On the same evening that I returned from Liapin's house, I imparted my
impressions to a friend: and he, a resident of the town, began to
explain to me, not without a certain satisfaction, that this was the
most natural state of things in a town; that it was only owing to my
provincialism that I found anything remarkable in it; and that it had
always been, and always would be so, such being one of the inevitable
conditions of civilization. In London it was yet worse, etc., etc.,
therefore there could be nothing wrong about it, and there was nothing
to be disturbed or troubled about.
I began to argue with my friend, but with such warmth and so angrily,
that my wife rushed in from the adjoining room to ask what had happened.
It appeared that, without being aware of it, I had shouted out in an
agonized voice, gesticulating wildly, "We should not go on living in
this way! we must not live so! we have no right!" I was rebuked for my
unnecessary excitement; I was told that I could not talk quietly upon
any question, that I was irritable; and it was pointed out to me that
the existence of such misery as I had witnessed was in no way a reason
for embittering the life of my home-circle.
I felt that this was perfectly just, and held my tongue; but in the
depth of my soul I knew that I was right, and I could not quiet my
conscience.
The town life, which had previously seemed alien and strange to me, now
became so hateful that all the indulgencies of a luxurious existence, in
which I had formerly delighted, began to torment me.
However much I tried to find some kind of excuse for my mode of life, I
could not contemplate without irritation either my own or other people's
drawing-rooms, nor a clean, richly served dinner-table, nor a carriage
with well-fed coachman and horses, nor the shops, theatres, and
entertainments. I could not help seeing, in contrast to all this, those
hungry, shivering, and degraded inhabitants of the night-lodging-house.
I could never free myself from the thought that these conditions were
inseparable--that the one proceeded from the other. I remember that the
sense of culpability which I had felt from the first moment never left
me; but with this feeling another soon mingled, which lessened the
first.
When I talked to my intimate friends and acquaintances about my
impressions in Liapin's house, they all answered in the same way, and
expressed besides their appreciation of my kindness and
tender-heartedness, and gave me to understand that the sight had
impressed me so because I, Leo Tolstoy, was kind-hearted and good. And I
willingly allowed myself to believe this.
The natural consequence of this was, that the first keen sense of
self-reproach and shame became blunted, and was replaced by a sense of
satisfaction at my own virtue, and a desire to make it known to others.
"It is, in truth," I said to myself, "probably not my connection with a
luxurious life which is at fault, but the unavoidable circumstances of
existence. Therefore a change in my particular life would not alter the
evil I had seen."
In changing my own life, I thought, I should only render myself and
those nearest and dearest to me miserable, whilst the other misery would
remain; therefore my object should be, not to alter my own way of
living, as I had at first imagined, but to try as much as was in my
power to _ameliorate_ the position of those unfortunate ones who had
excited my compassion. The whole matter, I reasoned, lies in the fact
that I, being an extremely kind and good man, wish to do good to my
fellow-men.
So I began to arrange a plan of philanthropic activity in which I might
exhibit all my virtues. I must, however, remark here, that, while
planning this charitable effort, in the depth of my heart I felt that I
was not doing the right thing; but, as too often happens, reason and
imagination stifled the voice of conscience.
About this time the census was being taken, and this seemed to me a good
opportunity for instituting that charitable organization in which I
wanted to shine.
I was acquainted with many philanthropic institutions and societies
already existing in Moscow, but all their activity seemed to me both
insignificant and wrongly directed in comparison with what I myself
wished to do.
This was what I invented to excite sympathy amongst the rich for the
poor: I began to collect money, and to enlist men who wished to help in
the work, and who would, in company with the census officers, visit all
the nests of pauperism, entering into relations with the poor, finding
out the details of their needs, aiding them with money and work, sending
them out of Moscow, placing their children in schools, and their old men
and women in homes and houses of refuge.
I thought, moreover, that from those who undertook this work a permanent
society could be formed, which, by dividing between its members the
various districts of Moscow, could take care that new cases of want and
misery should be averted, and so by degrees pauperism might be stifled
at its very beginning, not so much by cure, as by prevention.
Already I saw in the future the entire disappearance of begging and
poverty, I having been the means of its accomplishment. Then we who were
rich could go on living in all our luxury as before, dwelling in fine
houses, eating dinners of five courses, driving in our carriages to
theatres and entertainments, no longer being harassed by such sights as
I had witnessed at Liapin's house.
Having invented this plan, I wrote an article about it; and, before even
giving it to the printers, I went to those acquaintances from whom I
hoped to obtain co-operation, and expounded to all whom I visited that
day (chiefly the rich) the ideas I afterwards published in my article.
I proposed to profit by the census in order to study the state of
pauperism in Moscow, and to help exterminate it by personal effort and
money, after which we might all with a quiet conscience enjoy our usual
pleasures. Everyone listened to me attentively and seriously; but, in
every case, I remarked that the moment my hearers came to understand
what I was driving at, they seemed to become uncomfortable and somewhat
embarrassed. It was principally, I feel sure, on my own account; because
they considered all that I said to be folly. It seemed as though some
outside motive compelled my listeners to agree for the moment with my
foolishness.--"Oh, yes! Certainly. It would be delightful," they said:
"of course it is impossible not to sympathize with you. Your idea is
splendid. I myself have had the same; but ... people here are so
indifferent, that it is hardly reasonable to expect a great success.
However, as far as I am concerned, I am, of course, ready to share in
the enterprise."
Similar answers I received from all. They consented, as it appeared to
me, not because they were persuaded by my arguments, nor yet in
compliance with their own desire, but because of some exterior reason
which rendered it impossible for them to refuse.
I remarked this partly because none of those who promised me their help
in the form of money, defined the sum they meant to give; so that I had
to name the amount by asking, "May I count upon you for twenty-five, or
one hundred, or two hundred, or three hundred, rubles?" And not one of
them paid the money. I draw attention to this fact, because, when people
are going to pay for what they are anxious to have, they are generally
in haste to give it. If it is to secure a box to see Sarah Bernhardt,
the money is immediately produced; here, however, of all who agreed to
give, and expressed their sympathy, not one produced the amount, but
merely silently acquiesced in the sum I happened to name.
In the last house I visited that day there was a large party. The
mistress of the house had for some years been employed in works of
charity. Several carriages were waiting at the door. Footmen in
expensive liveries were seated in the hall. In the spacious
drawing-room, ladies, old and young, wearing rich dresses and ornaments,
were talking to some young men, and dressing up small dolls, intended
for a lottery in aid of the poor.
The sight of this drawing-room and of the people assembled there struck
me very painfully. For not only was their property worth several million
rubles; not only would the interest on the capital spent here on
dresses, laces, bronzes, jewels, carriages, horses, liveries, footmen,
exceed a hundred times the value of these ladies' work,--but even the
expenses caused by this very party of ladies and gentlemen, the gloves,
the linen, candles, tea, sugar, cakes, all this represented a sum a
hundred times greater than the value of the work done.
I saw all this, and therefore might have understood that here, at all
events, I should not find sympathy with my plan, but I had come in order
to give a proposal, and, however painful it was, I said what I wished to
say, repeating almost the words of my article.
One lady present offered me some money, adding that, owing to her
sensibilities, she did not feel strong enough to visit the poor herself,
but that she would give help in this form. How much money, and when she
would give it, she did not say. Another lady and a young man offered
their services in visiting the poor, but I did not profit by their
offer. The principal person I addressed told me that it would be
impossible to do much, because the means were not forthcoming. The means
were scarce, because all the rich men in Moscow who were known and could
be counted upon had already given all it was possible to get from them,
their charities had already been rewarded with titles, medals, and other
distinctions,--which was the only effectual way to ensure success in the
collection of money; and to obtain new honors from the authorities was
very difficult.
When I returned home I went to bed, not only with a presentiment that
nothing would result from my idea, but also with the shameful
consciousness of having been doing something vile and contemptible the
whole day. However, I did not desist.
First, the work had been begun, and false shame prevented my giving it
up; second, not only the success of the enterprise itself, but even my
part in it, afforded me the possibility of continuing to live in my
usual way; whereas the failure of this enterprise would have put me
under the constraint of giving up my present mode of life and of seeking
another. Of this, I was unconsciously afraid; and therefore I refused to
listen to my inner voice, and continued what I had begun.
Having sent my article to be printed, I read a proof-copy at a
census-meeting in the town hall, hesitatingly, and blushing till my
cheeks burned again. I felt very uncomfortable, and I saw that all my
hearers were equally uncomfortable.
On my question, whether the managers of the census would accept my
proposal that they should remain at their posts in order to form a link
between society and those in need, an awkward silence ensued.
Then two of those present made speeches, which seemed to mend the
awkwardness of my suggestions. Sympathy for me was expressed along with
their general approbation, but they pointed out the impracticability of
my scheme. Everyone immediately seemed more at ease; but afterwards,
still wishing to succeed, I asked each district manager separately,
whether during the census he was willing to investigate the needs of the
poor and afterwards remain at his post in order to form this link
between the poor and the rich, all were again confounded; it seemed as
though their looks said, "Why, we have listened to your silly
proposition out of personal regard for you; but here you come with it
again!" This was the expression of their faces, but in words they told
me that they consented; and two of them, separately, but as though they
had agreed together, said in the same words, "We regard it as our moral
duty to do so." The same impression was produced by my words upon the
students who had volunteered to act as clerks during the census, when I
told them that they might accomplish a charitable work besides their
scientific pursuits.
When we talked the matter over I noticed that they were shy of looking
me straight in the face, as one often hesitates to look into the face of
a good-natured man who is talking nonsense. The same impression was
produced upon the editor of the paper when I handed my article to him;
also upon my son, my wife, and various other people. Every one seemed
embarrassed, but all found it necessary to approve of the idea itself;
and all, immediately after this approbation, began to express their
doubts as to the success of the plan, and, for some reason or other, all
without exception took to condemning the indifference and coldness of
society and of the world, though they evidently excluded themselves.