What is to be done? What must we do?
This question, which includes acknowledgment of the fact that our life
is bad and unrighteous, and at the same time hints that there is no
possibility of changing it,--this question I hear everywhere, and
therefore I chose it for the title of my work.
I have described my own sufferings, my search, and the answer which I
have found to this question.
I am a man like others; and if I distinguish myself from an average man
of my own circle in any thing, it is chiefly in the fact that I, more
than this average man, have served and indulged the false teaching of
our world, that I have been more praised by the men of the prevalent
school of teaching, and that therefore I am more depraved, and have gone
farther astray, than most of my fellows.
Therefore I think that the answer to this question which I have found
for myself will do for all sincere persons who will put the same
question to themselves. First of all, to the question, "What is to be
done?" I answer that I must neither deceive other men nor myself; that I
must not be afraid of the truth, whatever the result may be.
We all know what it is to deceive other men; and notwithstanding this,
we do deceive from morning to evening,--"Not at home," when I am in;
"Very glad," when I am not at all glad; "Esteemed," when I do not
esteem; "I have no money," when I have it, and so on.
We consider the deception of others to be evil, particularly a certain
kind of deception, but we are not afraid to deceive ourselves: yet the
worst direct lie to men, seeing its result, is nothing in comparison
with that lie to ourselves according to which we shape our lives. Now,
this very lie we must avoid if we wish to be able to answer the
question, "_What is to be done?_"
Indeed, how am I to answer the question as to what is to be done, when
every thing I do, all my life, is based upon a lie and I carefully give
out this lie to others and to myself as truth? Not to lie in this sense
means to be not afraid of truth; not to invent excuses, and not to
accept excuses invented by others, in order to hide from one's self the
deductions of reason and conscience; not to be afraid of contradicting
all our surroundings, and of being left alone with reason and
conscience; not to be afraid of that condition to which truth and
conscience lead us: however dreadful it may be, it cannot be worse than
that which is based upon deceit.
To avoid lying, for men in our privileged position of mental labour,
means not to be afraid of truth. Perhaps we owe so much that we should
never be able to pay it all; but however much we may owe, we must make
out our bill: however far we have gone astray, it is better to return
than to continue straying.
Lying to our fellows is always disadvantageous. Every business is always
more directly done by truth than by lies, and more quickly too. Lying to
other men makes matters only more complicated, and retards the decision;
but lying to one's self, which is given out to be the truth, entirely
ruins the life of man.
If a man considers a wrong road to be a right one, then his every step
leads him only farther from his aim: a man who has been walking for a
long time on a wrong road may find out for himself, or be told by
others, that his road is a wrong one; but if he, being afraid of the
thought how far he has gone astray, tries to assure himself that he may,
by following this wrong course, still come across the right one, then he
will certainly never find it. If a man becomes afraid of the truth, and,
on seeing it, will not acknowledge it, but accepts falsehood for truth,
then this man will never learn what is to be done.
We, not only rich men, but men in privileged position, so-called
educated men, have gone so far astray that we require either a firm
resolution or very great sufferings on our false way to bring us to our
senses again, and to recognize the lie by which we live.
I became aware of the lie of our life, thanks to those sufferings to
which my wrong road led me; and, having acknowledged the error of the
way on which I was bent, I had the boldness to go, first in theory, then
in reality, wherever my reason and conscience led me, without any
deliberation as to whither they were tending.
I was rewarded for this boldness.
All the complex, disjointed, intricate, and meaningless phenomena of
life surrounding me became of a sudden clear; and my position among
these phenomena, formerly so strange and vile, became of a sudden
natural and easy.
In this new position my activity has exactly determined itself, but it
is quite a different activity from that which appeared possible to me
before: it is a new activity, far more quiet, affectionate, and joyous.
The very thing which frightened me before, now attracts me.
Therefore, I think that every one who sincerely puts to himself the
question, "What is to be done?" and in answering this question, does not
lie or deceive himself, but goes wherever his reason _and conscience_
may lead him, that man has already answered the question.
If he will only avoid deceiving himself, he will find out what to do,
where to go, and how to act. There is only one thing which may hinder
him in finding an answer,--that is too high an estimate of himself, and
of his own position. So it was with me; and therefore the second answer
to the question, "What is to be done?" resulting from the first,
consisted for me in repenting, in the full meaning of this word: that
is, entirely changing the estimate of my own position and activity.
Instead of considering such to be useful and of importance, we must come
to acknowledge it to be harmful and trifling; instead of considering
ourselves educated, we must come to see our ignorance; instead of
imagining ourselves to be kind and moral, we must acknowledge that we
are immoral and cruel; instead of seeing our importance, we must see our
own insignificance.
I say, that besides avoiding lying to myself, I had moreover to
_repent_, because, though the one results from the other, the wrong idea
about my great importance was so much a part of my own nature, that
until I had sincerely repented, and had put aside that wrong estimate of
myself, I did not see the enormity of the lie of which I had been
guilty.
It was only when I repented,--that is, left off considering myself to be
a peculiar man, and began to consider myself to be like _all_ other
men,--it was then that my way became clear to me. Before this I was not
able to answer the question, "What is to be done?" because the very
question itself was put incorrectly.
Before I repented, I had put the question thus: "What activity should I
choose, I, the man with the education and talents I have acquired? How
can I compensate by this education and these talents for what I have
been taking away from the people?"
This question was a false one, because it included the wrong idea of my
not being like other men, but a peculiar man, called to serve other men
with those talents and that education which I had acquired in forty
years.
I had put the question to myself, but in reality I had already answered
it in advance by having determined beforehand that I was called upon to
serve men by the kind of activity agreeable to myself. I really asked
myself, "How can I, so fine a writer, one so very well informed, and
with such talents, how can I utilize those talents for the benefit of
mankind?"
But the question ought to have been put thus,--as it would have to be
put to a learned rabbi who had studied all the Talmud, and knew the
exact number of letters in the Holy Scripture, and all the subtleties of
his science:--"What can I do, who, from unlucky circumstances, have lost
my best years in study instead of accommodating myself to labour,--in
learning the French language, the piano, grammar, geography, law,
poetry; in reading novels, romances, philosophical theories, and in
performing military exercises? what can I do, who have passed the best
years of my life in idle occupations, depraving the soul? what can I do,
notwithstanding these unlucky conditions of the past, in order to
requite those men, who, during all this time, have fed and clothed me,
and who still continue to feed and to clothe me?"
If the question had been put thus, after I had repented, "What can I, so
ruined a man, do?" the answer would have been easy: First of all, I must
try to get my living honestly,--that is, learn not to live upon the
shoulders of others; and while learning this, and after I have learned
it, to try on every occasion to be of use to men with my hands and with
my feet, as well as with my brain and my heart, and with all of me that
is wanted by men.
Therefore I say that for one of my own circle, besides avoiding lying to
others and ourselves, it is further necessary to repent, to lay aside
pride about our education, refinement, and talents, not considering
ourselves to be benefactors of the people, advanced men, who are ready
to share our useful acquirements with the people, but acknowledging
ourselves to be entirely guilty, ruined, good-for-nothing men, who
desire to turn over a new leaf, and not to be benefactors of the people,
but to cease to offend and to humiliate them.
Very often good young people, who sympathise with the negative part of
my writings, put to me the question, "What must I do then? What have I,
who have finished my study in the university or in some other high
establishment,--what have I to do in order to be useful?"
These young people ask the question; but in the depths of their souls
they have already decided that the education which they have received is
their great advantage, and that they wish to serve the people by this
very advantage.
Therefore, there is one thing which they do not do,--honestly and
critically examine what they call their education, asking themselves
whether it is a good or a bad thing.
If they do this, they will be unavoidably led to decry their education,
and to begin to learn anew; and this alone is what is wanted. They will
never be able to answer the question, as to what there is to be done,
while they put it wrongly. The question should be put thus: "How can I,
a helpless, useless man, recognizing the misfortune of having lost my
best years in studying the scientific Talmud, pernicious for soul and
body, how can I rectify this mistake, and learn to serve men?" But the
question is always put thus: "How can I, who have acquired so much fine
information, how can I be useful to men with this my information?"
Therefore, a man can never answer the question, "What is to be done?"
until he leaves off deceiving himself and repents. And repentance is not
dreadful, even as truth is not dreadful, but it is equally beneficent
and fruitful of good. We need only accept the whole truth and fully
repent in order to understand that in life no one has any rights or
privileges, and that there is no end of duties, and no limits to them,
and that the first and unquestionable duty of a man is to take part in
the struggle with nature for his own life and for the lives of other
men. And this acknowledgment of men's duty forms the essence of the
third answer to the question, "What is to be done?"
I have tried to avoid deceiving myself. I have endeavoured to extirpate
the last remnant of the false estimate of the importance of my education
and talents, and to repent; but before answering the question, _What is
to be done?_ there stands a new difficulty.
There are so many things to be done, that one requires to know what is
to be done in particular? And the answer to this question has been given
me by the sincere repentance of the evil in which I have been living.
What is to be done? What is there exactly to be done? everybody keeps
asking; and I, too, kept asking this, while, under the influence of a
high opinion of my own calling, I had not seen that my first and
unquestionable business is to earn my living, clothing, heating,
building, and so forth, and in doing this to serve others as well as
myself, because, since the world has existed, the first and
unquestionable duty of every man has been comprised in this.
In this one business, man receives,--if he has already begun to take
part in it,--the full satisfaction of all the bodily and mental wants of
his nature; to feed, clothe, take care of himself and of his family,
will satisfy his bodily wants; to do the same for others, will satisfy
his spiritual.
Every other activity of man is only lawful when these have first been
satisfied. In whatever department a man thinks his calling lies, whether
in governing the people, in protecting his countrymen, in officiating at
divine services, in teaching, in inventing the means of increasing the
delights of life, in discovering the laws of the universe, in
incorporating eternal truths in artistic images, the first and most
unquestionable duty of a reasonable man will always consist in taking
part in the struggle with nature for preserving his own life and the
lives of other men.
This duty must always rank first, because the most necessary thing for
men is life: and therefore, in order to protect and to teach men, and to
make their lives more agreeable, it is necessary to keep this very life;
while by not taking part in the struggle, and by swallowing up the
labour of others, other lives are destroyed. And it is folly and
impossible to endeavour to serve men while destroying their lives.
Man's duty to acquire the means of living through the struggle with
nature will always be unquestionably the very first of all duties,
because it is the law of life, the violation of which unavoidably brings
with it a punishment by destroying the bodily or mental life of man. If
a man, living alone, free himself from the duty of struggling with
nature, he will be at once punished by the perishing of his body.
But if a man free himself from this duty by compelling other men to
fulfil it for him, in ruining their lives, he will be at once punished
by the destruction of his reasonable life; that is, of the life which
has a reasonable sense in it.
I had been so perverted by my antecedents, and this first and
unquestionable law of God or nature is so hidden in our present world,
that the fulfilling of it had seemed to me strange, and I was afraid and
ashamed of it, as if the fulfilment, and not the violation, of this
eternal and unquestionable law were strange, unnatural, and shameful. At
first it seemed to me, that, in order to fulfil this law, some sort of
accommodation was necessary, some established association of
fellow-thinkers, the consent of the family, and life in the country (not
in town): then I felt ashamed, as if I were putting myself forward in
performing things so unusual to our life as bodily labour, and I did not
know how to begin.
But I needed only to understand that this was not some exclusive
activity, which I have to invent and arrange, but that it was merely
returning from the false condition in which I had lived to a natural
one, merely rectifying that lie in which I had been living,--I had only
to acknowledge all this, and all the difficulties vanished.
It was not at all necessary to arrange and accommodate any thing, nor to
wait for the consent of other people, because everywhere, in whatever
condition I was, there were men who fed, dressed, and warmed me as well
as themselves; and everywhere, under all circumstances, if I had
sufficient time and strength, I was able to do these things for myself
and for them.
Nor could I feel a false shame in performing actions unusual and strange
to me, because, in not doing so, I already experienced, not a false, but
a real, shame.
Having come to this conclusion, and to the practical deduction from it,
I have been fully rewarded for not having been afraid of the deductions
of reason, and for having gone where they led me.
Having come to this practical conclusion, I was struck by the facility
and simplicity of the solution of all those problems which had formerly
seemed to me so difficult and complicated. To the question, "What have
we to do?" I received a very plain answer: Do first what is necessary
for yourself; arrange all you can do by yourself,--your tea-urn, stove,
water, and clothes.
To the question, "Would not this seem strange to those who had been
accustomed to do all this for me?" it appeared that it was strange only
for about a week, and after a week it seemed more strange for me to
return to my former condition.
In answer to the question, "Is it necessary to organize this physical
labour, to establish a society in a village upon this basis?" it
appeared that it was not at all necessary to do all this; that if the
labour does not aim at rendering idleness possible, and at utilizing
other men's labour,--as is the case with men who save up money,--but
merely the satisfying of necessities, then such labour will naturally
induce people to leave towns for the country, where this labour is most
agreeable and productive.
There was also no need to establish a society, because a workingman will
naturally associate with other working-people. In answer to the
question, "Would not this labour take up all my time, and would it not
deprive me of the possibility of that mental activity which I am so fond
of, and to which I have become accustomed, and which in moments of doubt
I consider to be useful?" the answer will be quite an unexpected one.
The energy of my mental activity increased in proportion to bodily
exercise, being freed from all that was superfluous.
In fact, having spent eight hours in physical labour,--half a
day,--which formerly I used to spend in endeavouring to struggle with
dulness, there still remained for me eight hours, out of which in my
circumstances I required five for mental labour; and if I, a very
prolific writer, who had been doing nothing but write during forty
years, and who had written three hundred printed sheets, then if during
these forty years I had been doing ordinary work along with
working-people, and, not taking into consideration winter evenings and
holidays, had been reading and learning during the five hours a day, and
had written only on holidays two pages a day (and I have sometimes
written sixteen pages a day), I should have written the same three
hundred printed sheets in fourteen years.
A wonderful thing: a most simple arithmetical calculation which every
boy of seven years of age may do, but which I had never done. Day and
night have together twenty-four hours; we sleep eight hours; there
remain sixteen hours. If any man labour mentally five hours a day, he
will do a vast amount of business; what do we, then, do during the
remaining eleven hours?
So it appears that physical labour not only does not exclude the
possibility of mental activity, but improves and stimulates it.
In answer to the question, whether this physical labour would deprive me
of many innocent enjoyments proper to man, such as enjoyment of art,
acquirement of knowledge, of social intercourse, and, generally, of the
happiness of life, it was really quite the reverse: the more intense my
physical labour, the more it approached that labour which is considered
the hardest, to wit, agricultural labour, the more I acquired
enjoyments, and knowledge, and the closer and more affectionate was my
intercourse with mankind, and the more happiness did I feel in life.
In answer to the question (which I hear so often from men who are not
quite sincere), "What result can there be from such an awfully small
drop in the sea? what is all my personal physical labour in comparison
with the sea of labour which I swallow up?"
To this question I also received a very unexpected answer.
It appeared that as soon as I had made physical labour the ordinary
condition of my life, at once the greatest part of the false and
expensive habits and wants which I had while I had been physically idle,
ceased of themselves, without any endeavour on my part. To say nothing
of the habit of turning day into night, and _vice versa_, of my bedding,
clothes, my conventional cleanliness, which all became impossible and
embarrassing when I began to labour physically, both the quantity and
the quality of my food was totally changed. Instead of the sweet, rich,
delicate, complicated, and highly spiced food, which I formerly liked, I
now required and obtained plain food as being the most agreeable,--sour
cabbage soup, porridge, black bread, tea with a bit of sugar.
So that, apart from the example of common workingmen satisfied with
little, with whom I came in closer intercourse, my very wants themselves
were gradually changed by my life of labour; so that in proportion to my
growing accustomed to this labour and acquiring the ways of it, my drop
of physical labour became indeed more perceptible in the ocean of common
labour; and in proportion as my labour grew more fruitful, my demands
for other men's labour grew less and less, and, without effort or
privation, my life naturally came nearer to that simple life of which I
could not even have dreamed without fulfilling the law of labour.
It became apparent that my former most expensive demands--the demands of
vanity and amusement--were the direct result of an idle life. With
physical labour, there was no room for vanity, and no need for
amusement, because my time was agreeably occupied; and after weariness,
simple rest while drinking tea, or reading a book, or conversing with
the members of my family, was far more agreeable than the theatre,
playing at cards, concerts, or large parties.
In answer to the question, "Would not this unusual labour be hurtful to
health, which is necessary in order that I may serve men?" it appeared
that, despite the positive assurance of eminent doctors that hard
physical labour, especially at my age, might have the worst results (and
that Swedish gymnastics, riding, and other expedients intended to supply
the natural conditions of man, would be far better), the harder I
worked, the sounder, more cheerful, and kinder, I felt myself.
It became undoubtedly certain that even as all those inventions of the
human mind, such as newspapers, theatres, concerts, parties, balls,
cards, magazines, novels, are nothing but means to sustain the spiritual
life of men outside its natural condition of labour for others, so in
the same way all the hygienic and medical inventions of the human mind
for the provision of food, drink, dwelling, ventilation, warming of
rooms, clothes, medicines, mineral water, gymnastics, electric and other
cures, are all merely means to sustain the bodily life of man outside of
its natural conditions of labour; and all these are nothing else than an
establishment hermetically closed, in which, by means of chemical
apparatus, the evaporation of water for the plants is arranged, when you
need only to open the window, and do that which is natural, not for men
alone but to beasts too; in other words, having absorbed the food, and
thus produced a charge of energy, to discharge it by muscular labour.
All the profound study of hygiene and of the art of healing for the men
of our circle are like the efforts of a mechanic, who, having stopped
all the valves of an overheated engine, should invent something to
prevent this engine from bursting.
When I had plainly understood all this, it seemed to me ridiculous, that
I, through a long series of doubt, research, and much thinking, had
arrived at this extraordinary truth, that if man has eyes, they are to
be seen through; ears, to hear by; feet to walk with, and hands and back
to work with,--and that if man will not use these, his members, for what
they are meant, then it will be the worse for him. I came to this
conclusion, that with us, privileged people, the same thing has happened
which happened to the horses of a friend of mine: The steward, who was
not fond of horses, and did not understand any thing about them, having
received from his masters orders to prepare the best cobs for sale,
chose the best out of the drove of horses, put them into the stable, fed
them upon oats; but being over-anxious, he trusted them to nobody,
neither rode them himself, nor drove nor led them.
Of course, all these horses became good for nothing.
The same has happened to us with this difference,--that you cannot
deceive horses, and, in order not to let them out, they must be fastened
in; while we are kept in unnatural and hurtful conditions by all sorts
of temptations, which fasten and hold us as with chains.
We have arranged for ourselves a life which is against the moral and
physical nature of man, and we use all the powers of our mind in order
to assure men that this life is the real one. All that we call
culture,--our science and arts for improving the delights of life,--all
these are only meant to deceive man's natural moral requirements: all
that we call hygiene, and the art of healing, are endeavours to deceive
the natural physical want of human nature.
But these deceits have their limits, and we are come to these limits.
"If such be real human life, then it is better not to live at all," says
the fashionable philosophy of Schopenhauer and Hartman. "If such is
life, then it is better not to live at all," is the witness borne by the
increasing number of suicides among the privileged classes. "If such be
life, it is better for future generations, too, not to live," says the
indulgent healing art, and invents means to destroy women's fecundity.
In the Bible the law to human beings is expressed thus: "In the sweat of
thy face shalt thou eat bread," and "In sorrow thou shall bring forth
children."
The peasant Bondaref, who wrote an article about this, threw great light
upon the wisdom of this sentence. During the whole of my life, two
thinking men--Russians--have exercised a great influence over me: they
have enriched my thoughts, and enlightened my contemplation of the
world.
These men were neither poets, nor learned men, nor preachers: they were
two remarkable men, both now living, peasants,--Sutaief and Bondaref.
But "nous avons changé tout ça," as says one of Molière's personages,
talking at random about the healing art, and saying that the liver is on
the left side, "we have changed all that." Men need not work,--all work
will be done by machines; and women need not bring forth children. The
healing art will teach different means of avoiding this, for there are
already too many people in the world.
In the Krapivensky district,[6] there wanders a ragged peasant, who
during the war was a purchaser of bread for a commissary of stores.
Having become acquainted with this functionary, and having seen his
comfortable life, he became mad, and now thinks that he, too, can live
as gentlemen do, without work, being provided for by the Emperor.
[6] Tolstoy's village of Yasnaya Polyana is situated in this
district.--Ed.
This peasant now calls himself "the Most Serene Marshal Prince Blokhin,
purveyor of war-stores of all kinds."
He says of himself that he has gone through all ranks, and for his
services during the war he has to receive from the Emperor an unlimited
bank-account, clothes, uniforms, horses, carriages, tea, servants, and
all kinds of provision. When anybody asks him whether he would like to
work a little, he only answers, "Thanks: the peasants will attend to all
that." When we say to him that the peasants also may not be disposed to
work, he answers, "Machines have been invented to ease the labour of
peasants. They have no difficulty in their business." When we ask him
what he is living for, he answers, "To pass away the time."
I always consider this man as a mirror. I see in him myself and all my
class. To pass through all ranks in order to live to pass away the time,
and to receive an unlimited bank-account, while peasants attend to every
thing, and find it easy to do so, because of the invention of machines.
This is the exact form of the foolish belief of men of our class. When
we ask what have we particularly to do, we are in reality asking
nothing, but only asserting--not so sincerely indeed as the Most Serene
Marshal Prince Blokhin, who had passed through all ranks, and lost his
mind--that we do not wish to do anything.
He who has come to his senses cannot ask this, because from one side all
that he makes use of has been done, and is being done, by the hands of
men; on the other side, as soon as a healthy man has got up and
breakfasted, he feels the inclination to work, as well with his feet as
with his hands and brain. In order to find work, he has only not to
restrain himself from labour. Only he who considers labour to be a
shame,--like the lady who asked her guest not to trouble herself to open
the door, but to wait till she called a servant to do it,--only such
persons can ask what is there to be done in particular.
The difficulty is not in inventing work,--every one has enough to do for
himself and for others,--but in losing this criminal view of life, that
we eat and sleep for our own pleasure, and in gaining that simple and
correct view in which every working-person grows up, that man first of
all is a machine which is charged with food, and that therefore it is
shameful, difficult, and impossible to eat and not to work; that to eat
and not to work is a most dangerous state, and as bad as incendiarism.
It is necessary only to have this consciousness, and we shall find work
and this work will always be pleasant, and capable of satisfying all the
wants of our soul and body.
I picture to myself the whole matter thus: Every man's day is divided by
his meals into four parts, or four stages as it is called by the
peasants: First, before breakfast; secondly, from breakfast to dinner;
thirdly, from dinner to poldnik (a slight evening meal between dinner
and supper); and fourthly, from poldnik to night. The activity of man to
which he is drawn, is also divided into four kinds: First, the activity
of the muscles, the labour of the hands, feet, shoulders, back,--hard
labour by which one perspires; secondly, the activity of the fingers and
wrists, the activity of skill and handicraft; thirdly, the activity of
the intellect and imagination; fourthly, the activity of intercourse
with other men.
The goods which man makes use of may also be divided into four kinds:
First, every man makes use of the productions of hard labour,--bread,
cattle, buildings, wells, bridges, and so on; secondly, the productions
of handicraft,--clothes, boots, hardware, and so on; thirdly, the
productions of mental activity,--science, art; and fourthly, the
intercourse with men, acquaintanceship, societies.
I thought that it would be the best thing so to arrange the occupations
of the day that one might be able to exercise all these four faculties,
and to return all the four kinds of production of labour, which one
makes use of; so that the four parts of the day were devoted, first, to
hard labour; secondly, to mental labour; thirdly, to handicraft;
fourthly, to the intercourse with men. It would be good if one could so
arrange his labour; but if it is not possible to arrange thus, one thing
is important,--to acknowledge the duty of labouring, the duty of making
a good use of each part of the day.
I thought that it would be only then that the false division of labour
which now rules our society would disappear, and a just division would
be established which should not interfere with the happiness of mankind.
I, for instance, have all my life been busy with mental work. I had said
to myself that I have thus divided the labour: that my special work is
writing; that is, mental labour: and all other works necessary for me, I
left to be done by other men, or rather compelled them to do it. But
this arrangement, seemingly so convenient for mental labour, though
unjust, became most inconvenient, especially for mental labour. I have
been writing all my life, have accommodated my food, sleep, amusements,
with reference to this special labour, and besides this work I did
nothing.
The results of which were, first, that I had been narrowing the circle
of my observation and information, and often I had not any object to
study, and therefore, having had to describe the life of men (the life
of men is a continual problem of every mental activity), I felt my
ignorance, and had to learn and to ask about such things, which everyone
not occupied with a special work knows; secondly, it happened that when
I sat down to write, I often had no inward inclination to write, and
nobody wanted my writing for itself, that is, for my thoughts, but
people merely wanted my name for profits in the magazines.
I made great efforts to write what I could; sometimes I did not succeed
at all; sometimes succeeded in writing something very bad, and I felt
dissatisfied and miserable. So often and often weeks passed, during
which I would eat, drink, sleep, warm myself, and do nothing--or do
something of no use to anybody--i.e., commit the worst and meanest
crime, scarcely ever committed by a man of the working class. But since
I have acknowledged the necessity of physical labour as well as hard
labour, and also that of handicraft, everything is quite different: my
time is occupied however humbly, but certainly in a useful way, and
pleasantly and instructively for me.
Therefore I, for the sake of my speciality, leave off this undoubtedly
useful and pleasant occupation, only when I feel an inward want, or see
a direct demand for my literary work. And this caused the quality, and
therefore the usefulness and pleasantness, of my special labour to
improve.
Thus it has happened that my occupation with those physical works, which
are necessary for me as well as for every man, not only do not interfere
with my special activity, but are a necessary condition of the utility,
quality, and pleasantness of this activity.
A bird is so created that it is necessary for it to fly, to walk, to
peck, to consider; and when it does all this, it is satisfied and happy;
then it is a bird. Exactly so with a man when he walks, turns over heavy
things, lifts them up, carries them, works with his fingers, eyes, ears,
tongue, brain, then only is he satisfied, then only is he _a man_.
A man who has come to recognise his calling to labour will be naturally
inclined to that change of labour which is proper for him for the
satisfying of his outward and inward wants, and he will reverse this
order only when he feels an irresistible impulse to some special labour,
and when other men require this labour from him. The nature of labour is
such that the satisfying of all men's wants requires that very
alternation of different kinds of labour which renders labour easy and
pleasant.
Only the erroneous idea that labour is a curse could lead men to free
themselves from some kinds of labour, that is, to seize other men's
labour, requiring from other men that forced occupation with a special
labour which is called nowadays the division of labour.
We have become so accustomed to our false conception of the arrangement
of labour that it seems to us that for a boot-maker, a machinist, a
writer, a musician, it would be better to be freed from the labour
proper to man. Where there is no violence over other men's labour, nor a
false belief in the pleasure of idleness, no man will for the sake of
his special labour free himself from physical labour necessary for the
satisfying of his wants, because special occupation is not a privilege,
but a sacrifice to a man's inclination and for the sake of his brethren.
A boot-maker in a village having torn himself from his usual pleasant
labour in the field, and having begun his labour of mending or making
boots for his neighbours, deprives himself of a pleasant, useful labour
in the field for the sake of others, only because he is fond of sewing,
and knows that nobody will do it better than he does, and that people
will be thankful to him.
But he cannot wish to deprive himself of the pleasant alternation of
labour for all his life. The same with the starosta, the machinist, the
writer, the learned man.
It is only to our perverted ideas, that it seems, when the master sends
his clerk to be a peasant, or government sentences one of its ministers
to deportation, that they are punished and have been dealt with hardly.
In reality they have had a great good done to them; that is, they have
exchanged their heavy special work for a pleasant alternation of labour.
In a natural society all is different. I know a commune where the people
earn their living themselves. One of the members of this community was
more educated than the rest; and they require him to deliver lectures,
for which he has to prepare himself during the day, that he may be able
to deliver them in the evening. He does it joyfully, feeling that he is
useful to others, and that he can do it well. But he grows tired of the
exclusive mental labour, and his health suffers accordingly. The members
of the community therefore pity him, and ask him to come and labour in
the field again.
For men who consider labour to be the essential thing and the joy of
life, the ground, the basis, of it will always be the struggle with
nature,--not only in agricultural labour, but also in that of
handicraft, mental work, and intercourse with men.
The divergence from one or many of these kinds of labour, and
specialities of labour, will be performed only when a man of special
gifts, being fond of this work, and knowing that he performs it better
than anybody else, will sacrifice his own advantage in order to fulfil
the demands which others put directly to him.
Only with such a view of labour and the natural division of labour
resulting from it, will that curse disappear which in our imagination we
have put upon labour; and every labour will always be a joy, because man
will do either an unquestionably useful, pleasant, and easy work, or
will be conscious that he makes a sacrifice by performing a more
difficult special labour for the good of others.
But the division of labour is, it is said, more advantageous.
Advantageous for whom? Is it more advantageous to make with all speed as
many boots and cotton-prints as possible? But who will make these boots
and cotton-prints? Men who from generation to generation have been
making only pin-heads? How, then, can it be more advantageous for
people? If the object were to make as many cotton-prints and pins as
possible, it would be so; but the question is, how to make people happy?
The happiness of men consists in life. And life is in labour.
How, then, can the necessity of painful, oppressing work be advantageous
for men? If the question were only for the advantage of some men without
any consideration of the welfare of all, then it might be most
advantageous for some men to eat others. They say it is savoury!
The thing most advantageous for all men is what I wish for myself,--the
greatest welfare and the satisfying of all my wants which are ingrafted
in me, those of body as well as those of soul, of conscience, and of
reason.
Now, for myself I have found, that for my welfare and for the satisfying
of these wants, I need only to be cured of the folly in which I (as well
as the Krapivensky madman) have lived, consisting in the idea that
gentlefolk need not work, and that all must be done for them by others,
and that, producing nothing, I have to do only what is proper to
man,--satisfy my own wants.
Having discovered this, I became persuaded that this labour for the
satisfying of my own wants, is divisible into various kinds of labour,
each of which has its own charm, and is not only no burden, but serves
as rest after some other labour.
I have roughly divided labour, not in the least insisting on the
propriety of such a division, into four parts parallel to the four parts
of the labourer's day's work, divided by his meals; and thus I try to
satisfy my wants.
These are, then, the answers to the question, "What shall we do?" which
I have found for myself.
_First_, Not to lie to myself. However far I have gone astray from that
road of life which my reason shows to me, I must not be afraid of the
truth.
_Secondly_, To renounce my own righteousness, my own advantages,
peculiarities, distinguishing me from others, and to own my guilt.
_Thirdly_, To fulfil the eternal, unquestionable law of man,--by
labouring with all my being to struggle with nature, to sustain my own
life, and the lives of others.