That very evening, on my return from the Lyapinsky house, I related my
impressions to a friend. The friend, an inhabitant of the city, began to
tell me, not without satisfaction, that this was the most natural
phenomenon of town life possible, that I only saw something extraordinary
in it because of my provincialism, that it had always been so, and always
would be so, and that such must be and is the inevitable condition of
civilization. In London it is even worse. Of course there is nothing
wrong about it, and it is impossible to be displeased with it. I began
to reply to my friend, but with so much heat and ill-temper, that my wife
ran in from the adjoining room to inquire what had happened. It appears
that, without being conscious of it myself, I had been shouting, with
tears in my voice, and flourishing my hands at my friend. I shouted:
"It's impossible to live thus, impossible to live thus, impossible!" They
made me feel ashamed of my unnecessary warmth; they told me that I could
not talk quietly about any thing, that I got disagreeably excited; and
they proved to me, especially, that the existence of such unfortunates
could not possibly furnish any excuse for imbittering the lives of those
about me.
I felt that this was perfectly just, and held my peace; but in the depths
of my soul I was conscious that I was in the right, and I could not
regain my composure.
And the life of the city, which had, even before this, been so strange
and repellent to me, now disgusted me to such a degree, that all the
pleasures of a life of luxury, which had hitherto appeared to me as
pleasures, become tortures to me. And try as I would, to discover in my
own soul any justification whatever for our life, I could not, without
irritation, behold either my own or other people's drawing-rooms, nor our
tables spread in the lordly style, nor our equipages and horses, nor
shops, theatres, and assemblies. I could not behold alongside these the
hungry, cold, and down-trodden inhabitants of the Lyapinsky house. And I
could not rid myself of the thought that these two things were bound up
together, that the one arose from the other. I remember, that, as this
feeling of my own guilt presented itself to me at the first blush, so it
persisted in me, but to this feeling a second was speedily added which
overshadowed it.
When I mentioned my impressions of the Lyapinsky house to my nearest
friends and acquaintances, they all gave me the same answer as the first
friend at whom I had begun to shout; but, in addition to this, they
expressed their approbation of my kindness of heart and my sensibility,
and gave me to understand that this sight had so especially worked upon
me because I, Lyof Nikolaevitch, was very kind and good. And I willingly
believed this. And before I had time to look about me, instead of the
feeling of self-reproach and regret, which I had at first experienced,
there came a sense of satisfaction with my own kindliness, and a desire
to exhibit it to people.
"It really must be," I said to myself, "that I am not especially
responsible for this by the luxury of my life, but that it is the
indispensable conditions of existence that are to blame. In truth, a
change in my mode of life cannot rectify the evil which I have seen: by
altering my manner of life, I shall only make myself and those about me
unhappy, and the other miseries will remain the same as ever. And
therefore my problem lies not in a change of my own life, as it had first
seemed to me, but in aiding, so far as in me lies, in the amelioration of
the situation of those unfortunate beings who have called forth my
compassion. The whole point lies here,--that I am a very kind, amiable
man, and that I wish to do good to my neighbors." And I began to think
out a plan of beneficent activity, in which I might exhibit my
benevolence. I must confess, however, that while devising this plan of
beneficent activity, I felt all the time, in the depths of my soul, that
that was not the thing; but, as often happens, activity of judgment and
imagination drowned that voice of conscience within me. At that
juncture, the census came up. This struck me as a means for instituting
that benevolence in which I proposed to exhibit my charitable
disposition. I knew of many charitable institutions and societies which
were in existence in Moscow, but all their activity seemed to me both
wrongly directed and insignificant in comparison with what I intended to
do. And I devised the following scheme: to arouse the sympathy of the
wealthy for the poverty of the city, to collect money, to get people
together who were desirous of assisting in this matter, and to visit all
the refuges of poverty in company with the census, and, in addition to
the work of the census, to enter into communion with the unfortunate, to
learn the particulars of their necessities, and to assist them with
money, with work, by sending them away from Moscow, by placing their
children in school, and the old people in hospitals and asylums. And not
only that, I thought, but these people who undertake this can be formed
into a permanent society, which, by dividing the quarters of Moscow among
its members, will be able to see to it that this poverty and beggary
shall not be bred; they will incessantly annihilate it at its very
inception; then they will fulfil their duty, not so much by healing as by
a course of hygiene for the wretchedness of the city. I fancied that
there would be no more simply needy, not to mention abjectly poor
persons, in the town, and that all of us wealthy individuals would
thereafter be able to sit in our drawing-rooms, and eat our five-course
dinners, and ride in our carriages to theatres and assemblies, and be no
longer annoyed with such sights as I had seen at the Lyapinsky house.
Having concocted this plan, I wrote an article on the subject; and before
sending it to the printer, I went to some acquaintances, from whom I
hoped for sympathy. I said the same thing to every one whom I met that
day (and I applied chiefly to the rich), and nearly the same that I
afterwards printed in my memoir; proposed to take advantage of the census
to inquire into the wretchedness of Moscow, and to succor it, both by
deeds and money, and to do it in such a manner that there should be no
poor people in Moscow, and so that we rich ones might be able, with a
quiet conscience, to enjoy the blessings of life to which we were
accustomed. All listened to me attentively and seriously, but
nevertheless the same identical thing happened with every one of them
without exception. No sooner did my hearers comprehend the question,
than they seemed to feel awkward and somewhat mortified. They seemed to
be ashamed, and principally on my account, because I was talking
nonsense, and nonsense which it was impossible to openly characterize as
such. Some external cause appeared to compel my hearers to be forbearing
with this nonsense of mine.
"Ah, yes! of course. That would be very good," they said to me. "It is
a self-understood thing that it is impossible not to sympathize with
this. Yes, your idea is a capital one. I have thought of that myself,
but . . . we are so indifferent, as a rule, that you can hardly count on
much success . . . however, so far as I am concerned, I am, of course,
ready to assist."
They all said something of this sort to me. They all agreed, but agreed,
so it seemed to me, not in consequence of my convictions, and not in
consequence of their own wish, but as the result of some outward cause,
which did not permit them not to agree. I had already noticed this, and,
since not one of them stated the sum which he was willing to contribute,
I was obliged to fix it myself, and to ask: "So I may count on you for
three hundred, or two hundred, or one hundred, or twenty-five rubles?"
And not one of them gave me any money. I mention this because, when
people give money for that which they themselves desire, they generally
make haste to give it. For a box to see Sarah Bernhardt, they will
instantly place the money in your hand, to clinch the bargain. Here,
however, out of all those who agreed to contribute, and who expressed
their sympathy, not one of them proposed to give me the money on the
spot, but they merely assented in silence to the sum which I suggested.
In the last house which I visited on that day, in the evening, I
accidentally came upon a large company. The mistress of the house had
busied herself with charity for several years. Numerous carriages stood
at the door, several lackeys in rich liveries were sitting in the ante-
chamber. In the vast drawing-room, around two tables and lamps, sat
ladies and young girls, in costly garments, dressing small dolls; and
there were several young men there also, hovering about the ladies. The
dolls prepared by these ladies were to be drawn in a lottery for the
poor.
The sight of this drawing-room, and of the people assembled in it, struck
me very unpleasantly. Not to mention the fact that the property of the
persons there congregated amounted to many millions, not to mention the
fact that the mere income from the capital here expended on dresses,
laces, bronzes, brooches, carriages, horses, liveries, and lackeys, was a
hundred-fold greater than all that these ladies could earn; not to
mention the outlay, the trip hither of all these ladies and gentlemen;
the gloves, linen, extra time, the candles, the tea, the sugar, and the
cakes had cost the hostess a hundred times more than what they were
engaged in making here. I saw all this, and therefore I could
understand, that precisely here I should find no sympathy with my
mission: but I had come in order to make my proposition, and, difficult
as this was for me, I said what I intended. (I said very nearly the same
thing that is contained in my printed article.)
Out of all the persons there present, one individual offered me money,
saying that she did not feel equal to going among the poor herself on
account of her sensibility, but that she would give money; how much money
she would give, and when, she did not say. Another individual and a
young man offered their services in going about among the poor, but I did
not avail myself of their offer. The principal person to whom I
appealed, told me that it would be impossible to do much because means
were lacking. Means were lacking because all the rich people in Moscow
were already on the lists, and all of them were asked for all that they
could possibly give; because on all these benefactors rank, medals, and
other dignities were bestowed; because in order to secure financial
success, some new dignities must be secured from the authorities, and
that this was the only practical means, but this was extremely difficult.
On my return home that night, I lay down to sleep not only with a
presentment that my idea would come to nothing, but with shame and a
consciousness that all day long I had been engaged in a very repulsive
and disgraceful business. But I did not give up this undertaking. In
the first place, the matter had been begun, and false shame would have
prevented my abandoning it; in the second place, not only the success of
this scheme, but the very fact that I was busying myself with it,
afforded me the possibility of continuing to live in the conditions under
which I was then living; failure entailed upon me the necessity of
renouncing my present existence and of seeking new paths of life. And
this I unconsciously dreaded, and I could not believe the inward voice,
and I went on with what I had begun.
Having sent my article to the printer, I read the proof of it to the City
Council (_Dum_). I read it, stumbling, and blushing even to tears, I
felt so awkward. And I saw that it was equally awkward for all my
hearers. In answer to my question at the conclusion of my reading, as to
whether the superintendents of the census would accept my proposition to
retain their places with the object of becoming mediators between society
and the needy, an awkward silence ensued. Then two orators made
speeches. These speeches in some measure corrected the awkwardness of my
proposal; sympathy for me was expressed, but the impracticability of my
proposition, which all had approved, was demonstrated. Everybody
breathed more freely. But when, still desirous of gaining my object, I
afterwards asked the superintendents separately: Were they willing, while
taking the census, to inquire into the needs of the poor, and to retain
their posts, in order to serve as go-betweens between the poor and the
rich? they all grew uneasy again. They seemed to say to me with their
glances: "Why, we have just condoned your folly out of respect to you,
and here you are beginning it again!" Such was the expression of their
faces, but they assured me in words that they agreed; and two of them
said in the very same words, as though they had entered into a compact
together: "We consider ourselves _morally bound_ to do this." The same
impression was produced by my communication to the student-census-takers,
when I said to them, that while taking our statistics, we should follow
up, in addition to the objects of the census, the object of benevolence.
When we discussed this, I observed that they were ashamed to look the
kind-hearted man, who was talking nonsense, in the eye. My article
produced the same impression on the editor of the newspaper, when I
handed it to him; on my son, on my wife, on the most widely different
persons. All felt awkward, for some reason or other; but all regarded it
as indispensable to applaud the idea itself, and all, immediately after
this expression of approbation, began to express their doubts as to its
success, and began for some reason (and all of them, too, without
exception) to condemn the indifference and coldness of our society and of
every one, apparently, except themselves.
In the depths of my own soul, I still continued to feel that all this was
not at all what was needed, and that nothing would come of it; but the
article was printed, and I prepared to take part in the census; I had
contrived the matter, and now it was already carrying me a way with it.