And I have dreamt such a dream, mates. . . .'
'Sh!' said Avdeev, and the soldiers held their
breath, listening. The footsteps of men in soft-
soled boots were heard approaching. The fallen
leaves and dry twigs could be heard rustling clearer
and clearer through the darkness. Then came the
peculiar guttural tones of Chechen voices. The
soldiers could now not only hear men approaching,
but could see two shadows passing through a clear
space between the trees; one shadow taller than the
other. When these shadows had come in line with
242 HADJI MURAD
the soldiers, Pan6v, gun in hand, stepped out on to
the road, followed by his comrades.
'Who goes there?' cried he.
'Me, friendly Chechen,' said the shorter one.
This was Bata. 'Gun,yok/ 1 . . . sword, yok!' said he,
pointing to himself. 'Prince, want!'
The taller one stood silent beside his comrade.
He too was unarmed.
'He means he's a scout, and wants the Colonel,'
explained Panov to his comrades.
'Prince Voronts6v . . . much want! Big business!'
said Bata.
'All right, all right! We'll take you to him,' said
Pan6v. 'I say, you'd better take them,' said he to
Avdeev, 'you and Bondarenko; and when you've
given them up to the officer on duty come back
again. Mind,' he added, 'be careful to make them
keep in front of you!'
'And what of this?' said Avdeev, moving his gun
and bayonet as though stabbing someone. 'I'd
just give a dig, and let the steam out of him!'
'What'll he be worth when you've stuck him?'
remarked Bondar6nko
'Now, march !'
When the steps of the two soldiers conducting the
scouts could no longer be heard, Panov and Nikitin
returned to their post.
'What the devil brings them here at night?' said
Nikftin.
'Seems it 's necessary,' said Panov. 'But it's get-
ting chilly,' he added, and unrolling his cloak he
put it on and sat down by the tree.
About two hours later Avdeev and Bondarenko
returned.
'Well, have you handed them over?'
'Yes. They weren't yet asleep at the Colonel's
1 Tok y no, not.
HADJI MURAD 243
they were taken straight in to him. And do you know,
mates, those shaven-headed lads are fine!' con-
tinued Avde*ev. 'Yes, really. What a talk I had
with them !'
'Of course you'd talk,' remarked Nikitin dis-
approvingly.
'Really they're just like Russians. One of them
is married. "Molly," says I, "bar?" 1 "Bar," he says.
Bondar&iko, didn't I say "bar?" "Many bar?" "A
couple," says he. A couple! Such a good talk we
had ! Such nice fellows !'
'Nice, indeed!' said Nikitin. 'If you met him
alone he'd soon let the guts out of you.'
'It will be getting light before long,' said Pan6v.
'Yes, the stars are beginning to go out,' said
Avdeev, sitting down and making himself com-
fortable.
And the soldiers were silent again.
Ill
The windows of the barracks and the soldiers'
houses had long been dark in the fort; but there
were still lights in the windows of the best house.
In it lived Prince Simon Mikhailovich Vorontsov,
Commander of the Kurin Regiment, an Imperial
Aide-de-Camp and son of the Commander-in-
Ghief. Voronts6v's wife, Marya Vasilevna, a
famous Petersburg beauty, was with him and they
lived in this little Caucasian fort more luxuriously
than any one had ever lived there before. To
Vorontsov, and even more to his wife, it seemed
that they were not only living a very modest life,
but one full of privations, while to the inhabitants
of the place their luxury was surprising and ex-
traordinary.
Just now, at midnight, the host and hostess sat
1 Bar, have.
i?44 HADJI MURAD
playing cards with their visitors, at a card-table lit
by four candles, in the spacious drawing-room with
its carpeted floor and rich curtains drawn across
the windows. Vorontsov, who had a long face and
wore the insignia and gold cords of an aide-de-
camp, was partnered by a shaggy young man of
gloomy appearance, a graduate of Petersburg
University whom Princess Voronts6v had lately
had sent to the Caucasus to be tutor to her little son
(born of her first marriage). Against them played
two officers: one a broad, red-faced man, Poltor-
atsky, a company commander who had exchanged
out of the Guards; and the other the regimental
adjutant, who sat very straight on his chair with a
cold expression on his handsome face.
Princess Marya Vasilevna, a large-built, large-
eyed, black-browed beauty, sat beside Poltoratsky
her crinoline touching his legs and looked over
his cards. In her words, her looks, her smile, her
perfume, and in every movement of her body, there
was something that reduced Poltoratsky to ob-
liviousness of everything except the consciousness
of her nearness, and he made blunder after blunder,
trying his partner's temper more and more.
'No . . . that 's too bad ! You've wasted an ace
again,' said the regimental adjutant, flushing all
over as Poltoratsky threw out an ace.
Poltoratsky turned his kindly, wide-set black
eyes towards the dissatisfied adjutant uncompre-
hendingly, as though just aroused from sleep.
'Do forgive him!' said Marya Vasilevna, smiling.
'There, you see! Didn't I tell you so?' she went
on, turning to Poltoratsky.
'But that's not at all what you said,' replied
Poltoratsky, smiling.
'Wasn't it?' she queried, with an answering smile,
which excited and delighted Poltordtsky to such a
HADJI MURAD 245
degree that he blushed crimson and seizing the
cards began to shuffle.
'It isn't your turn to deal,' said the adjutant
sternly, and with his white ringed hand he began
to deal himself, as though he wished to get rid of
the cards as quickly as possible.
The prince's valet entered the drawing-room and
announced that the officer on duty wanted to speak
to him.
'Excuse me, gentlemen,' said the prince, speaking
Russian with an English accent. 'Will you take my
place, Mdrya?'
'Do you all agree?' asked the princess, rising
quickly and lightly to her full height, rustling her
silks, and smiling the radiant smile of a happy
woman.
'I always agree to everything,' replied the adju-
tant, very pleased that the princess who could not
play at all was now going to play against him.
Poltoratsky only spread out his hands and smiled.
The rubber was nearly finished when the prince
returned to the drawing-room, animated and ob-
viously very pleased.
'Do you know what I propose?'
'What?'
'That we have some champagne.'
'I am always ready for that,' said Poltoratsky.
'Why not? We shall be delighted!' said the ad-
jutant.
'Bring some, Vasfli!' said the Prince.
'What did they want you for?' asked Marya
Vasilevna.
'It was the officer on duty and another man.'
'Who? What about?' asked Marya Vasflevna
quickly.
'I mustn't say,' said Vorontsov, shrugging his
shoulders.
246 HADJI MURAD
'You mustn't say!' repeated Marya Vasilevna.
'We'll see about that.'
When the champagne was brought each of the
visitors drank a glass, and having finished the game
and settled the scores they began to take their
leave.
'Is it your company that 's ordered to the forest
to-morrow?' the prince asked Poltoratsky as they
said good-bye.
'Yes, mine . . . why?'
'Then we shall meet to-morrow,' said the prince,
smiling slightly.
'Very pleased,' replied Poltoratsky, not quite
understanding what Voronts6v was saying to him
and preoccupied only by the thought that he
would in a minute be pressing Marya Vasilevna's
hand.
Marya Vasilevna, according to her wont, not only
pressed his hand firmly but shook it vigorously, and
again reminding him of his mistake in playing
diamonds, she gave him what he took to be a
delightful, affectionate, and meaning smile.
Poltoratsky went home in an ecstatic condition
only to be understood by people like himself who,
having grown up and been educated in society,
meet a woman belonging to their own circle after
months of isolated military life, and moreover a
woman like Princess Voronts6v.
When he reached the little house in which he and
his comrade lived he pushed the door, but it was
locked. He knocked, with no result. He felt vexed,
and began kicking the door and banging it with his
sword. Then he heard a sound of footsteps and
Vovflo a domestic serf of his undid the cabin-
hook which fastened the door.
'What do you mean by locking yourself in,
blockhead?'
HADJI MURAD 247
'But how is it possible, sir . . .?'
'You're tipsy again! I'll show you "how it is
possible!"' and Poltoratsky was about to strike
Vovflo but changed his mind. 'Oh, go to the devil !
. . . Light a candle.'
'In a minute.'
Vovilo was really tipsy. He had been drinking
at the name-day party of the ordnance-sergeant,
Ivan Petrovich. On returning home he began
comparing his life; with that of the latter. Ivan
Petr6vich had a salary, was married, and hoped in
a year's time to get his discharge.
Vovilo had been taken 'up' when a boy that is,
he had been taken into his owner's household ser-
vice and now although he was already over forty
he was not married, but lived a campaigning life with
his harum-scarum young master. He was a good
master, who seldom struck him, but what kind of a
life was it? 'He promised to free me when we return
from the Caucasus, but where am I to go with my
freedom? ... It's a dog's life!' thought Vovilo, and
he felt so sleepy that, afraid lest someone should
come in and steal something, he fastened the hook
of the door and fell asleep.
Poltoratsky entered the bedroom which he shared
with his comrade Tikhonov.
'Well, have you lost?' asked Tikhonov, waking
up.
'No, as it happens, I haven't. I've won seventeen
rubles, and we drank a bottle of Cliquot!'
'And you've looked at Marya Vasilevna?'
'Yes, and I've looked at Marya Vasilevna,' re-
peated Poltoratsky.
'It will soon be time to get up,' said Tikhonov.
'We are to start at six.'
248 HADJI MURAD
'Vovflo!' shouted Poltoratsky, 'see that you wake
me up properly to-morrow at five!'
'How can I wake you if you fight?'
'I tell you you're to wake me ! Do you hear?'
'All right.' Vovilo went out, taking Poltoratsky's
boots and clothes with him. Poltoratsky got into
bed and smoked a cigarette and put out his candle,
smiling the while. In the dark he saw before him
the smiling face of Marya Vasilevna.
The Vorontsovs did not go to bed at once. When
the visitors had left, Marya Vasilevna went up to her
husband and standing in front of him, said severely
'Eh bien! Vous allez me dire ce que c'est.' 1
'Mais, ma chere . . .'
'Pas de "ma chere"! C^tait un emissaire, riest-ce pas? 9
'Quand meme,je nepuispas vous le dire. 9
'Vous ne pouvez pas? Alors, c'est moi qui vais vous
'It was Hadji Murad, wasn't it?' said Marya
Vasflev,na, who had for some days past heard of the
negotiations and thought that Hadji Murad him-
self had been to see her husband. Vorontsov could
not altogether deny this, but disappointed her by
saying that it was not Hadji Murad himself but only
an emissary to announce that Hadji Murad would
come to meet him next day at the spot where a
wood-cutting expedition had been arranged.
In the monotonous life of the fortress the young
Voronts6vs both husband and wife were glad of
1 'Well now! You're going to tell me what it is.'
'But, my dear. . . .'
'Don't "my dear" me! It was an emissary, wasn't it?'
'Supposing it was, still I must not tell you.'
'You must not? Well then, I will tell you!'
'You?'
HADJI MURAD 249
this occurrence, and it was already past two o'clock
when, after speaking of the pleasure the news would
give his father, they went to bed.
IV
After the three sleepless nights he had passed
flying from the murids Shamil had sent to capture
him, Hadji Murad fell asleep as soon as Sado,
having bid him good-night, had gone out of the
sdklya. He slept fully dressed with his head on his
hand, his elbow sinking deep into the red down-
cushions his host had arranged for him.
At a little distance, by the wall, slept Eldar. He
lay on his back, his strong young limbs stretched
out so that his high chest, with the black cartridge-
pouches sewn into the front of his white Circassian
coat, was higher than his freshly shaven, blue-
gleaming head, which had rolled off the pillow and
was thrown back. His upper lip, on which a little
soft down was just appearing, pouted like a child's,
now contracting and now expanding, as though he
were sipping something. Like Hadji Murad he
slept with pistol and dagger in his belt. The sticks
in the grate burnt low, and a night-light in a niche
in the wall gleamed faintly.
In the middle of the night the floor of the guest-
chamber creaked, and Hadji Murad immediately
rose, putting his hand to his pistol. Sado entered,
treading softly on the earthen floor.
'What is it? 5 asked Hadji Murad, as if he had not
been asleep at all.
'We must think,' replied Sado, squatting down in
front of him. 'A woman from her roof saw you
arrive and told her husband, and now the whole
aoul knows. A neighbour has just been to tell my
wife that the Elders have assembled in the mosque
and want to detain you.'
250 HADJI MURAD
'I must be off!' said Hadji Murad.
'The horses are saddled,' said Sado, quickly
leaving the sdklya.
'Eldar!' whispered Hadji Murdd. And Eldar,
hearing his name, and above all his master's voice,
leapt to his feet, setting his cap straight as he did so.
Hadji Murad put on his weapons and then his
bdrka. Eldar did the same, and they both went
silently out of the sdklya into the penthouse. The
black-eyed boy brought their horses. Hearing the
clatter of hoofs on the hard-beaten road, someone
stuck his head out of the door of a neighbouring
sdklya, and a man ran up the hill towards the
mosque, clattering with his wooden shoes. There
was no moon, but the stars shone brightly in the
black sky so that the outlines of the sdklya roofs
could be seen in the darkness, the mosque with its
minarets in the upper part of the village rising
above the other buildings. From the mosque came
a hum of voices.
Quickly seizing his gun, Hadji Murad placed his
foot in the narrow stirrup, and silently and easily
throwing his body across, swung himself on to the
high cushion of the saddle.
'May God reward you!' he said, addressing his
host while his right foot felt instinctively for the
stirrup, and with his whip he lightly touched the
lad who held his horse, as a sign that he should let
go. The boy stepped aside, and the horse, as if it
knew what it had to do, started at a brisk pace
down the lane towards the principal street. Eldar
rode behind him. Sado in his sheepskin followed,
almost running, swinging his arms and crossing now
to one side and now to the other of the narrow side-
street. At the place where the streets met, first one
moving shadow and then another appeared in the
road.
HADJI MURAD 251
'Stop . . . who 's that? Stop !' shouted a voice, and
several men blocked the path.
Instead of stopping, Hadji Murad drew his pistol
from his belt and increasing his speed rode straight
at those who blocked the way. They separated, and
without looking round he started down the road at
a swift canter. Eldar followed him at a sharp trot.
Two shots cracked behind them and two bullets
whistled past without hitting either Hadji Murad
or Eldar. Hadji Murad continued riding at the
same pace, but having gone some three hundred
yards he stopped his slightly panting horse and
listened.
In front of him, lower down, gurgled rapidly
running water. Behind him in the aoul cocks
crowed, answering one another. Above these
sounds he heard behind him the approaching tramp
of horses and the voices of several men. Hadji Murad
touched his horse and rode on at an even pace.
Those behind him galloped and soon overtook him.
They were some twenty mounted men, inhabitants
of the aoul, who had decided to detain Hadji Murad
or at least to make a show of detaining him in order
to justify themselves in Shamil's eyes. When they
came near enough to be seen in the darkness, Hadji
Murad stopped, let go his bridle, and with an ac-
customed movement of his left hand unbuttoned
the cover of his rifle, which he drew forth with his
right. Eldar did the same.
'What do you want?' cried Hadji Murad. 'Do
you wish to take me? . . . Take me, then! 1 and he
raised his rifle. The men from the aoul stopped, and
Hadji Murad, rifle in hand, rode down into the
ravine. The mounted men followed him but did
not draw any nearer. When Hadji Murad had
crossed to the other side of the ravine the men
shouted to him that he should hear what they had
252 HADJI MURAD
to say. In reply he fired his rifle and put his horse
to a gallop. When he reined it in his pursuers were
no longer within hearing and the crowing of the
cocks could also no longer be heard; only the mur-
mur of the water in the forest sounded more dis-
tinctly and now and then came the cry of an owl.
The black wall of the forest appeared quite close.
It was in this forest that his murids awaited him.
On reaching it Hadji Murad paused, and draw-
ing much air into his lungs he whistled and then
listened silently. The next minute he was answered
by a similar whistle from the forest. Hadji Murad
turned from the road and entered it. When he had
gone about a hundred paces he saw among the
trunks of the trees a bonfire, the shadows of some
men sitting round it, and, half lit-up by the firelight,
a hobbled horse which was saddled. Four men
were seated by the fire.
One of them rose quickly, and coming up to Hadji
Murad took hold of his bridle and stirrup. This was
Hadji Murad's sworn brother who managed his
household affairs for him.
Tut out the fire,' said Hadji Murad, dismounting.
The men began scattering the pile and trampling
on the burning branches.
'Has Bata been here?' asked Hadji Murad,
moving towards a biirka that was spread on the
ground.
'Yes, he went away long ago with Khan Mahoma.'
'Which way did they go?'
'That way,' answered Khane*fi pointing in the
opposite direction to that from which Hadji Murad
had come.
'All right,' said Hadji Murad, and unslinging
his rifle he began to load it.
'We must take care I have been pursued,' he
said to a man who was putting out the fire.
HADJI MURAD 253
This was Gamzalo, a Chechen. Gamzalo ap-
proached the biirka, took up a rifle that lay on it
wrapped in its cover, and without a word went to
that side of the glade from which Hadji Murad had
come.
When Eldar had dismounted he took Hadji
Murad's horse, and having reined up both horses'
heads high, tied them to two trees. Then he
shouldered his rifle as Gamzalo had done and went
to the other side of the glade. The bonfire was ex-
tinguished, the forest no longer looked as black as
before, but in the sky the stars still shone, though
faintly.
Lifting his eyes to the stars and seeing that the
Pleiades had already risen half-way up the sky,
Hadji Murad calculated that it must be long past
midnight and that his nightly prayer was long
overdue. He asked Khane"fi for a ewer (they always
carried one in their packs), and putting on his biirka
went to the water.
Having taken off his shoes and performed his
ablutions, Hadji Murad stepped onto the biirka with
bare feet and then squatted down on his calves, and
having first placed his fingers in his ears and closed
his eyes, he turned to the south and recited the
usual prayer.
When he had finished he returned to the place
where the saddle-bags lay, and sitting down on the
biirka he leant his elbows on his knees and bowed
his head and fell into deep thought.
Hadji Murad always had great faith in his own
fortune. When planning anything he always felt in
advance firmly convinced of success, and fate smiled
on him. It had been so, with a few rare exceptions,
during the whole course of his stormy military life;
and so he hoped it would be now. He pictured to
himself how with the army Voronts6v would place
254 HADJI MURAD
at his disposal he would march against Shamil
and take him prisoner, and revenge himself on him;
and how the Russian Tsar would reward him and
how he would again rule not only over Avaria, but
over the whole of Chechnya, which would submit to
him. With these thoughts he unwittingly fell asleep.
He dreamt how he and his brave followers rushed
at Shamil with songs and with the cry, 'Hadji
Murad is coming !' and how they seized him and his
wives and how he heard the wives crying and sob-
bing. He woke up. The song, Lya-il-allysha, and
the cry, 'Hadji Murad is coming!' and the weeping
of ShanuTs wives, was the howling, weeping, and
laughter of jackals that awoke him. Hadji Murad
lifted his head, glanced at the sky which, seen
between the trunks of the trees, was already growing
light in the east, and inquired after Khan Mahoma
of a murid who sat at some distance from him. On
hearing that Khan Mahoma had not yet returned,
Hadji Murad again bowed his head and at once
fell asleep.
He was awakened by the merry voice of Khan
Mahoma returning from his mission with Bata.
Khan Mahoma at once sat down beside Hadji
Murad and told him how the soldiers had met them
and had led them to the prince himself, and how
pleased the prince was and how he promised to
meet them in the morning where the Russians
would.be felling trees beyond the Mitchik in the
Shalin glade. Bata interrupted his fellow-envoy to
add details of his own.
Hadji Murad asked particularly for the words with
which Vorontsov had answered his offer to go over
to the Russians, and Khan Mahoma and Bata
replied with one voice that the prince promised to
receive Hadji Murid as a guest, and to act so that it
should be well for him.
HADJI MURAD 255
Then Hadji Murdd questioned them about the
road, and when Khan Mahomd assured him that
he knew the way well and would conduct him straight
to the spot, Hadji Murad took out some money and
gave Bata the promised three rubles. Then he
ordered his men to take out of the saddle-bags his
gold-ornamented weapons and his turban, and to
clean themselves up so as to look well when they
arrived among the Russians.
While they cleaned their weapons, harness, and
horses, the stars faded away, it became quite light,
and an early morning breeze sprang up.
Early in the morning, while it was still dark, two
companies carrying axes and commanded by Pol-
tordtsky marched six miles beyond the Shahgirinsk
Gate, and having thrown out a line of sharpshooters
set to work to fell trees as soon as the day broke.
Towards eight o'clock the mist which had mingled
with the perfumed smoke of the hissing and crack-
ling damp green branches on the bonfires began to
rise and the wood-fellers who till then had not
seen five paces off but had only heard one another
began to see both the bonfires and the road
through the forest, blocked with fallen trees. The
sun now appeared like a bright spot in the fog
and now again was hidden.
In the glade, some way from the road, Poltorat-
sky, his subaltern Tikhonov, two officers of the
Third Company, and Baron Freze, an ex-officer of
the Guards and a fellow-student of Poltoratsky's at
the Cadet College, who had been reduced to the
ranks for fighting a duel, were sitting on drums.
Bits of paper that had contained food, cigarette
stumps, and empty bottles, lay scattered around
them. The officers had had some v6dka and were
256 HADJI MURAD
now eating, and drinking porter. A drummer was
uncorking their third bottle.
Poltoratsky, although he had not had enough
sleep, was in that peculiar state of elation and
kindly careless gaiety which he always felt when he
found himself among his soldiers and with his com-
rades where there was a possibility of danger.
The officers were carrying on an animated con-
versation, the subject of which was the latest news:
the death of General Sleptsov. None of them saw
in this death that most important moment of a life,
its termination and return to the source whence
it sprang they saw in it only the valour of a gallant
officer who rushed at the mountaineers sword in
hand and hacked them desperately.
Though all of them and especially those who
had been in action knew and could not help
knowing that in those days in the Caucasus, and in
fact anywhere and at any time, such hand-to-hand
hacking as is always imagined and described never
occurs (or if hacking with swords and bayonets
ever does occur, it is only those who are running
away that get hacked), that fiction of hand-to-hand
fighting endowed them with the calm pride and
cheerfulness with which they sat on the drums
some with a jaunty air, others on the contrary in
a very modest pose, and drank and joked without
troubling about death, which might overtake them
at any moment as it had overtaken Sleptsov. And
in the midst of their talk, as if to confirm their
expectations, they heard to the left of the road the
pleasant stirring sound of a rifle-shot; and a bullet,
merrily whistling somewhere in the misty air, flew
past and crashed into a tree.
'Hullo!' exclaimed Poltoratsky in a merry voice;
'whythat'satourline There now, K6stya,' and he
turned to Freze, 'now 's your chance. Go back to the
HADJI MURAD 257
company. I will lead the whole company to support
the cordon and we'll arrange a battle that will be
simply delightful . . . and then we'll make a report.'
Freze jumped to his feet and went at a quick pace
towards the smoke-enveloped spot where he had
left his company.
Poltoratsky's little Kabarda dapple-bay was
brought to him, and he mounted and drew up his
company and led it in the direction whence the
shots were fired. The outposts stood on the skirt-S
of the forest in front of the bare descending slope 'of
a ravine. The wind was blowing in the direction
of the forest, and not only was it possible to see the
slope of the ravine, but the opposite side of it Iwas
also distinctly visible. When Poltoratsky rode ivP to
the line the sun came out from behind the mist, land
on the other side of the ravine, by the outskirts of
a young forest, a few horsemen could be seen at a
distance of a quarter of a mile. These were the
Chechens who had pursued Hadji Murad and
wanted to see him meet the Russians. One of them
fired at the line. Several soldiers fired back. The
Chechens retreated and the firing ceased.
But when Poltoratsky and his company came up
he nevertheless gave orders to fire, and scarcely
had the word been passed than along the whole
line of sharpshooters the incessant, merry, stirring
rattle of our rifles began, accompanied by pretty
dissolving cloudlets of smoke. The soldiers, pleased
to have some distraction, hastened to load and fired
shot after shot. The Chechens evidently caught the
feeling of excitement, and leaping forward one after
another fired a few shots at our men. One of these
shots wounded a soldier. It was that same Avd^ev
who had lain in ambush the night before.
When his comrades approached him he was lying
prone, holding his wounded stomach with both
258 HADJI MURAD
hands, and rocking himself with a rhythmic motion
moaned softly. He belonged to Poltoratsky's com-
pany, and Poltoratsky, seeing a group of soldiers
collected, rode up to them.
'What is it, lad? Been hit?' said Poltoratsky.
'Where?'
Avde*ev did not answer.
*I was just going to load, your honour, when I
heard a click,' said a soldier who had been with
Avdeev; c and I look and see he's dropped his gun.'
'Tut, tut, tut!' Poltoratsky clicked his tongue.
'Does it hurt much, Avdeev?'
'It doesn't hurt but it stops me walking. A drop
of vodka now, your honour 1'
Some v6dka (or rather the spirit drunk by the
soldiers in the Caucasus) was found, and Panov,
severely frowning, brought Avdeev a can-lid full.
Avdeev tried to drink it but immediately handed
back the lid.
'My soul turns against it,' he said. 'Drink it
yourself.'
Pan6v drank up the spirit.
Avdeev raised himself but sank back at once.
They spread out a cloak and laid him on it.
'Your honour, the colonel is coming,' said the
sergeant-major to Poltoratsky.
'All right. Then will you see to him?' said Pol-
toratsky, and flourishing his whip he rode at a fast
trot to meet Vorontsov.
Vorontsov was riding his thoroughbred English
chestnut gelding, and was accompanied by the ad-
jutant, a Cossack, and a Chechen interpreter.
'What's happening here?' asked Voronts6v.
'Why, a skirmishing party attacked our advanced
line,' Poltoratsky answered.
'Come, come you arranged the whole thing
yourself!'
HADJI MURAD 259
'Oh no, Prince, not I,' said Poltoratsky with a
smile; 'they pushed forward of their own accord.'
'I hear a soldier has been wounded?'
'Yes, it 's a great pity. He's a good soldier.'
'Seriously?'
'Seriously, I believe ... in the stomach.'
'And do you know where I am going?' Voronts6v
asked.
'I don't.'
'Can't you guess?'
'No.'
'Hadji Murad has surrendered and we are now
going to meet him.'
'You don't mean to say so?'
'His envoy came to me yesterday,' said Voront-
s6v, with difficulty repressing a smile of pleasure.
'He will be waiting for me at the Shalin glade in a
few minutes. Place sharpshooters as far as the glade,
and then come and join me.'
'I understand,' said Poltoratsky, lifting his hand
to his cap, and rode back to his company. He led
the sharpshooters to the right himself, and ordered
the sergeant-major to do the same on the left side.
The wounded Avdeev had meanwhile been taken
back to the fort by some of the soldiers.
On his way back to rejoin Voronts6v, Poltoratsky
noticed behind him several horsemen who were
overtaking him. In front on a white-maned horse
rode a man of imposing appearance. He wore a
turban and carried weapons with gold ornaments.
This man was Hadji Murad. He approached Pol-
toratsky and said something to him in Tartar.
Raising his eyebrows, Poltoratsky made a gesture
with his arms to show that he did not understand,
and smiled. Hadji Murad gave him smile for smile,
and that smile struck Poltoratsky by its childlike
kindliness. Poltoratsky had never expected to see
a6o HADJI MURAD
the terrible mountain chief look like that. He had
expected to see a morose, hard-featured man, and
here was a vivacious person whose smile was so
kindly that Poltoratsky felt as if he were an old
acquaintance. He had only one peculiarity: his
eyes, set wide apart, which gazed from under their
black brows calmly, attentively, and penetratingly
into the eyes of others.
Hadji Murad's suite consisted of five men, among
them was Khan Mahoma, who had been to see
Prince Vorontsov that night. He was a rosy, round-
faced fellow with black lashless eyes and a beaming
expression, full of the joy of life. Then there was the
Avar Khan^fi, a thick-set, hairy man, whose eye-
brows met. He was in charge of all Hadji Murad's
property and led a stud-bred horse which carried
tightly packed saddle-bags. Two men of the suite
were particularly striking. The first was a Lesghian:
a youth, broad-shouldered but with a waist as slim
as a woman's, beautiful ram-like eyes, and the
beginnings of a brown beard. This was Eldar. The
other, Gamzalo, was a Chechen with a short red
beard and no eyebrows or eyelashes; he was blind
in one eye and had a scar across his nose and face.
Poltoratsky pointed out Voronts6v, who had just
appeared on the road. Hadji Murad rode to meet
him, and putting his right hand on his heart said
something in Tartar and stopped. The Chechen
interpreter translated.
'He says, "I surrender myself to the will of the
Russian Tsar. I wish to serve him," he says. "I
wished to do so long ago but Shamil would not let
me.'"
Having heard what the interpreter said, Voront-
s6v stretched out his hand in its wash-leather glove
to Hadji Murad. Hadji Murad looked at it hesita-
tingly for a moment and then pressed it firmly,
HADJI MURAD 261
again saying something and looking first at the
interpreter and then at Vorontsov.
'He says he did not wish to surrender to any one
but you, as you are the son of the Sirdar and he
respects you much. 5
Vorontsov nodded to express his thanks. Hadji
Murad again said something, pointing to his suite.
'He says that these men, his henchmen, will serve
the Russians as well as he. 5
Vorontsov turned towards them and nodded to
them too. The merry, black-eyed, lashless Chechen,
Khan Mahoma, also nodded and said something
which was probably amusing, for the hairy Avar
drew his lips into a smile, showing his ivory-white
teeth. But the red-haired Gamzalo's one red eye
just glanced at Vorontsov and then was again fixed
on the ears of his horse.
When Voronts6v and Hadji Murad with their
retinues rode back to the fort, the soldiers released
from the lines gathered in groups and made their
own comments.
'What a lot of men that damned fellow has de-
stroyed ! And now see what a fuss they will make of
him! 5
'Naturally. He was ShamiPs right hand, and
now no fear I 5
'Still there 5 s no denying it ! he 5 s a fine fellow a
regular dzhigit!' 1
'And the red one ! He squints at you like a beast ! 5
'Ugh! He must be a hound! 5
They had all specially noticed the red one.
Where the wood-felling was going on the soldiers
nearest to the road ran out to look. Their officer
shouted to them, but Voronts6v stopped him.
1 Among the Chechens, a dzkigti is the same as a brave
among the Indians, but the word is inseparably connected
with the idea of skilful horsemanship. A. M.
262 HADJI MURAD
'Let them have a look at their old friend.'
'You know who that is?' he added, turning to
the nearest soldier, and speaking the words slowly
with his English accent.
'No, your Excellency.'
'Hadji Murad Heard of him?'
'How could we help it, your Excellency? We've
beaten him many a time!'
'Yes, and we've had it hot from him too.'
'Yes, that's true, your Excellency,' answered the
soldier, pleased to be talking with his chief.
Hadji Murad understood that they were speaking
about him, and smiled brightly with his eyes.
Vorontsov returned to the fort in a very cheerful
mood.
VI
Young Vorontsov was much pleased that it was
he, and no one else, who had succeeded in winning
over and receiving Hadji Murad next to Shamil
Russia's chief and most active enemy. There was
only one unpleasant thing about it: General Meller-
Zakomelsky was in command of the army at
Vozdvizhensk, and the whole affair ought to have
been carried out through him. As Vorontsov had
done everything himself without reporting it there
might be some unpleasantness, and this thought
rather interfered with his satisfaction. On reaching
his house he entrusted Hadji Murad's henchmen
to the regimental adjutant and himself showed
Hadji Murad into the house.
Princess Marya Vasilevna, elegantly dressed and
smiling, and her little son, a handsome curly-
headed child of six, met Hadji Murad in the draw-
ing-room. The latter placed his hands on his heart,
and through the interpreter who had entered with
him said with solemnity that he regarded himself
HADJI MURAD 263
as the prince's kundk, since the prince had brought
him into his own house; and that a kundk' s whole
family was as sacred as the kundk himself.
Hadji Murad's appearance and manners pleased
Marya Vasilevna, and the fact that he flushed
when she held out her large white hand to him
inclined her still more in his favour. She invited
him to sit down, and having asked him whether
he drank coffee, had some served. He, however,
declined it when it came. He understood a little
Russian but could not speak it. When something
was said which he could not understand he smiled,
and his smile pleased Marya Vasilevna just as it had
pleased Poltoratsky. The curly-haired, keen-eyed
little boy (whom his mother called Bulka) standing
beside her did not take his eyes off Hadji Murad,
whom he had always heard spoken of as a great
warrior.
Leaving Hadji Murad with his wife, Vorontsov
went to his office to do what was necessary about
reporting the fact of Hadji Murad's having come
over to the Russians. When he had written a report
to the general in command of the left flank
General Kozlovsky at Gr6zny, and a letter to his
father, Vorontsov hurried home, afraid that his
wife might be vexed with him for forcing on her
this terrible stranger, who had to be treated in such
a way that he should not take offence, and yet not
too kindly. But his fears were needless. Hadji
Murad was sitting in an armchair with little Bulka,
Vorontsov's stepson, on his knee, and with bent
head was listening attentively to the interpreter
who was translating to him the words of the laugh-
ing Marya Vasflevna. Marya Vasflevna was telling
him that if every time a kundk admired anything of
his he made him a present of it, he would soon have
to go about like Adam. . . .
64 HADJI MURAD
When the prince entered, Hadji Murad rose at
once and, surprising and offending Bulka by put-
ting him off his knee, changed the playful expres-
sion of his face to a stern and serious one. He only
sat down again when Vorontsov had himself taken
a seat.
Continuing the conversation he answered Marya
Vasilevna by telling her that it was a law among his
people that anything your kundk admired must be
presented to him.
'Thy son, kundk/' he said in Russian, patting the
curly head of the boy who had again climbed on
his knee.
'He is delightful, your brigand!' said Marya
Vasflevna to her husband in French. 'Bulka has
been admiring his dagger, and he has given it to
him.'
Bulka showed the dagger to his father. 'C'w/ un
objet de prixr 1 added she.
'Ilfaudra trouver r occasion de luifaire cadeauj 2 said
Voronts6v.
Hadji Murad, his eyes turned down, sat stroking
the boy's curly hair and saying: 'Dzhigit, dzhigit/'
'A beautiful, beautiful dagger,' said Vorontsov,
half drawing out the sharpened blade which had a
ridge down the centre. 'I thank thee!'
'Ask him what I can do for him,' he said to the
interpreter.
The interpreter translated, and Hadji Murad at
once replied that he wanted nothing but that he
begged to be taken to a place where he could say
his prayers.
Voronts6v called his valet and told him to do
what Hadji Murad desired.
As soon as Hadji Murad was alone in the room
1 'It is a thing of value.'
3 'We must find an opportunity to make him a present.'
HADJI MURAD 265
allotted to him his face altered. The pleased ex-
pression, now kindly and now stately, vanished, and a
look of anxiety showed itself. Voronts6v had re-
ceived him far better than Hadji Murad had ex-
pected. But the better the reception the less did
Hadji Murad trust Vorontsov and his officers. He
feared everything: that he might be seized, chained,
and sent to Siberia, or simply killed; and therefore
he was on his guard. He asked Eldar, when the
latter entered his room, where his murids had been
put and whether their arms had been taken from
them, and where the horses were. Eldar reported
that the horses were in the prince's stables; that the
men had been placed in a barn; that they retained
their arms, and that the interpreter was giving
them food and tea.
Hadji Murad shook his head in doubt, and after
undressing said his prayers and told Eldar to bring
him his silver dagger. He then dressed, and having
fastened his belt sat down on the divan with his
legs tucked under him, to await what might befall
him.
At four in the afternoon the interpreter came to
call him to dine with the prince.
At dinner he hardly ate anything except some
pilau, to which he helped himself from the very
part of the dish from which Marya Vasflevna had
helped herself.
'He is afraid we shall poison him,' Marya Vasi-
levna remarked to her husband. 'He has helped
himself from the place where I took my help-
ing/ Then instantly turning to Hadji Murad she
asked him through the interpreter when he would
pray again. Hadji Murad lifted five fingers and
pointed to the sun. 'Then it will soon be time,' and
Vorontsov drew out his watch and pressed a spring.
The watch struck four and one quarter. This
266 HADJI MURAD
evidently surprised Hadji Murad, and he asked to
hear it again and to be allowed to look at the
watch.
'Voild r occasion! Donnez-lui la montrej 1 said the
Princess to her husband.
Vorontsov at once offered the watch to Hadji
Murad.
The latter placed his hand on his breast and took
the watch. He touched the spring several times,
listened, and nodded his head approvingly.
After dinner, Meller-Zakom&sky's aide-de-camp
was announced.
The aide-de-camp informed the prince that the
general, having heard of Hadji Murad's arrival, was
highly displeased that this had not been reported
to him, and required Hadji Murad to be brought
to him without delay. Vorontsov replied that
the general's command should be obeyed, and
through the interpreter informed Hadji Murad of
these orders and asked him to go to Meller with
him.
When Marya Vasilevna heard what the aide-de-
camp had come about, she at once understood that
unpleasantness might arise between her husband
and the general, and in spite of all her husband's
attempts to dissuade her, decided to go with him
and Hadji Murad.
* Vousferiez bien mieux de r ester c'est mon affaire, non
pas la vdtre. . . . '
' Vous ne pouvez pas nCempecher dialler voir madame
'You could go some other time.'
'But I wish to go now!'
1 'This is the opportunity! Give him the watch.'
2 'You would do much better to remain at home . . . this
is my business, and not yours.'
'You cannot prevent my going to see the general's wife!'
HADJI MURAD 267
There was no help for it, so Vorontsov agreed,
and they all three went.
When they entered, Meller with sombre polite-
ness conducted Marya Vasilevna to his wife and
told his aide-de-camp to show Hadji Murad into
the waiting-room and not let him out till further
orders.
Tlease . . .' he said to Vorontsov, opening the
door of his study and letting the prince enter before
him.
Having entered the study he stopped in front of
Vorontsov and, without offering him a seat, said:
'I am in command here and therefore all nego-
tiations with the enemy have to be carried on
through me ! Why did you not report to me that
Hadji Murad had come over?'
'An emissary came to me and announced his
wish to capitulate only to me,' replied Vorontsov
growing pale with excitement, expecting some rude
expression from the angry general and at the same
time becoming infected with his anger.
'I ask you why I was not informed?'
'I intended to inform you, Baron, but . . .'
'You are not to address me as "Baron", but as
"Your Excellency" !' And here the baron's pent-up
irritation suddenly broke out and he uttered all
that had long been boiling in his soul.
'I have not served my sovereign twenty-seven
years in order that men who began their service
yesterday, relying on family connexions, should
give orders under my very nose about matters that
do not concern them!'
'Your Excellency, I request you not to say things
that are incorrect!' interrupted Voronts6v.
'I am saying what is correct, and I won't al-
low . . .' said the general, still more irritably.
But at that moment Marya Vasilevna entered,
268 HADJI MURAD
rustling with her skirts and followed by a modest-
looking little lady, Meller-Zakome'lsky's wife.
'Come, come, Baron! Simon did not wish to
displease you,' began Marya Vasilevna.
'I am not speaking about that, Princess. . . .'
'Well, well, let's forget it all! ... You know, "A
bad peace is better than a good quarrel!" . . . Oh
dear, what am I saying?' and she laughed.
The angry general capitulated to the enchanting
laugh of the beauty. A smile hovered under his
moustache.
*I confess I was wrong,' said Vorontsov, 'but '
'And I too got rather carried away,' said Meller,
and held out his hand to the prince.
Peace was re-established, and it was decided to
leave Hadji Murad with the general for the present,
and then to send him to the commander of the
left flank.
Hadji Murad sat in the next room and though
he did not understand what was said, he under-
stood what it was necessary for him to understand
namely, that they were quarrelling about him,
that his desertion of Shamil was a matter of im-
mense importance to the Russians, and that there-
fore not only would they not exile or kill him, but
that he would be able to demand much from them.
He also understood that though Meller-Zakome'l-
sky was the commanding-officer, he had not as
much influence as his subordinate Voronts6v, and
that Voronts6v was important and Meller-Zako-
m&sky unimportant; and therefore when Meller-
Zakomdlsky sent for him and began to question
him, Hadji Murad bore himself proudly and cere-
moniously, saying that he had come from the
mountains to serve the White Tsar and would give
account only to his Sirdar, meaning the comman-
der-in-chief, Prince Voronts6v senior, in Tiflis.
HADJI MURAD 269
VII
The wounded Avde*ev was taken to the hospital
-a small wooden building roofed with boards at
the entrance of the fort and was placed on one of
the empty beds in the common ward. There were
four patients in the ward: one ill with typhus and
in high fever; another, pale, with dark shadows
under his eyes, who had ague, was just expecting
another attack and yawned continually; and two
more who had been wounded in a raid three weeks
before: one in the hand he was up and the other
in the shoulder. The latter was sitting on a bed.
All of them except the typhus patient surrounded
and questioned the newcomer and those who had
brought him.
'Sometimes they fire as if they were spilling peas
over you, and nothing happens . . . and this time only
about five shots were fired,' related one of the bearers.
'Each man gets what fate sends!'
'Oh!' groaned Avdeev loudly, trying to master
his pain when they began to place him on the bed;
but he stopped groaning when he was on it, and
only frowned and moved his feet continually. He
held his hands over his wound and looked fixedly
before him.
The doctor came, and gave orders to turn the
wounded man over to see whether the bullet had
passed out behind.
'What's this?' the doctor asked, pointing to the
large white scars that crossed one another on the
patient's back and loins.
'That was done long ago, your honour!' replied
Avde*ev with a groan.
They were scars left by the flogging Avd6ev had
received for the money he drank.
Avde*ev was again turned over, and the doctor
270 HADJI MURAD
probed in his stomach for a long time and found
the bullet, but failed to extract it. He put a dressing
on the wound, and having stuck plaster over it went
away. During the whole time the doctor was pro-
bing and bandaging the wound Avde*ev lay with
clenched teeth and closed eyes, but when the doctor
had gone he opened them and looked around as
though amazed. His eyes were turned on the other
patients and on the surgeon's orderly, though he
seemed to see not them but something else that
surprised him.
His friends Panov and Serogin came in, but Avde"ev
continued to lie in the same position looking before
him with surprise. It was long before he recognized
his comrades, though his eyes gazed straight at them.
'I say, Peter, have you no message to send home? 5
said Panov.
Avdeev did not answer, though he was looking
Pan6v in the face.
'I say, haven't you any orders to send home?'
again repeated Panov, touching Avdev's cold,
large-boned hand.
Avdeev seemed to come to.
'Ah!..; Panov!'
'Yes, I'm here. . . . I've come! Have you nothing
for home? Serogin would write a letter.'
'Ser6gin . . .' said Avdeev moving his eyes with
difficulty towards Ser6gin, 'will you write? . . . Well
then, write so: "Your son," say, "Peter, has given
orders that you should live long. 1 He envied his
brother" ... I told you about that to-day . . . "and
now he is himself glad. Don't worry him. . . . Let
him live. God grant it him. I am glad !" Write that.'
Having said this he was silent for some time with
his eyes fixed on Pan6v.
1 A popular expression, meaning that the sender of the
message is already dead. A. M.
HADJI MURAD 271
'And did you find your pipe?' he suddenly asked.
Panov did not reply.
'Your pipe . . . your pipe ! I mean, have you found
it?' Avde*ev repeated.
'It was in my bag.'
'That's right! . . . Well, and now give me a candle
to hold ... I am going to die,' said Avdeev.
Just then Poltoratsky came in to inquire after his
soldier.
'How goes it, my lad! Badly?' said he.
Avd6ev closed his eyes and shook his head nega-
tively. His broad-cheeked face was pale and stern.
He olid not reply, but again said to Pan6v:
'Bring a candle. ... I am going to die.'
A wax taper was placed in his hand but his
fingers would not bend, so it was placed between
them and held up for him.
Poltoratsky went away, and five minutes later
the orderly put his ear to Avdeev's heart and said
that all was over.
Avd6ev's death was described in the following
manner in the report sent to Tiflis:
'zyd Nov. Two companies of the Kurin regi-
ment advanced from the fort on a wood-felling ex-
pedition. At midday a considerable number of
mountaineers suddenly attacked the wood-fellers.
The sharpshooters began to retreat, but the 2nd
Company charged with the bayonet and overthrew
the mountaineers. In this affair two privates were
slightly wounded and one killed. The mountaineers
lost about a hundred men killed and wounded.'
VIII
On the day Peter Avdeev died in the hospital at
Vozdvizhensk, his old father with the wife of the
brother in whose stead he had enlisted, and that
brother's daughter who was already approaching
*72 HADJI MURAD
womanhood and almost of age to get married were
threshing oats on the hard-frozen threshing-floor.
There had been a heavy fall of snow the previous
night, followed towards morning by a severe frost.
The old man woke when the cocks were crowing
for the third time, and seeing the bright moonlight
through the frozen window-panes got down from
the stove, put on his boots, his sheepskin coat and
cap, and went out to the threshing-floor. Having
worked there for a couple of hours he returned to
the hut and awoke his son and the women. When
the woman and the girl came to the threshing-floor
they found it ready swept, with a wooden shovel
sticking in the dry white snow, beside which were
birch brooms with the twigs upwards and two
rows of oat-sheaves laid ears to ears in a long line
the whole length of the clean threshing-floor. They
chose their flails and started threshing, keeping
time with their triple blows. The old man struck
powerfully with his heavy flail, breaking the straw,
the girl struck the ears from above with measured
blows, and the daughter-in-law turned the oats
over with her flail.
The moon had set, dawn was breaking, and they
were finishing the line of sheaves when Akim, the
eldest son, in his sheepskin and cap, joined the
threshers.
'What are you lazing about for?' shouted his
father to him, pausing in his work and leaning on
his flail.
'The horses had to be seen to.'
' "Horses seen to!'" the father repeated, mim-
icking him. 'The old woman will look after them.
. . . Take your flail! You're getting too fat, you
drunkard!'
'Have you been standing me treat?' muttered
the son.
HADJI MURAD 273
'What?' said the old man, frowning sternly and
missing a stroke.
The son silently took a flail and they began
threshing with four flails.
'Trak, tapatam . . . trak, tapatam . . . trak . . .'
came down the old man's heavy flail after the three
others.
'Why, you've got a nape like a goodly gentleman !
. . . Look here, my trousers have hardly anything
to hang on !' said the old man, omitting his stroke
and only swinging his flail in the air so as not to get
out of time.
They had finished the row, and the women began
removing the straw with rakes.
'Peter was a fool to go in your stead. They'd have
knocked the nonsense out of you in the army, and
he was worth five of such as you at home!'
'That's enough, father,' said the daughter-in-
law, as she threw aside the binders that had come
off the sheaves.
'Yes, feed the six of you and get no work out of
a single one ! Peter used to work for two. He was
not like . . .'
Along the trodden path from the house came the
old man's wife, the frozen snow creaking under the
new bark shoes she wore over her tightly wound
woollen leg-bands. The men were shovelling the
unwinnowed grain into heaps, the woman and the
girl sweeping up what remained.
'The Elder has been and orders everybody to go
and work for the master, carting bricks,' said the old
woman. 'I've got breakfast ready. . . . Gome along,
won't you?'
'All right. . . . Harness the roan and go,' said the
old man to Akim, 'and you'd better look out that
you don't get me into trouble as you did the other
day! ... I can't help regretting Peter!'
274 HADJI MURAD
'When he was at home you used to scold him,' re-
torted Akim. 'Nowhe'sawayyoukeepnaggingatme.'
'That shows you deserve it,' said his mother in
the same angry tones. 'You'll never be Peter's equal.'
'Oh, all right,' said the son.
' "All right," indeed! You've drunk the meal,
and now you say "all right!"'
'Let bygones be bygones!' said the daughter-
in-law.
The disagreements between father and son had
begun long ago almost from the time Peter went
as a soldier. Even then the old man felt that he had
parted with an eagle for a cuckoo. It is true that
it was right as the old man understood it for a
childless man to go in place of a family man. Akim
had four children and Peter had none; but Peter
was a worker like his father, skilful, observant,
strong, enduring, and above all industrious. He
was always at work. If he happened to pass by
where people were working he lent a helping hand
as his father would have done, and took a turn or
two with the scythe, or loaded a cart, or felled a
tree, or chopped some wood. The old man re-
gretted his going away, but there was no help for it.
Conscription in those days was like death. A soldier
was a severed branch, and to think about him at
home was to tear one's heart uselessly. Only oc-
casionally, to prick his elder son, did the father men-
tion him, as he had done that day. But his mother
often thought of her younger son, and for a long
time more than a year now she had been asking
her husband to send Peter a little money, but the
old man had made no response.
The Kurenkovs were a well-to-do family and the
old man had some savings hidden away, but he
would on no account have consented to touch what
he had laid by. Now however the old woman
HADJI MURAD 275
having heard him mention their younger son, made
up her mind to ask him again to send him at least
a ruble after selling the oats. This she did. As soon
as the young people had gone to work for the pro-
prietor and the old folk were left alone together, she
persuaded him to send Peter a ruble out of the
oats-money.
So when ninety-six bushels of the winnowed oats
had been packed onto three sledges lined with
sacking carefully pinned together at the top with
wooden skewers, she gave her husband a letter the
church clerk had written at her dictation, and the
old man promised when he got to town to enclose
a ruble and send it off to the right address.
The old man, dressed in a new sheepskin with a
homespun cloak over it, his legs wrapped round
with warm white woollen leg-bands, took the letter,
placed it in his wallet, said a prayer, got into the
front sledge, and drove to town. His grandson
drove in the last sledge. When he reached town the
old man asked the innkeeper to read the letter to
him, and listened to it attentively and approvingly.
In her letter Peter's mother first sent him her
blessing, then greetings from everybody and the
news of his godfather's death, and at the end she
added that Aksfnya (Peter's wife) had not wished
to stay with them but had gone into service, where
they heard she was living honestly and well. Then
came a reference to the present of a ruble, and
finally a message which the old woman, yielding to
her sorrow, had dictated with tears in her eyes and the
church clerk had taken down exactly, word for word:
'One thing more, my darling child, my sweet
dove, my own Peterkin! I have wept my eyes out
lamenting for thee, thou light of my eyes. To whom
hast thou left me? . . . ' At this point the old woman
had sobbed and wept, and said: 'That will do!'
276 HADJI MURAD
So the words stood in the letter; but it was not fated
that Peter should receive the news of his wife's
having left home, nor the present of the ruble, nor
his mother's last words. The letter with the money
in it came back with the announcement that Peter
had been killed in the war, 'defending his Tsar, his
Fatherland, and the Orthodox Faith.' That is how
the army clerk expressed it.
The old woman, when this news reached her,
wept for as long as she could spare time, and then
set to work again. The very next Sunday she went
to church and had a requiem chanted and Peter's
name entered among those for whose souls prayers
were to be said, and she distributed bits of holy
bread to all the good people in memory of Peter,
the servant of God.
Aksinya, his widow, also lamented loudly when
she heard of the death of her beloved husband with
whom she had lived but one short year. She re-
gretted her husband and her own ruined life, and
in her lamentations mentioned Peter's brown locks
and his love, and the sadness of her life with her
little orphaned Vanka, and bitterly reproached
Peter for having had pity on his brother but none
on her obliged to wander among strangers!
But in the depth of her soul Aksinya was glad of
her husband's death. She was pregnant a second
time by the shopman with whom she was living,
and no one would now have a right to scold her, and
the shopman could marry her as he had said he
would when he was persuading her to yield.
IX
Michael Semenovich Voronts6v, being the son
of the Russian Ambassador, had been educated in
England and possessed a European education quite
exceptional among the higher Russian officials of
HADJI MURAD 277
his day. He was ambitious, gentle and kind in his
manner with inferiors, and a finished courtier with
superiors. He did not understand life without
power and submission. He had obtained all the
highest ranks and decorations and was looked upon
as a clever commander, and even as the conqueror
of Napoleon at Krasnoe. 1
In 1852 he was over seventy, but young for his
age, he moved briskly, and above all was in full
possession of a facile, refined, and agreeable in-
tellect which he used^to maintain his power and
strengthen and increase his popularity. He pos-
sessed large means his own and his wife's (who had
been a Countess Branitski) and received an enor-
mous salary as Viceroy, and he spent a great part
of his means on building a palace and laying out a
garden on the south coast of the Crimea.
On the evening of December the 4th, 1852, a
courier's troyka drew up before his palace in Tiflis.
An officer, tired and black with dust, sent by
General Kozl6vski with the news of Hadji Murad's
surrender to the Russians, entered the wide porch,
stretching the stiffened muscles of his legs as he
passed the sentinel. It was six o'clock, and Voront-
s6v was just going in to dinner when he was in-
formed of the courier's arrival. He received him
at once, and was therefore a few minutes late for
dinner.
When he entered the drawing-room the thirty
persons invited to dine, who were sitting beside
Princess Elizabeth Ksav^revna Vorontsova, or stand-
ing in groups by the windows, turned their faces
towards him. Voronts6v was dressed in his usual
1 A town thirty miles south-west of Smolensk, at which, in
November 1812, the rear-guard of Napoleon's army was de-
feated during the retreat from Moscow. It is mentioned in
War and Peace. A. M.
278 HADJI MURAD
black military coat, with shoulder-straps but no
epaulets, and wore the White Cross of the Order of
St. George at his neck.
His clean-shaven, foxlike face wore a pleasant
smile as, screwing up his eyes, he surveyed the
assembly. Entering with quick soft steps he apolo-
gized to the ladies for being late, greeted the men,
and approaching Princess Manana Orbelyani a
tall, fine, handsome woman of Oriental type about
forty-five years of age he offered her his arm to
take her in to dinner. Princess Elizabeth Ksaverev-
na Vorontsova gave her arm to a red-haired general
with bristly moustaches who was visiting Tiflis. A
Georgian prince offered his arm to Princess Voront-
sova's friend, Countess Choiseuil. Doctor Andre-
evsky, the aide-de-camp, and others, with ladies or
without, followed these first couples. Footmen in
livery and knee-breeches drew back and replaced
the guests' chairs when they sat down, while the
major-domo ceremoniously ladled out steaming
soup from a silver tureen.
Vorontsov took his place in the centre of one side
of the long table, and his wife sat opposite, with the
general on her right. On the prince's right sat his
lady, the beautiful Orbelyani; and on his left was
a graceful, dark, red-cheeked Georgian woman,
glittering with jewels and incessantly smiling.
'Excellentes, chere amie/' 1 replied Vorontsov to his
wife's inquiry about what news the courier had
brought him. 'Simon a eu de la chance I* 2 And he
began to tell aloud, so that everyone could hear,
the striking news (for him alone not quite unex-
pected, because negotiations had long been going
on) that Hadji Murad, the bravest and most famous
of ShamiPs officers, had come over to the Russians
and would in a day or two be brought to Tiflis.
1 'Excellent, my dear!' a 'Simon has had good luck.'
HADJI MURAD 279
Everybody even the young aides-de-camp and
officials who sat at the far ends of the table and who
had been quietly laughing at something among
themselves became silent and listened.
'And you, General, have you ever met this
Hadji Murad?' asked the princess of her neighbour,
the carroty general with the bristly moustaches,
when the prince had finished speaking.
'More than once, Princess. 5
And the general went on to tell how Hadji
Murad, after the mountaineers had captured
Gergebel in 1843, h ac * fallen upon General Pah-
len's detachment and killed Colonel Zolotiikhin
almost before their very eyes.
Voronts6v listened to the general and smiled
amiably, evidently pleased that the latter had
joined in the conversation. But suddenly his face as-
sumed an absent-minded and depressed expression.
The general, having started talking, had begun
to tell of his second encounter with Hadji Murad.
'Why, it was he, if your Excellency will please
remember,* said the general, 'who arranged the
ambush that attacked the rescue party in the
"Biscuit" expedition.'
'Where?' asked Voronts6v, screwing up his eyes.
What the brave general spoke of as the 'rescue'
was the affair in the unfortunate Dargo campaign
in which a whole detachment, including Prince
Vorontsov who commanded it, would certainly
have perished had it not been rescued by the arrival
of fresh troops. Every one knew that the whole
Dargo campaign under Voronts6v's command
in which the Russians lost many killed and wounded
and several cannon had been a shameful affair,
and therefore if any one mentioned it in Voront-
s6v's presence they did so only in the aspect in
which Voronts6v had reported it to the Tsar as a
2 8o HADJI MURAD
brilliant achievement of the Russian army. But the
word 'rescue' plainly indicated that it was not a
brilliant victory but a blunder costing many lives.
Everybody understood this and some pretended
not to notice the meaning of the general's words,
others nervously waited to see what would follow,
while a few exchanged glances and smiled. Only
the carroty general with the bristly moustaches
noticed nothing, and carried away by his narrative
quietly replied:
'At the rescue, your Excellency.'
Having started on his favourite theme, the
general recounted circumstantially how Hadji
Murad had so cleverly cut the detachment in two
that if the rescue party had not arrived (he seemed
to be particularly fond of repeating the word 'rescue')
not a man in the division would have escaped,
because ... He did not finish his story, for Manana
Orbelyani having understood what was happening,
interrupted him by asking if he had found com-
fortable quarters in Tiflis. The general, surprised,
glanced at everybody all round and saw his aides-
de-camp from the end of the table looking fixedly
and significantly at him, and he suddenly under-
stood ! Without replying to the princess's question,
he frowned, became silent, and began hurriedly
swallowing the delicacy that lay on his plate, the
appearance and taste of which both completely
mystified him.
Everybody felt uncomfortable, but the awkward-
ness of the situation was relieved by the Georgian
prince a very stupid man but an extraordinarily
refined and artful flatterer and courtier who sat
on the other side of Princess Voronts6va. Without
seeming to have noticed anything he began to relate
how Hadji Murad had carried off the widow of
Akhmet Khan of Mekhtulf.
HADJI MURAD 281
'He came into the village at night, seized what
he wanted, and galloped off again with the whole
party.'
'Why did he want that particular woman?'
asked the princess.
'Oh, he was her husband's enemy, and pursued
him but could never once succeed in meeting him
right up to the time of his death, so he revenged
himself on the widow.'
The princess translated this into French for her
old friend Countess Ghoiseuil, who sat next to the
Georgian prince.
'Quelle horreur!' 1 said the countess, closing her eyes
and shaking her head.
'Oh no!' said Vorontsov, smiling. 'I have been
told that he treated his captive with chivalrous
respect and afterwards released her.'
'Yes, for a ransom!'
'Well, of course. But all the same he acted
honourably.'
These words of Voronts6v's set the tone for the
further conversation. The courtiers understood
that the more importance was attributed to Hadji
Murad the better the prince would be pleased.
'The man's audacity is amazing. A remarkable
man!'
'Why, in 1849 ^ e dashed into Temir Khan Shura
and plundered the shops in broad daylight.'
An Armenian sitting at the end of the table, who
had been in Temir Khan Shura at the time, related
the particulars of that exploit of Hadji Murad's.
In fact, Hadji Murad was the sole topic of con-
versation during the whole dinner.
Everybody in succession praised his courage, his
ability, and his magnanimity. Someone mentioned
his having ordered twenty-six prisoners to be killed,
1 'How horrible!'
282 HADJI MURAD
but that too was met by the usual rejoinder, * What's
to be done? A la guerre, comme d la guerre!' 1
'He is a great man.'
'Had he been born in Europe he might have been
another Napoleon,' said the stupid Georgian prince
with a gift of flattery.
He knew that every mention of Napoleon was
pleasant to Vorontsov, who wore the White Gross
at his neck as a reward for having defeated him.
'Well, not Napoleon perhaps, but a gallant
cavalry general if you like,' said Vorontsov.
'If not Napoleon, then Murat.'
*And his name is Hadji Murdd! 9
'Hadji Murad has surrendered and now there'll
be an end to Shamil too,' someone remarked.
'They feel that now' (this 'now' meant under
Vorontsov) 'they can't hold out,' remarked another.
' Tout cela est grace d vous!' 2 said Manana Or-
belyani.
Prince Vorontsov tried to moderate the waves of
flattery which began to flow over him. Still, it
was pleasant, and in the best of spirits he led his
lady back into the drawing-room.
After dinner, when coffee was being served in the
drawing-room, the prince was particularly amiable
to everybody, and going up to the general with the
red bristly moustaches he tried to appear not to
have noticed his blunder.
Having made a round of the visitors he sat down
to the card-table. He only played the old-fashioned
game of ombre. His partners were the Georgian
prince, an Armenian general (who had learnt the
game of ombre from Prince Vorontsov's valet), and
Doctor Andr^evsky, a man remarkable for the
great influence he exercised.
1 'War is war.'
* 'All this is thanks to you!'
HADJI MURAD 283
Placing beside him his gold snuff-box with a
portrait of Alexander I on the lid, the prince tore
open a pack of highly glazed cards and was going
to spread them out, when his Italian valet, Giovan-
ni, brought him a letter on a silver tray.
'Another courier, your Excellency,'
Vorontsov laid down the cards, excused himself,
opened the letter, and began to read.
The letter was from his son, who described Hadji
Murad's surrender and his own encounter with
Meller-Zakomelsky.
The princess came up and inquired what their
son had written.
'It 's all about the same matter. . . . Ilaeu quelgues
desagrements avec le commandant de la place. Simon a
eu tort. 1 . . . But "All 'swell that ends well ",' he added
in English, handing the letter to his wife; and turn-
ing to his respectfully waiting partners he asked
them to draw cards.
When the first round had been dealt Vorontsov
did what he was in the habit of doing when in
a particularly pleasant mood: with his white,
wrinkled old hand he took out a pinch of French
snuff, carried it to his nose, and released it.
X
When Hadji Murad appeared at the prince's
palace next day, the waiting-room was already full
of people. Yesterday's general with the bristly
moustaches was there in full uniform with all his
decorations, having come to take leave. There was
the commander of a regiment who was in danger of
being court-martialled for misappropriating com-
missariat money, and there was a rich Armenian
(patronized by Doctor Andr^evsky) who wanted to
1 'He has had some unpleasantness with the commandant
of the place. Simon was in the wrong.*
284 HADJI MURAD
obtain from the Government a renewal of his
monopoly for the sale of v6dka. There, dressed in
black, was the widow of an officer who had been
killed in action. She had come to ask for a pension,
or for free education for her children. There was a
ruined Georgian prince in a magnificent Georgian
costume who was trying to obtain for himself some
confiscated Church property. There was an official
with a large roll of paper containing a new plan
for subjugating the Caucasus. There was also a
Khan who had come solely to be able to tell his
people at home that he had called on the prince.
They all waited their turn and were one by one
shown into the prince's cabinet and out again by
the aide-de-camp, a handsome, fair-haired youth.
When Hadji Murad entered the waiting-room
with his brisk though limping step all eyes were
turned towards him and he heard his name whis-
pered from various parts of the room.
He was dressed in a long white Circassian coat
over a brown beshmit trimmed round the collar with
fine silver lace. He wore black leggings and soft
shoes of the same colour which were stretched over
his instep as tight as gloves. On his head he wore a
high cap draped turban-fashion that same turban
for which, on the denunciation of Akhmet Khan, he
had been arrested by General Kliigenau and which
had been the cause of his going over to Shamil.
He stepped briskly across the parquet floor of
the waiting-room, his whole slender figure swaying
slightly in consequence of his lameness in one leg
which was shorter than the other. His eyes, set far
apart, looked calmly before him and seemed to see
no one.
The handsome aide-de-camp, having greeted
him, asked him to take a seat while he went to
announce him to the prince, but Hadji Murad
HADJI MURAD 285
declined to sit down and, putting his hand on his
dagger, stood with one foot advanced, looking
round contemptuously at all those present.
The prince's interpreter, Prince Tarkhanov, ap-
proached Hadji Murad and spoke to him. Hadji
Murad answered abruptly and unwillingly. A
Kum^k prince, who was there to lodge a complaint
against a police official, came out of the prince's
room, and then the aide-de-camp called Hadji
Murad, led him to the door of the cabinet, and
showed him in.
The Commander-in-Chief received Hadji Murad
standing beside his table, and his old white face did
not wear yesterday's smile but was rather stern
and solemn.
On entering the large room with its enormous
table and great windows with green Venetian blinds,
Hadji Murad placed his small sunburnt hands on
his chest just where the front of his white coat over-
lapped, and lowering his eyes began, without
hurrying, to speak distinctly and respectfully, using
the Kum^k dialect which he spoke well.
'I place myself under the powerful protection of
the great Tsar and of yourself,' said he, 'and pro-
mise to serve the White Tsar in faith and truth to
the last drop of my blood, and I hope to be useful
to you in the war with Shamil who is my enemy
and yours.'
Having heard the interpreter out, Vorontsov
glanced at Hadji Murad and Hadji Murad glanced
at Vorontsov.
The eyes of the two men met, and expressed to
each other much that could not have been put
into words and that was not at all what the inter-
preter said. Without words they told each other
the whole truth. Voronts6v's eyes said that he did
not believe a single word Hadji Murad was saying,
286 HADJI MURAD
and that he knew he was and always would be an
enemy to everything Russian and had surrendered
only because he was obliged to. Hadji Murad
understood this and yet continued to give assur-
ances of his fidelity. His eyes said, 'That old man
ought to be thinking of his death and not of war,
but though he is old he is cunning, and I must be
careful. 5 Vorontsov understood this also, but never-
theless spoke to Hadji Murad in the way he con-
sidered necessary for the success of the war.
'Tell him,' said Vorontsov, 'that our sovereign is
as merciful as he is mighty and will probably at my
request pardon him and take him into his service.
. . . Have you told him? 5 he asked, looking at Hadji
Murad. . . . 'Until I receive my master's gracious
decision, tell him I take it on myself to receive him
and make his sojourn among us pleasant.'
Hadji Murad again pressed his hands to the
centre of his chest and began to say something with
animation.
'He says,' the interpreter translated, 'that for-
merly, when he governed Avaria in 1839, he served
the Russians faithfully and would never have
deserted them had not his enemy, Akhmet Khan,
wishing to ruin him, calumniated him to General
Kliigenau.'
'I know, I know,' said Voronts6v (though if he
had ever known he had long forgotten it). 'I
know,' he repeated, sitting down and motioning
Hadji Murad to the divan that stood beside the
wall. But Hadji Murad did not sit down. Shrug-
ging his powerful shoulders as a sign that he could
not bring himself to sit in the presence of so im-
portant a man, he went on, addressing the inter-
preter:
'Akhmet Khan and Shamil are both my enemies.
Tell the prince that Akhmet Khan is dead and I
HADJI MURAD 287
cannot revenge myself on him, but Shamil lives and
I will not die without taking vengeance on him,' said
he, knitting his brows and tightly closing his mouth.
'Yes, yes; but how does he want to revenge him-
self on Shamil ?' said Vorontsov quietly to the inter-
preter. 'And tell him he may sit down.'
Hadji Murad again declined to sit down, and in
answer to the question replied that his object in
coming over to the Russians was to help them to
destroy Shamil.
'Very well, very well, 5 said Vorontsov; 'but what
exactly does he wish to do? ... Sit down, sit down!'
Hadji Murad sat down, and said that if only they
would send him to the Lesghian line and would
give him an army, he would guarantee to raise the
whole of Daghestan and Shamil would then be
unable to hold out.
'That would be excellent. . . . I'll think it over,'
said Vorontsov.
The interpreter translated Vorontsov's words to
Hadji Murad.
Hadji Murad pondered.
'Tell the Sirdar one thing more,' Hadji Murad
began again, 'that my family are in the hands of my
enemy, and that as long as they are in the moun-
tains I am bound and cannot serve him. Shamil
would kill my wife and my mother and my children
if I went openly against him. Let the prince first
exchange my family for the prisoners he has, and
then I will destroy Shamil or die!'
'All right, all right,' said Vorontsov. 'I will
think it over. . . . Now let him go to the chief of the
staff and explain to him in detail his position, in-
tentions, and wishes.'
Thus ended the first interview between Hadji
Murad and Voronts6v.
That evening an Italian opera was performed at
288 HADJI MURAD
the new theatre, which was decorated in Oriental
style. Voronts6v was in his box when the striking
figure of the limping Hadji Murdd wearing a turban
appeared in the stalls. He came in with L6ris-
M&ikov, 1 Vorontsov's aide-de-camp, in whose
charge he was placed, and took a seat in the front
row. Having sat through the first act with Oriental
Mohammedan dignity, expressing no pleasure but
only obvious indifference, he rose and looking
calmly round at the audience went out, drawing to
himself everybody's attention.
The next day was Monday and there was the
usual evening party at the Voronts6vs'. In the
large brightly lighted hall a band was playing,
hidden among trees. Young women and women
not very young wearing dresses that displayed
their bare necks, arms, and breasts, turned round
and round in the embrace of men in bright uni-
forms. At the buffet, footmen in 
