I began again to analyze the matter from a third and purely personal
point of view. Among the phenomena which particularly impressed me
during my benevolent activity, there was one,--a very strange
one,--which I could not understand for a long time.
Whenever I happened, in the street or at home, to give a poor person a
trifling sum without entering into conversation with him, I saw on his
face, or imagined I saw, an expression of pleasure and gratitude, and I
myself experienced an agreeable feeling at this form of charity. I saw
that I had done what was expected of me. But when I stopped and began to
question the man about his past and present life, entering more or less
into particulars, I felt it was impossible to give him 3 or 20 kopeks;
and I always began to finger the money in my purse, and, not knowing how
much to give, I always gave more under these circumstances; but,
nevertheless, I saw that the poor man went away from me dissatisfied.
When I entered into still closer intercourse with him, my doubts as to
how much I should give increased; and, no matter what I gave, the
recipient seemed more and more gloomy and dissatisfied.
As a general rule, it always happens that if, upon nearer acquaintance
with the poor man I gave him three rubles or even more, I always saw
gloominess, dissatisfaction, even anger depicted on his face; and
sometimes, after having received from me ten rubles, he has left me
without even thanking me, as if I had offended him.
In such cases I was always uncomfortable and ashamed, and felt myself
guilty. When I watched the poor person during weeks, months, or years,
helped him, expressed my views, and became intimate with him, then our
intercourse became a torment, and I saw that the man despised me. And I
felt that he was right in doing so. When in the street a beggar asks me,
along with other passers-by, for three kopeks, and I give it him, then,
in his estimation, I am a kind and good man who gives "one of the
threads which go to make the shirt of a naked one": he expects nothing
more than a thread, and, if I give it, he sincerely blesses me.
But if I stop and speak to him as man to man, show him that I wish to be
more than a mere passer-by, and, if, as it often happened, he shed tears
in relating his misfortune, then he sees in me not merely a chance
helper, but that which I wish him to see,--a kind man. If I am a kind
man, my kindness cannot stop at twenty kopeks, or at ten rubles, or ten
thousand. One cannot be a slightly kind man. Let us suppose that I give
him much; that I put him straight, dress him, and set him on his legs so
that he can help himself; but, from some reason or other, either from an
accident or his own weakness, he again loses the great-coat and clothing
and money I gave him, he is again hungry and cold, and he again comes to
me, why should I refuse him assistance? For if the cause of my
benevolent activity was merely the attainment of some definite, material
object, such as giving him so many rubles or a certain great-coat, then,
having given them I could be easy in my mind; but the cause of my
activity was not this: the cause of it was my desire to be a kind
man--i.e., to see myself in everybody else. Everyone understands
kindness in this way, and not otherwise.
Therefore if such a man should spend in drink all you gave him twenty
times over, and be again hungry and cold, then, if you are a benevolent
man, you cannot help giving him more money, you can never leave off
doing so while you have more than he has; but if you draw back, you show
that all you did before was done not because you are benevolent, but
because you wish to appear so to others and to him. And it was because I
had to back out of such cases, and to cease to give, and thus to disown
the good, that I felt a painful sense of shame.
What was this feeling, then?
I had experienced it in Liapin's house and in the country, and when I
happened to give money or anything else to the poor, and in my
adventures among the town people. One case which occurred lately
reminded me of it forcibly, and led me to discover its cause.
It happened in the country. I wanted twenty kopeks to give to a pilgrim.
I sent my son to borrow it from somebody. He brought it to the man, and
told me that he had borrowed it from the cook. Some days after, other
pilgrims came, and I was again in need of twenty kopeks. I had a ruble.
I recollected what I owed the cook, went into the kitchen, hoping that
he would have some more coppers. I said,--
"I owe you twenty kopeks: here is a ruble."
I had not yet done speaking when the cook called to his wife from the
adjoining room: "Parasha, take it," he said.
Thinking she had understood what I wanted, I gave her the ruble. I must
tell you that the cook had been living at our house about a week, and I
had seen his wife, but had never spoken to her. I merely wished to tell
her to give me the change, when she briskly bowed herself over my hand
and was about to kiss it, evidently thinking I was giving her the ruble.
I stammered out something and left the kitchen. I felt ashamed,
painfully ashamed, as I had not felt for a long time. I actually
trembled, and felt that I was making a wry face; and, groaning with
shame, I ran away from the kitchen.
This feeling, which I fancied I had not deserved, and which came over me
quite unexpectedly, impressed me particularly, because it was so long
since I had felt anything like it and also because I fancied that I, an
old man, had been living in a way I had no reason to be ashamed of.
This surprised me greatly. I related the case to my family, to my
acquaintances, and they all agreed that they also would have felt the
same. And I began to reflect: Why is it that I felt so?
The answer came from a case which had formerly occurred to me in Moscow.
I reflected upon this case, and I understood the shame which I felt
concerning the incident with the cook's wife, and all the sensations of
shame I had experienced during my charitable activity in Moscow, and
which I always feel when I happen to give anything beyond trifling alms
to beggars and pilgrims, which I am accustomed to give, and which I
consider not as charity, but as politeness and good breeding. If a man
asks you for a light, you must light a match if you have it. If a man
begs for three or twenty kopeks, or a few rubles, you must give if you
have them. It is a question of politeness, not of charity.
The following is the case I referred to. I have already spoken about the
two peasants with whom I sawed wood three years ago. One Saturday
evening, in the twilight, I was walking with them back to town. They
were going to their master to receive their wages. On crossing the
Dragomilor bridge we met an old man. He begged, and I gave him twenty
kopeks. I gave, thinking what a good impression my alms would make upon
Simon, with whom I had been speaking on religious questions.
Simon, the peasant from Vladímir, who had a wife and two children in
Moscow, also stopped, turned up the lappet of his kaftan, and took out
his purse; and, after having looked over his money, he picked out a
three-kopek piece, gave it to the old man, and asked for two kopeks
back. The old man showed him in his hand two three-kopek pieces and a
single kopek. Simon looked at it, was about to take one kopek, but,
changing his mind, took off his cap, crossed himself, and went away,
leaving the old man the three-kopek piece.
I was acquainted with all Simon's pecuniary circumstances. He had
neither house nor other property. When he gave the old man the three
kopeks, he possessed six rubles and fifty kopeks, which he had been
saving up, and this was all the capital he had.
My property amounted to about six hundred thousand rubles. I had a wife
and children, so also had Simon. He was younger than I, and had not so
many children; but his children were young, and two of mine were
grown-up men, old enough to work, so that our circumstances,
independently of our property, were alike, though even in this respect I
was better off than he.
He gave three kopeks, I gave twenty. What was, then, the difference in
our gifts? What should I have given in order to do as he had done? He
had six hundred kopeks; out of these he gave one, and then another two.
I had six hundred thousand rubles. In order to give as much as Simon
gave, I ought to have given three thousand rubles, and asked the man to
give me back two thousand; and, in the event of his not having change,
to leave him these two also, cross myself, and go away calmly,
conversing about how people live in the manufactories, and what is the
price of liver in the Smolensk market.
I thought about it at the time, but it was long before I was able to
draw from this case the conclusion which inevitably follows from it.
This conclusion appears to be so uncommon and strange, notwithstanding
its mathematical accuracy, that it requires time to get accustomed to
it. One is inclined to think there is some mistake, but there is none.
It is only the terrible darkness of prejudice in which we live.
This conclusion, when I arrived at it and recognized its inevitableness,
explained to me the nature of my feelings of shame in the presence of
the cook's wife, and before all the poor to whom I gave and still give
money. Indeed, what is that money which I give to the poor, and which
the cook's wife thought I was giving her? In the majority of cases it
forms such a minute part of my income that it cannot be expressed in a
fraction comprehensible to Simon or to a cook's wife,--it is in most
cases a millionth part or thereabout. I give so little that my gift is
not, and cannot be, a sacrifice to me: it is only a something with which
I amuse myself when and how it pleases me. And this was indeed how my
cook's wife had understood me. If I gave a stranger in the street a
ruble or twenty kopeks, why should I not give her also a ruble? To her,
such a distribution of money is the same thing as a gentleman throwing
gingerbread nuts into a crowd. It is the amusement of people who possess
much "fool's money." I was ashamed, because the mistake of the cook's
wife showed me plainly what ideas she and all poor people must have of
me. "He is throwing away 'fool's money'"; that is, money not earned by
him.
And, indeed, what is my money, and how did I come by it? One part of it
I collected in the shape of rent for my land, which I had inherited from
my father. The peasant sold his last sheep or cow in order to pay it.
Another part of my money I received from the books I had written. If my
books are harmful, and yet sell, they can only do so by some seductive
attraction, and the money which I receive for them is badly earned
money; but if my books are useful, the thing is still worse. I do not
give them to people, but say, "Give me so many rubles, and I will sell
them to you."
As in the former case a peasant sells his last sheep, here a poor
student or a teacher does it: each poor person who buys denies himself
some necessary thing in order to give me this money. And now that I have
gathered much of such money what am I to do with it? I take it to town,
give it to the poor only when they satisfy all my fancies and come to
town to clean pavements, lamps, or boots, to work for me in the
factories, and so on. And with this money I draw from them all I can. I
try to give them as little as I can and take from them as much as
possible.
Now, quite unexpectedly, I begin to share all this said money with these
same poor persons for nothing; but not with everyone, only as fancy
prompts me. And why should not every poor man expect that his turn might
come to-day to be one of those with whom I amuse myself by giving them
my "fool's money"?
So everyone regards me as the cook's wife did. And I had gone about with
the notion that this was charity,--this taking away thousands with one
hand, and with the other throwing kopeks to those I select!
No wonder I was ashamed. But before I can begin to do good I must leave
off the evil and put myself in a position in which I should cease to
cause it. But all my course of life is evil. If I were to give away a
hundred thousand, I should not yet have put myself in a condition in
which I could do good, because I have still five hundred thousand left.
It is only when I possess nothing at all that I shall be able to do a
little good; such as, for instance, the poor prostitute did who nursed a
sick woman and her child for three days. Yet this seemed to me to be but
so little! And _I_ ventured to think of doing good! One thing only was
true, which I at first felt on seeing the hungry and cold people outside
Liapin's house,--that _I_ was guilty of that; and that to live as I did
was impossible, utterly impossible. What shall we do then? If somebody
still needs an answer to this question, I will, by God's permission,
give one, in detail.