Transcriber's Notes:
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Blank pages have been eliminated.
Greek and Hebrew characters have been transliterated to English
characters. The transliterations are denoted by [Greek: [Hebrew:
Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the
original.
A few typographical errors have been corrected.
MY RELIGION.
BY
COUNT LEO TOLSTOI.
_TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH._
NEW YORK:
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.,
13 ASTOR PLACE.
Copyright by
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.,
1885.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
TO one not familiar with the Russian language the accessible data
relative to the external life of Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoi, the author of
this book, are, to say the least, not voluminous. His name does not
appear in that heterogeneous record of celebrities known as _The Men of
the Time_, nor is it to be found in M. Vapereau's comprehensive
_Dictionnaire des Contemporains_. And yet Count Leo Tolstoi is
acknowledged by competent critics to be a man of extraordinary genius,
who, certainly in one instance, has produced a masterpiece of literature
which will continue to rank with the great artistic productions of this
age.
Perhaps it is enough for us to know that he was born on his father's
estate in the Russian province of Tula, in the year 1828; that he
received a good home education and studied the oriental languages at the
University of Kasan; that he was for a time in the army, which he
entered at the age of twenty-three as an officer of artillery, serving
later on the staff of Prince Gortschakof; and that subsequently he
alternated between St. Petersburg and Moscow, leading the existence of
super-refined barbarism and excessive luxury, characteristic of the
Russian aristocracy. He saw life in country and city, in camp and court.
He was numbered among the defenders of Sebastopol in the Crimean War,
and the impressions then gathered he used as material for a series of
_War Sketches_ that attracted attention in the pages of the magazine
where they first appeared; and when, a little later, they were published
in book form, their author, then twenty-eight years of age, acquired at
once a wide popularity. Popularity became fame with the publication,
also in 1856, of _Childhood and Youth_, remarkable alike for its artless
revelations concerning the genesis and growth of ideas and emotions in
the minds of the young, for its idyllic pictures of domestic life, and
for its graceful descriptions of nature. This was followed by _The
Cossacks_, a wild romance of the steppes, vigorously realistic in
details, and, like all of Count Tolstoi's works, poetic in conception
and inspired with a dramatic intensity. In 1860 appeared _War and
Peace_, an historical romance in many volumes, dealing with the
Napoleonic invasion of 1812 and the events that immediately followed the
retreat from Moscow. According to M. C. Courrière,[1] it was seized upon
with avidity and produced a profound sensation.
[1] _Histoire de la littérature contemporaine en Russie._
"The stage is immense and the actors are innumerable; among them three
emperors with their ministers, their marshals, and their generals, and
then a countless retinue of minor officers, soldiers, nobles, and
peasants. We are transported by turns from the salons of St. Petersburg
to the camps of war, from Moscow to the country. And all these diverse
and varied scenes are joined together with a controlling purpose that
brings everything into harmony. Each one of the prolonged series of
constantly changing tableaux is of remarkable beauty and palpitating
with life."
Pierre Besushkof, one of the three heroes of _War and Peace_, has,
rightly or wrongly, long been regarded as in some respects an
autobiographical study, but the personal note is always clearly
perceptible in Count Tolstoi's writings, if we are to believe the
reports of the enthusiastic purveyors of literary information who have
made known some of their many attractive qualities. It is plain also
that a common purpose runs through them all, a purpose which only in the
author's latest production finds full expression. There are hints of it
in _Childhood and Youth_; in _War and Peace_, and in a subsequent
romance, _Anna Karenin_, it becomes very distinct. In the two works last
named Count Tolstoi is pitiless in his portrayal of the vices and
follies of the wealthy, aristocratic class, and warm in his praise of
simplicity and unpretending virtue. Pierre Besushkof is represented as
the product of a transition period, one who sees clearly that the future
must be different from the past, but unable to interpret the prophecies
of its coming. M. Courrière speaks of him very happily as "an overgrown
child who seems to be lost in a wholly unfamiliar world." For a time
Pierre finds mental tranquility in the tenets of freemasonry, and the
author gives us a vivid account, humorous and pathetic by turns, of the
young man's efforts to carry the newly acquired doctrines into practice.
He determines to better the condition of the peasants on his estates;
but instead of looking after the affair himself, he leaves the
consummation of his plans to his stewards, with the result that "the
cleverest among them listened with attention, but considered one thing
only,--how to carry out their own private ends under the pretense of
executing his commands." Later on we are shown Pierre wandering
aimlessly about the streets of burning Moscow, until taken into custody
by the French. Then he learns the true meaning of life from a simple
soldier, a fellow-prisoner, and thereby realizes that safety for the
future is to be obtained only by bringing life to the standard of rude
simplicity adopted by the common people, by recognizing, in act as well
as in deed, the brotherhood of man.
We cannot here enter into the question as to whether this mental
attitude, by no means unusual among Russians of cultivation and
liberality, arises from the lack of social gradation between the noble
and the peasant, which forces the social philosopher of rank to accept
an existence of pure worldliness and empty show, or to adopt the
primitive aspirations and humble toil of the tillers of the soil. At any
rate, it is plain that Count Tolstoi sides with the latter. The doctrine
of simplification has many adherents in Russia, and when, some time
ago, it was announced that the author of _War and Peace_ had retired to
the country and was leading a life of frugality and unaffected toil in
the cultivation of his estates, the surprise to his own countrymen could
not have been very great. In this book he tells us how the decision was
formed. He bases his conclusions on a direct and literal interpretation
of the teachings of Jesus as expressed in the Sermon on the Mount.
The interpretation is not new in theory, but never before has it been
carried out with so much zeal, so much determination, so much sincerity,
and, granting the premises, with logic so unanswerable, as in this
beautiful confession of faith. How movingly does he depict the doubts
and fears of the searcher after the better life; how impressive his
earnest inquiry for truth; how inspiring his confidence in the natural
goodness, as opposed to the natural depravity of man; how convincing his
argument that the doctrine of Jesus is simple, practicable, and
conducive to the highest happiness; how terrifying his enumeration of
the sufferings of "the martyrs to the doctrine of the world"; how
pitiless his arraignment of the Church for its complacent indifference
to the welfare of humanity here in this present stage of existence; how
sublime his prophecy of the golden age when men shall dwell together in
the bonds of love, and sin and suffering shall be no more the common lot
of mankind! We read, and are thrilled with a divine emotion; but which
of us is willing to accept the truth here unfolded as the veritable
secret of life?
Shall we take seriously this eloquent enunciation of faith in humility,
in self-denial, in fraternal love, or shall we regard it only as a
beautiful and peaceful phase in the career of a man of genius who, after
the storm and stress of a life of sin and suffering, has turned back to
the ideals of youth and innocence, and sought to make them once more the
objects of desire? Fanaticism, do you say? Ah, yes; but did not Jesus
and his disciples practise just such fanaticism as this? Does any one
deny that all that is best in this modern world (and there is so much of
the best, after all), that all that is best has come from the great
moral impulse generated by a little group of fanatics in an obscure
corner of Asia eighteen centuries ago? That impulse we still feel, in
spite of all the obstructions that have been put in its way to nullify
its action; and if any would seek for strength from the primary source
of power, who shall say him nay? And so although we may smile at the
artlessness of this Russian evangelist in his determination to find in
the gospels the categorical imperative of self-renunciation, although we
may regard with wonder the magnificent audacity of his exegetical
speculations, we cannot refuse to admire a faith so sincere, so intense,
and, in many respects, so elevating and so noble.
HUNTINGTON SMITH.
DORCHESTER, MASS.,
Nov. 19, 1885.
INTRODUCTION.
I HAVE not always been possessed of the religious ideas set forth in
this book. For thirty-five years of my life I was, in the proper
acceptation of the word, a nihilist,--not a revolutionary socialist, but
a man who believed in nothing. Five years ago faith came to me; I
believed in the doctrine of Jesus, and my whole life underwent a sudden
transformation. What I had once wished for I wished for no longer, and I
began to desire what I had never desired before. What had once appeared
to me right now became wrong, and the wrong of the past I beheld as
right. My condition was like that of a man who goes forth upon some
errand, and having traversed a portion of the road, decides that the
matter is of no importance, and turns back. What was at first on his
right hand is now on his left, and what was at his left hand is now on
his right; instead of going away from his abode, he desires to get back
to it as soon as possible. My life and my desires were completely
changed; good and evil interchanged meanings. Why so? Because I
understood the doctrine of Jesus in a different way from that in which I
had understood it before.
It is not my purpose to expound the doctrine of Jesus; I wish only to
tell how it was that I came to understand what there is in this doctrine
that is simple, clear, evident, indisputable; how I understand that part
of it which appeals to all men, and how this understanding refreshed my
soul and gave me happiness and peace.
I do not intend to comment on the doctrine of Jesus; I desire only that
all comment shall be forever done away with. The Christian sects have
always maintained that all men, however unequal in education and
intelligence, are equal before God; that divine truth is accessible to
every one. Jesus has even declared it to be the will of God that what is
concealed from the wise shall be revealed to the simple. Not every one
is able to understand the mysteries of dogmatics, homiletics, liturgics,
hermeneutics, apologetics; but every one is able and ought to understand
what Jesus Christ said to the millions of simple and ignorant people who
have lived, and who are living to-day. Now, the things that Jesus said
to simple people who could not avail themselves of the comments of Paul,
of Clement, of Chrysostom, and of others, are just what I did not
understand, and which, now that I have come to understand them, I wish
to make plain to all.
The thief on the cross believed in the Christ, and was saved. If the
thief, instead of dying on the cross, had descended from it, and told
all men of his belief in the Christ, would not the result have been of
great good? Like the thief on the cross, I believe in the doctrine of
Jesus, and this belief has made me whole. This is not a vain comparison,
but a truthful expression of my spiritual condition; my soul, once
filled with despair of life and fear of death, is now full of happiness
and peace.
Like the thief, I knew that my past and present life was vile; I saw
that the majority of men about me lived unworthy lives. I knew, like the
thief, that I was wretched and suffering, that all those about me
suffered and were wretched; and I saw before me nothing but death to
save me from this condition. As the thief was nailed to his cross, so I
was nailed to a life of suffering and evil by an incomprehensible power.
And as the thief saw before him, after the sufferings of a foolish life,
the horrible shadows of death, so I beheld the same vista opening before
me.
In all this I felt that I was like the thief. There was, however, a
difference in our conditions; he was about to die, and I--I still lived.
The dying thief thought perhaps to find his salvation beyond the grave,
while I had before me life and its mystery this side the grave. I
understood nothing of this life; it seemed to me a frightful thing, and
then--I understood the words of Jesus, and life and death ceased to be
evil; instead of despair, I tasted joy and happiness that death could
not take away.
Will any one, then, be offended if I tell the story of how all this came
about?
LEO TOLSTOI.
MOSCOW, Jan. 22, 1884.
MY RELIGION.
CHAPTER I.
I SHALL explain elsewhere, in two voluminous treatises, why I did not
understand the doctrine of Jesus, and how at length it became clear to
me. These works are a criticism of dogmatic theology and a new
translation of the four Gospels, followed by a concordance. In these
writings I seek methodically to disentangle everything that tends to
conceal the truth from men; I translate the four Gospels anew, verse by
verse, and I bring them together in a new concordance. The work has
lasted for six years. Each year, each month, I discover new meanings
which corroborate the fundamental idea; I correct the errors which have
crept in, and I put the last touches to what I have already written. My
life, whose final term is not far distant, will doubtless end before I
have finished my work; but I am convinced that the work will be of great
service; so I shall do all that I can to bring it to completion.
I do not now concern myself with this outward work upon theology and the
Gospels, but with an inner work of an entirely different nature. I have
to do now with nothing systematic or methodical, only with that sudden
light which showed me the Gospel doctrine in all its simple beauty.
The process was something similar to that experienced by one who,
following an erroneous model, seeks to restore a statue from broken bits
of marble, and who with one of the most refractory fragments in hand
perceives the hopelessness of his ideal; then he begins anew, and
instead of the former incongruities he finds, as he observes the
outlines of each fragment, that all fit well together and form one
consistent whole. That is exactly what happened to me, and is what I
wish to relate. I wish to tell how I found the key to the true meaning
of the doctrine of Jesus, and how by this meaning doubt was absolutely
driven from my soul. The discovery came about in this way.
From my childhood, from the time I first began to read the New
Testament, I was touched most of all by that portion of the doctrine of
Jesus which inculcates love, humility, self-denial, and the duty of
returning good for evil. This, to me, has always been the substance of
Christianity; my heart recognized its truth in spite of scepticism and
despair, and for this reason I submitted to a religion professed by a
multitude of toilers, who find in it the solution of life,--the religion
taught by the Orthodox Church. But in making my submission to the
Church, I soon saw that I should not find in its creed the confirmation
of the essence of Christianity; what was to me essential seemed to be in
the dogma of the Church merely an accessory. What was to me the most
important of the teachings of Jesus was not so regarded by the Church.
No doubt (I thought) the Church sees in Christianity, aside from its
inner meaning of love, humility, and self-denial, an outer, dogmatic
meaning, which, however strange and even repulsive to me, is not in
itself evil or pernicious. But the further I went on in submission to
the doctrine of the Church, the more clearly I saw in this particular
point something of greater importance than I had at first realized. What
I found most repulsive in the doctrine of the Church was the strangeness
of its dogmas and the approval, nay, the support, which it gave to
persecutions, to the death penalty, to wars stirred up by the
intolerance common to all sects; but my faith was chiefly shattered by
the indifference of the Church to what seemed to me essential in the
teachings of Jesus, and its partiality for what seemed to me of
secondary importance. I felt that something was wrong; but I could not
see where the fault lay, because the doctrine of the Church did not deny
what seemed to me essential in the doctrine of Jesus; this essential was
fully recognized, yet in such a way as not to give it the first place. I
could not accuse the Church of denying the essence of the doctrine of
Jesus, but it was recognized in a way which did not satisfy me. The
Church did not give me what I expected from her. I had passed from
nihilism to the Church simply because I felt it to be impossible to live
without religion, that is, without a knowledge of good and evil aside
from animal instincts. I hoped to find this knowledge in Christianity;
but Christianity I then saw only as a vague spiritual tendency, from
which it was impossible to deduce any clear and peremptory rules for the
guidance of life. These I sought and these I demanded of the Church. The
Church offered me rules wherein I not only sought in vain the practice
of the Christian life so dear to me, but which drove me still further
away. I could not become a disciple of the Church. An existence based
upon Christian truth was to me indispensable, and the Church only
offered me rules completely at variance with the truth that I loved. The
rules of the Church touching articles of faith, dogmas, the observance
of the sacrament, fasts, prayers, were not necessary to me, and did not
seem to be based on Christian truth. Moreover, the rules of the Church
weakened and sometimes destroyed the Christian disposition of soul which
alone gave meaning to my life.
I was troubled most that the miseries of humanity, the habit of judging
one another, of passing judgment upon nations and religions, and the
wars and massacres which resulted in consequence, all went on with the
approbation of the Church. The doctrine of Jesus,--judge not, be humble,
forgive offences, deny self, love,--this doctrine was extolled by the
Church in words, but at the same time the Church approved what was
incompatible with the doctrine. Was it possible that the doctrine of
Jesus admitted of such contradiction? I could not believe so.
Another astonishing thing about the Church was that the passages upon
which it based affirmation of its dogmas were those which were most
obscure. On the other hand, the passages from which came the moral laws
were the most clear and precise. And yet the dogmas and the duties
depending upon them were definitely formulated by the Church, while the
recommendation to obey the moral law was put in the most vague and
mystical terms. Was this the intention of Jesus? The Gospels alone could
dissipate my doubts. I read them once and again.
Of all the other portions of the Gospels, the Sermon on the Mount always
had for me an exceptional importance. I now read it more frequently than
ever. Nowhere does Jesus speak with greater solemnity, nowhere does he
propound moral rules more definitely and practically, nor do these rules
in any other form awaken more readily an echo in the human heart;
nowhere else does he address himself to a larger multitude of the common
people. If there are any clear and precise Christian principles, one
ought to find them here. I therefore sought the solution of my doubts in
Matthew v., vi., and vii., comprising the Sermon on the Mount. These
chapters I read very often, each time with the same emotional ardor, as
I came to the verses which exhort the hearer to turn the other cheek, to
give up his cloak, to be at peace with all the world, to love his
enemies,--but each time with the same disappointment. The divine words
were not clear. They exhorted to a renunciation so absolute as to
entirely stifle life as I understood it; to renounce everything,
therefore, could not, it seemed to me, be essential to salvation. And
the moment this ceased to be an absolute condition, clearness and
precision were at an end.
I read not only the Sermon on the Mount; I read all the Gospels and all
the theological commentaries on the Gospels. I was not satisfied with
the declarations of the theologians that the Sermon on the Mount was
only an indication of the degree of perfection to which man should
aspire; that man, weighed down by sin, could not reach such an ideal;
and that the salvation of humanity was in faith and prayer and grace. I
could not admit the truth of these propositions. It seemed to me a
strange thing that Jesus should propound rules so clear and admirable,
addressed to the understanding of every one, and still realize man's
inability to carry his doctrine into practice.
Then as I read these maxims I was permeated with the joyous assurance
that I might that very hour, that very moment, begin to practise them.
The burning desire I felt led me to the attempt, but the doctrine of the
Church rang in my ears,--_Man is weak, and to this he cannot
attain_;--my strength soon failed. On every side I heard, "You must
believe and pray"; but my wavering faith impeded prayer. Again I heard,
"You must pray, and God will give you faith; this faith will inspire
prayer, which in turn will invoke faith that will inspire more prayer,
and so on, indefinitely." Reason and experience alike convinced me that
such methods were useless. It seemed to me that the only true way was
for me to try to follow the doctrine of Jesus.
And so, after all this fruitless search and careful meditation over all
that had been written for and against the divinity of the doctrine of
Jesus, after all this doubt and suffering, I came back face to face with
the mysterious Gospel message. I could not find the meanings that others
found, neither could I discover what I sought. It was only after I had
rejected the interpretations of the wise critics and theologians,
according to the words of Jesus, "_Except ye... become as little
children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven_" (Matt. xviii.
3),--it was only then that I suddenly understood what had been so
meaningless before. I understood, not through exegetical fantasies or
profound and ingenious textual combinations; I understood everything,
because I put all commentaries out of my mind. This was the passage that
gave me the key to the whole:--
"_Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth
for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil._" (Matt. v.
38, 39.)
One day the exact and simple meaning of these words came to me; I
understood that Jesus meant neither more nor less than what he said.
What I saw was nothing new; only the veil that had hidden the truth from
me fell away, and the truth was revealed in all its grandeur.
"_Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth
for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil._"
These words suddenly appeared to me as if I had never read them before.
Always before, when I had read this passage, I had, singularly enough,
allowed certain words to escape me, "_But I say unto you, that ye resist
not evil_." To me it had always been as if the words just quoted had
never existed, or had never possessed a definite meaning. Later on, as I
talked with many Christians familiar with the Gospel, I noticed
frequently the same blindness with regard to these words. No one
remembered them, and often in speaking of this passage, Christians took
up the Gospel to see for themselves if the words were really there.
Through a similar neglect of these words I had failed to understand the
words that follow:--
"_But whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the
other also_," etc. (Matt. v. 39, _et seq._)
Always these words had seemed to me to demand long-suffering and
privation contrary to human nature. They touched me; I felt that it
would be noble to follow them, but I also felt that I had not the
strength to put them into practice. I said to myself, "If I turn the
other cheek, I shall get another blow; if I give, all that I have will
be taken away. Life would be an impossibility. Since life is given to
me, why should I deprive myself of it? Jesus cannot demand as much as
that." Thus I reasoned, persuaded that Jesus, in exalting long-suffering
and privation, made use of exaggerated terms lacking in clearness and
precision; but when I understood the words "_Resist not evil_," I saw
that Jesus did not exaggerate, that he did not demand suffering for
suffering, but that he had formulated with great clearness and precision
exactly what he wished to say.
"_Resist not evil_," knowing that you will meet with those who, when
they have struck you on one cheek and met with no resistance, will
strike you on the other; who, having taken away your coat, will take
away your cloak also; who, having profited by your labor, will force you
to labor still more without reward. And yet, though all this should
happen to you, "_Resist not evil_"; do good to them that injure you.
When I understood these words as they are written, all that had been
obscure became clear to me, and what had seemed exaggerated I saw to be
perfectly reasonable. For the first time I grasped the pivotal idea in
the words "_Resist not evil_"; I saw that what followed was only a
development of this command; I saw that Jesus did not exhort us to turn
the other cheek that we might endure suffering, but that his exhortation
was, "_Resist not evil_," and that he afterward declared suffering to be
the possible consequence of the practice of this maxim.
A father, when his son is about to set out on a far journey, commands
him not to tarry by the way; he does not tell him to pass his nights
without shelter, to deprive himself of food, to expose himself to rain
and cold. He says, "Go thy way, and tarry not, though thou should'st be
wet or cold." So Jesus does not say, "Turn the other cheek and suffer."
He says, "_Resist not evil_"; no matter what happens, "_Resist not_."
These words, "_Resist not evil_," when I understood their significance,
were to me the key that opened all the rest. Then I was astonished that
I had failed to comprehend words so clear and precise.
"_Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth
for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil._"
Whatever injury the evil-disposed may inflict upon you, bear it, give
all that you have, but resist not. Could anything be more clear, more
definite, more intelligible than that? I had only to grasp the simple
and exact meaning of these words, just as they were spoken, when the
whole doctrine of Jesus, not only as set forth in the Sermon on the
Mount, but in the entire Gospels, became clear to me; what had seemed
contradictory was now in harmony; above all, what had seemed superfluous
was now indispensable. Each portion fell into harmonious unison and
filled its proper part, like the fragments of a broken statue when
adjusted in harmony with the sculptor's design. In the Sermon on the
Mount, as well as throughout the whole Gospel, I found everywhere
affirmation of the same doctrine, "_Resist not evil_."
In the Sermon on the Mount, as well as in many other places, Jesus
represents his disciples, those who observe the rule of non-resistance
to evil, as turning the other cheek, giving up their cloaks, persecuted,
used despitefully, and in want. Everywhere Jesus says that he who taketh
not up his cross, he who does not renounce worldly advantage, he who is
not ready to bear all the consequences of the commandment, "_Resist not
evil_," cannot become his disciple.
To his disciples Jesus says, Choose to be poor; bear all things without
resistance to evil, even though you thereby bring upon yourself
persecution, suffering, and death.
Prepared to suffer death rather than resist evil, he reproved the
resentment of Peter, and died exhorting his followers not to resist and
to remain always faithful to his doctrine. The early disciples observed
this rule, and passed their lives in misery and persecution, without
rendering evil for evil.
It seems, then, that Jesus meant precisely what he said. We may declare
the practice of such a rule to be very difficult; we may deny that he
who follows it will find happiness; we may say with the unbelievers that
Jesus was a dreamer, an idealist who propounded impracticable maxims;
but it is impossible not to admit that he expressed in a manner at once
clear and precise what he wished to say; that is, that according to his
doctrine a man must not resist evil, and, consequently, that whoever
adopts his doctrine will not resist evil. And yet neither believers nor
unbelievers will admit this simple and clear interpretation of Jesus'
words.