and it's not for us to stop it.... There are the Church feasts, and
weddings, and memorial feasts, and bargains to be wetted with a
drink.... Whether one likes it or not, one can't get on without it.
It's the custom!
TRAVELLER. But there are people who never drink, and yet they manage to
live! After all, there's not much good in it.
PEASANT. No good at all! Only evil!
TRAVELLER. Then one ought not to drink.
PEASANT. Well, anyhow, drink or no drink, we've nothing to live on!
We've not enough land. If we had land we could at least live ... but
there's none to be had.
TRAVELLER. No land to be had? Why, isn't there plenty of land? Wherever
one looks, one sees land!
PEASANT. There's land, right enough, but it's not ours. Your elbow's
not far from your mouth, but just you try to bite it!
TRAVELLER. Not yours! Whose is it, then?
PEASANT. Whose?... Whose, indeed! There's that fat-bellied devil over
there ... he's seized 5000 acres. He has no family, but he's never
satisfied, while we've had to give up keeping fowls--there's nowhere
for them to run about! It's nearly time for us to stop keeping cattle,
too ... we've no fodder for them; and if a calf, or maybe a horse,
happens to stray into his field, we have to pay fines and give him our
last farthing.
TRAVELLER. What does he want all that land for?
PEASANT. What does he want the land for? Why, of course, he sows and
reaps and sells, and puts the money in the bank.
TRAVELLER. How can he plough a stretch like that, and get his harvest
in?
PEASANT. You talk as if you were a child!... What's he got money for,
if not to hire labourers?... It's they that do the ploughing and
reaping.
TRAVELLER. These labourers are some of you peasants, I expect?
PEASANT. Some are from these parts, and some from elsewhere.
TRAVELLER. Anyway, they are peasants?
PEASANT. Of course they are!... the same as ourselves. Who but a
peasant ever works? Of course they are peasants.
TRAVELLER. And if the peasants did not go and work for him...?
PEASANT. Go or stay, he wouldn't let us have it. If the land were to
lie idle, he'd not part with it! Like the dog in the manger, that
doesn't eat the hay himself and won't let others eat it!
TRAVELLER. But how can he keep his land? I suppose it stretches over
some three or four miles? How can he watch it all?
PEASANT. How queer you talk! He himself lies on his back, and fattens
his paunch; but he keeps watchmen!
TRAVELLER. And those watchmen, I dare say, are also peasants?
PEASANT. What else could they be? Of course they are!
TRAVELLER. So that the peasants work the rich man's land for him, and
guard it for him from themselves?
PEASANT. But how can one help it?
TRAVELLER. Simply by not going to work for him, and not being his
watchmen! Then the land would be free. The land is God's, and the
people are God's; let him who needs it, plough and sow and gather in
the harvest!
PEASANT. That is to say, you think we ought to strike? To meet that,
my friend, they have the soldiers. They'd send their soldiers ... one,
two, fire!... some would get shot, and others taken up. Soldiers give
short shrift!
TRAVELLER. But is it not also the likes of you that are soldiers? Why
should they shoot at their own fellows?
PEASANT. How can they help it? That's what the oath is for.
TRAVELLER. The oath? What oath?
PEASANT. Don't you understand? Aren't you a Russian?... The oath
is--well, it's the oath!
TRAVELLER. It means swearing, doesn't it?
PEASANT. Well, of course! They swear by the Cross and by the Gospels,
to lay down their life for their country.
TRAVELLER. Well, I think that should not be done.
PEASANT. What should not be done?
TRAVELLER. Taking the oath.
PEASANT. Not done? Why, the law demands it!
TRAVELLER. No, it is not in the Law. In the Law of Christ, it is
plainly forbidden. He said: "Swear not at all."
PEASANT. Come now! What about the priests?
TRAVELLER [_takes a book, looks for the place, and reads_]: "It was
said by them of old time, Thou shalt not forswear thyself, _but I say
unto you, Swear not at all_.... But let your speech be, Yea, yea; nay,
nay: and whatsoever is more than these is of the evil one" (Matthew v.
33). So, according to Christ's Law, you must not swear.
PEASANT. If there were no oath, there would be no soldiers.
TRAVELLER. Well, and what good are the soldiers?
PEASANT. What good?... But supposing other Tsars were to come and
attack our Tsar ... what then?
TRAVELLER. If the Tsars quarrel, let them fight it out themselves.
PEASANT. Come! How could that be possible?
TRAVELLER. It's very simple. He that believes in God, no matter what
you may tell him, will never kill a man.
PEASANT. Then why did the priest read out in church that war was
declared, and the Reserves were to be ready?
TRAVELLER. I know nothing about that; but I know that in the
Commandments, in the Sixth, it says quite plainly: "Thou shalt do no
murder." You see, it is forbidden for a man to kill a man.
PEASANT. That means, at home! At the wars, how could you help it?
They're enemies!
TRAVELLER. According to Christ's Gospel, there is no such thing as an
enemy. You are told to love everybody.
[_Opens the Bible and looks for place._
PEASANT. Well, read it!
TRAVELLER. "Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou
shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the
judgment.... Ye have heard that it was said, Thou shalt love thy
neighbour, and hate thine enemy: but I say unto you, Love your enemies,
and pray for them that persecute you" (Matthew v. 21, 43-44).
[_A long pause._
PEASANT. Well, but what about taxes? Ought we to refuse to pay them too?
TRAVELLER. That's as you think best. If your own children are hungry,
naturally you should first feed them.
PEASANT. So you think soldiers are not wanted at all?
TRAVELLER. What good do they do? Millions and millions are collected
from you and your folk for them--it's no joke to clothe and feed such
a host! There are nearly a million of those idlers, and they're only
useful to keep the land from you; and it is on you they will fire.
[_The_ PEASANT _sighs, and shakes his head_.
PEASANT. That's true enough! If everybody were to do it at once ... but
if one or two make a stand, they'll be shot or sent to Siberia, and
that will be the end of the matter.
TRAVELLER. And yet there are men, even now--young men--who by
themselves stand up for the Law of God, and refuse to serve. They say:
"According to Christ's Law, I dare not be a murderer! Do as you please,
but I won't take a rifle in my hands!"
PEASANT. Well, and what happens?
TRAVELLER. They are put in prison; they remain there, poor fellows,
three years, or four.... But I've heard that it's not so bad for them,
for the authorities themselves respect them. And some are even let out
as unfit for service--bad health! Though he is sometimes a strapping,
broad-shouldered fellow, he's "not fit," because they're afraid
of taking a man of that kind, for fear he should tell others that
soldiering is against God's Law. So they let him go.
PEASANT. Really?
TRAVELLER. Yes, sometimes it happens that they are let off; but it also
happens that they die there. Still, soldiers die too, and even get
maimed in service--lose a leg, or an arm....
PEASANT. Oh, you're a clever fellow! It would be a good thing, only it
won't work out like that.
TRAVELLER. Why not?
PEASANT. _That's_ why.
TRAVELLER. What's _that_?
PEASANT. That the authorities have power given them.
TRAVELLER. They only have power, because you obey them. Do not obey the
authorities, and they won't have any power!
PEASANT. [_shakes his head_]. You do talk queer! How can one do without
the authorities? It is quite impossible to do without some authority.
TRAVELLER. Of course it is! Only whom will you take for authority--the
policeman, or God? Whom will you obey--the policeman, or God?
PEASANT. That goes without saying! No one is greater than God. To live
for God is the chief thing.
TRAVELLER. Well, if you mean to live for God, you must obey God
and not man. And if you live according to God, you will not drive
people off the land: you will not be a policeman, a village elder, a
tax-collector, a watchman, or above all, a soldier.... You will not
promise to kill men.
PEASANT. And how about those long-maned fellows--the priests? They must
see that things are being done not according to God's Law. Then why
don't they teach how it ought to be?
TRAVELLER. I don't know anything about that. Let them go their way, and
you go yours.
PEASANT. They are long-maned devils!
TRAVELLER. It's not right to judge others like that! We must each
remember our own faults.
PEASANT. Yes, that's right enough. [_Long pause. The_ PEASANT _shakes
his head, and smiles_.] What it comes to is this: that if we all were
to tackle it at once, the land would be ours at one go, and there would
be no more taxes.
TRAVELLER. No, friend, that's not what I mean. I don't mean that if we
live according to God's will, the land will be ours, and there will be
no more taxes. I mean that our life is evil, only because we ourselves
do evil. If one lived according to God's will, life would not be evil.
What our life would be like if we lived according to God's will, God
alone knows; but certainly life would not be evil. We drink, scold,
fight, go to law, envy, and hate men; we do not accept God's Law; we
judge others; call one fat-paunched and another long-maned; but if
any one offers us money, we are ready to do anything for it: go as
watchmen, policemen, or soldiers, to help ruin others, and to kill our
own brothers. We ourselves live like devils, and yet we complain of
others!
PEASANT. That's so! But it is hard, oh, how hard! Sometimes it's more
than one can bear.
TRAVELLER. But, for our souls' sakes, we must bear it.
PEASANT. That's quite right.... We live badly, because we forget God.
TRAVELLER. Yes, that's it! That's why life is evil. Take the
Revolutionaries; they say: "Let's kill this or that squire, or these
fat-paunched rich folk (it's all because of them); and then our life
will be happy." So they kill, and go on killing, and it profits them
nothing. It's the same with the authorities: "Give us time!" they say,
"and we'll hang, and do to death in the prisons, a thousand or a couple
of thousand people, and then life will become good...." But it only
gets worse and worse!
PEASANT. Yes, that's just it! How can judging and punishing do any
good? It must be done according to God's Law.
TRAVELLER. Yes, that is just it. You must serve either God or the
devil. If it's to be the devil, go and drink, scold, fight, hate,
covet, don't obey God's Law, but man's laws, and life will be evil. If
it is God, obey Him alone. Don't rob or kill, and don't even condemn,
and do not hate any one. Do not plunge into evil actions, and then
there will be no evil life.
PEASANT [_sighs_]. You speak well, daddy, very well--only we are taught
so little! Oh, if we were taught more like that, things would be quite
different! But people come from the town, and chatter about their way
of bettering things: they chatter fine, but there's nothing in it....
Thank you, daddy, your words are good!... Well, where will you sleep?
On the oven, yes?... The missis will make up a bed for you.
A TALK WITH A WAYFARER
I have come out early. My soul feels light and joyful. It is a
wonderful morning. The sun is only just appearing from behind the
trees. The dew glitters on them and on the grass. Everything is lovely;
everyone is lovable. It is so beautiful that, as the saying has it,
"One does not want to die." And, really, I do not want to die. I would
willingly live a little longer in this world with such beauty around
me and such joy in my heart. That, however, is not my affair, but the
Master's....
I approach the village. Before the first house I see a man standing,
motionless, sideways to me. He is evidently waiting for somebody or
something, and waiting as only working people know how to wait, without
impatience or vexation. I draw nearer: he is a bearded, strong, healthy
peasant, with shaggy, slightly grey hair, and a simple, worker's face.
He is smoking not a "cigar" twisted out of paper, but a short pipe. We
greet one another.
"Where does old Alexéy live?" I ask.
"I don't know, friend; we are strangers here."
Not "_I_ am a stranger," but "_we_ are strangers." A Russian is hardly
ever alone. If he is doing something wrong, he may perhaps say "I";
otherwise it is always "we" the family, "we" the _artél_, "we" the
Commune.
"Strangers? Where do you come from?"
"We are from Kaloúga."
I point to his pipe. "And how much do you spend a year on smoking?
Three or more roubles, I daresay!"
"Three? That would hardly be enough."
"Why not give it up?"
"How can one give it up when one's accustomed to it?"
"I also used to smoke, but have given it up ... and I feel so well--so
free!"
"Well of course ... but it's dull without it."
"Give it up, and the dulness will go! Smoking is no good, you know!"
"No good at all."
"If it's no good, you should not do it. Seeing you smoke, others will
do the same ... especially the young folk. They'll say, 'If the old
folk smoke, God himself bids us do it!'"
"That's true enough."
"And your son, seeing you smoke, will do it too."
"Of course, my son too...."
"Well then, give it up!"
"I would, only it's so dull without it.... It's chiefly from dulness.
When one feels dull, one has a smoke. That's where the mischief
lies.... It's dull! At times it's so dull ... so dull ... so dull!"
drawled he.
"The best remedy for that is to think of one's soul."
He threw a glance at me, and at once the expression of his face quite
changed: instead of his former kindly, humorous, lively and talkative
expression, he became attentive and serious.
"'Think of the soul ... of the soul,' you say?" he asked, gazing
questioningly into my eyes.
"Yes! When you think of the soul, you give up all foolish things."
His face lit up affectionately.
"You are right, daddy! You say truly. To think of the soul is the
great thing. The soul's the chief thing...." He paused. "Thank you,
daddy, it is quite true"; and he pointed to his pipe. "What is it?...
Good-for-nothing rubbish! The soul's the chief thing!" repeated he.
"What you say is true," and his face grew still kindlier and more
serious.
I wished to continue the conversation, but a lump rose in my throat (I
have grown very weak in the matter of tears), and I could not speak.
With a joyful, tender feeling I took leave of him, swallowing my tears,
and I went away.
Yes, how can one help being joyful, living amid such people? How can
one help expecting from such people all that is most excellent?
FROM THE DIARY
I am again staying with my friend, Tchertkóff, in the Moscow
Government, and am visiting him now for the same reason that once
caused us to meet on the border of the Orlóf Government, and that
brought me to the Moscow Government a year ago. The reason is that
Tchertkóff is allowed to live anywhere in the whole world, except in
Toúla Government. So I travel to different ends of it to see him.
Before eight o'clock I go out for my usual walk. It is a hot day. At
first I go along the hard clay road, past the acacia bushes already
preparing to crack their pods and shed their seeds; then past the
yellowing rye-field, with its still fresh and lovely cornflowers, and
come out into a black fallow field, now almost all ploughed up. To the
right an old man, in rough peasant-boots, ploughs with a _sohá_[4] and
a poor, skinny horse; and I hear an angry old voice shout: "Gee-up!"
and, from time to time, "Now, you devil!" and again, "Gee-up, devil!" I
want to speak with him; but when I pass his furrow, he is at the other
end of the field. I go on. There is another ploughman further on. This
one I shall probably meet when he reaches the road. If so, I'll speak
to him, if there is a chance. And we do meet just as he reaches the
road.
[4] A primitive plough used by the peasants.
He ploughs with a proper plough, harnessed to a big roan horse, and
is a well-built young lad, well clad, and wearing good boots; and he
answers my greeting of "God aid you!" pleasantly.
The plough does not cut into the hard, beaten track that crosses the
field, and he lifts it over and halts.
"You find the plough better than a _sohá_?"
"Why, certainly ... much easier!"
"Have you had it long?"
"Not long--and it nearly got stolen...."
"But you got it back?"
"Yes! One of our own villagers had it."
"Well, and did you have the law of him?"
"Why, naturally!"
"But why prosecute, if you got the plough back?"
"Why, you see, he's a thief!"
"What then? The man will go to prison, and learn to steal worse!"
He looks at me seriously and attentively, evidently neither agreeing
nor contradicting this, to him, new idea.
He has a fresh, healthy, intelligent face, with hair just appearing on
his chin and upper lip, and with intelligent grey eyes.
He leaves the plough, evidently wishing to have a rest, and inclined
for a talk. I take the plough-handles, and touch the perspiring,
well-fed, full-grown mare. She presses her weight into her collar, and
I take a few steps. But I do not manage the plough, the share jumps out
of the furrow, and I stop the horse.
"No, you can't do it."
"I have only spoilt your furrow."
"That doesn't matter--I'll put it right!"
He backs his horse, to plough the part I have missed, but does not go
on ploughing.
"It is hot in the sun.... Let's go and sit under the bushes," says he,
pointing to a little wood just across the field.
We go into the shade of the young birches. He sits down on the ground,
and I stop in front of him.
"What village are you from?"
"From Botvínino."
"Is that far?"
"There it is, shimmering on the hill," says he, pointing.
"Why are you ploughing so far from home?"
"This is not my land: it belongs to a peasant here. I have hired myself
out to him."
"Hired yourself out for the whole summer?"
"No--to plough this ground twice, and sow it, all properly."
"Has he much land, then?"
"Yes, he sows about fifteen bushels of seed."
"Does he! And is that horse your own? It's a good horse."
"Yes, it's not a bad mare," he answers, with quiet pride.
The mare really is, in build, size, and condition, such as a peasant
rarely possesses.
"I expect you are in service somewhere, and do carting?"
"No, I live at home. I'm my own master!"
"What, so young?"
"Yes! I was left fatherless at seven. My brother works at a Moscow
factory. At first my sister helped; she also worked at a factory. But
since I was fourteen I've had no help in all my affairs, and have
worked and earned," says he, with calm consciousness of his dignity.
"Are you married?"
"No."
"Then, who does your housework?"
"Why, mother!"
"And you have a cow?"
"Two cows."
"Have you, really?... And how old are you?" I ask.
"Eighteen," he replies, with a slight smile, understanding that it
interests me to see that so young a fellow has been able to manage so
well. This, evidently, pleases him.
"How young you still are!" I say. "And will you have to go as a
soldier?"
"Of course ... be conscripted!" says he, with the calm expression with
which people speak of old age, death, and in general of things it is
useless to argue about, because they are unavoidable.
As always happens now when one speaks to peasants, our talk touches on
the land, and, describing his life, he says he has not enough land, and
that if he did not do wage-labour, sometimes with and sometimes without
his horse, he would not have anything to live on. But he says this with
merry, pleased and proud self-satisfaction; and again remarks that he
was left alone, master of the house, when he was fourteen, and has
earned everything himself.
"And do you drink vódka?"
He evidently does not like to say that he does, and still does not wish
to tell a lie.
"I do," he says, softly, shrugging his shoulders.
"And can you read and write?"
"Very well."
"And haven't you read books about strong drink?"
"No, I haven't."
"Well, but wouldn't it be better not to drink at all?"
"Of course. Little good comes of it."
"Then why not give it up?"
He is silent, evidently understanding, and thinking it over.
"It can be done, you know," say I, "and what a good thing it would
be!... The day before yesterday I went to Ívino. When I reached one of
the houses, the master came out to greet me, calling me by name. It
turned out that we had met twelve years before.... It was Koúzin--do
you know him?"
"Of course I do! Sergéy Timoféevitch, you mean?"
I tell him how we started a Temperance Society twelve years ago with
Koúzin, who, though he used to drink, has quite given it up, and now
tells me he is very glad to be rid of so nasty a habit; and, one sees,
is living well, with his house and everything well managed, and who,
had he not given up drinking, would have had none of these things.
"Yes, that is so!"
"Well then, you know, you should do the same. You are such a nice, good
lad.... What do you need vódka for, when you say yourself there is no
good in it?... You, too, should give it up!... It would be such a good
thing!"
He remains silent, and looks at me intently. I prepare to go, and hold
out my hand to him.
"Truly, give it up from now! It would be such a good thing!"
With his strong hand he firmly presses mine, evidently regarding my
gesture as challenging him to promise.
"Very well then ... it can be done!" says he, quite unexpectedly, and
in a joyous and resolute tone.
"Do you really promise?" say I, surprised.
"Well, of course! I promise," he says, nodding his head and smiling
slightly.
The quiet tone of his voice, and his serious, attentive face, show that
he is not joking, but that he is really making a promise he means to
keep.
Old age or illness, or both together, has made me very ready to cry
when I am touched with joy. The simple words of that kindly, firm,
strong man, so evidently ready for all that is good, and standing so
alone, touch me so that sobs rise to my throat, and I step aside,
unable to utter a word.
After going a few steps, I regain control of myself, and turn to him
and say (I have already asked his name):
"Mind, Alexander! ... the proverb says, 'Be slow to promise, but having
promised, keep it!'"
"Yes, that's so. It will be safe."
I have seldom experienced a more joyful feeling than I had when I left
him.
I have omitted to say that during our talk I had offered to give him
some leaflets on drink and some booklets. [A man in a neighbouring
village posted up one of those same leaflets on the wall outside his
house lately, but it was pulled down and destroyed by the policeman.]
He thanked me, and said he would come and fetch them in the
dinner-hour.
He did not come in the dinner-hour, and I, sinner that I am, suspected
that our whole conversation was not so important to him as it seemed
to me, and that he did not want the books, and that, in general, I had
attributed to him what was not in him. But he came in the evening, all
perspiring from his work and from the walk. After finishing his work,
he had ridden home, put up the plough, attended to his horse, and had
now come a quarter of a mile to fetch the books.
I was sitting, with some visitors, on a splendid veranda, looking out
on to flower-beds with ornamental vases on flower-set mounds--in short,
in luxurious surroundings such as one is always ashamed of when one
enters into human relations with working people.
I went out to him, and at once asked, "Have you not changed your mind?
Will you really keep your promise?"
And again, with the same kindly smile, he replied, "Of course!... I
have already told mother. She's glad, and thanks you."
I saw a bit of paper behind his ear.
"You smoke?"
"I do," he said, evidently expecting that I should begin persuading him
to leave that off too. But I did not try to.
He remained silent; and then, by some strange connection of thoughts (I
think he saw the interest I felt in his life, and wished to tell me of
the important event awaiting him in the autumn) he said:
"But I did not tell you.... I am already betrothed...."
And he smiled, looking questioningly into my eyes. "It's to be in the
autumn!"
"Really! That's a good thing! Where is she from?"
He told me.
"Has she a dowry?"
"No; what dowry should she have? But she's a good girl."
The idea came to me to put to him the question which always interests
me when I come in contact with good young people of our day.
"Tell me," said I, "and forgive my asking--but please tell the truth:
either do not answer at all, or tell the whole truth...."
He looked at me quietly and attentively.
"Why should I not tell you?"
"Have you ever sinned with a woman?"