The Complete Works of Leo Tolstoy (25+ Works with active table of contents)

by Leo Tolstoy

  All my life long, I have regulated my whole life, food, sleep, diversion, in view of these hours of special labor, and I have done nothing except this work. The result of this has been, in the first place, that I have contracted my sphere of observations and knowledge, and have frequently had no means for the study even of problems which often presented themselves in describing the life of the people (for the life of the common people is the every-day problem of intellectual activity). I was conscious of my ignorance, and was obliged to obtain instruction, to ask about things which are known by every man not engaged in special labor. In the second place, the result was, that I had been in the habit of sitting down to write when I had no inward impulse to write, and when no one demanded from me writing, as writing, that is to say, my thoughts, but when my name was merely wanted for journalistic speculation. I tried to squeeze out of myself what I could. Sometimes I could extract nothing; sometimes it was very wretched stuff, and I was dissatisfied and grieved. But now that I have learned the indispensability of physical labor, both hard and artisan labor, the result is entirely different. My time has been occupied, however modestly, at least usefully and cheerfully, and in a manner instructive to me. And therefore I have torn myself from that indubitably useful and cheerful occupation for my special duties only when I felt an inward impulse, and when I saw a demand made upon me directly for my literary work.

  And these demands called into play only good nature, and therefore the usefulness and the joy of my special labor. Thus it turned out, that employment in those physical labors which are indispensable to me, as they are to every man, not only did not interfere with my special activity, but was an indispensable condition of the usefulness, worth, and cheerfulness of that activity.

  The bird is so constructed, that it is indispensable that it should fly, walk, peek, combine; and when it does all this, it is satisfied and happy,--then it is a bird. Just so man, when he walks, turns, raises, drags, works with his fingers, with his eyes, with his ears, with his tongue, with his brain,--only then is he satisfied, only then is he a man.

  A man who acknowledges his appointment to labor will naturally strive towards that rotation of labor which is peculiar to him, for the satisfaction of his inward requirements; and he can alter this labor in no other way than when he feels within himself an irresistible summons to some exclusive form of labor, and when the demands of other men for that labor are expressed.

  The character of labor is such, that the satisfaction of all a man's requirements demands that same succession of the sorts of work which renders work not a burden but a joy. Only a false creed, [Greek text which cannot be reproduced], to the effect that labor is a curse, could have led men to rid themselves of certain kinds of work; i.e., to the appropriation of the work of others, demanding the forced occupation with special labor of other people, which they call division of labor.

  We have only grown used to our false comprehension of the regulation of labor, because it seems to us that the shoemaker, the machinist, the writer, or the musician will be better off if he gets rid of the labor peculiar to man. Where there is no force exercised over the labor of others, or any false belief in the joy of idleness, not a single man will get rid of physical labor, necessary for the satisfaction of his requirements, for the sake of special work; because special work is not a privilege, but a sacrifice which man offers to inward pressure and to his brethren.

  The shoemaker in the country, who abandons his wonted labor in the field, which is so grateful to him, and betakes himself to his trade, in order to repair or make boots for his neighbors, always deprives himself of the pleasant toil of the field, simply because he likes to make boots, because he knows that no one else can do it so well as he, and that people will be grateful to him for it; but the desire cannot occur to him, to deprive himself, for the whole period of his life, of the cheering rotation of labor.

  It is the same with the starosta [village elder], the machinist, the writer, the learned man. To us, with our corrupt conception of things, it seems, that if a steward has been relegated to the position of a peasant by his master, or if a minister has been sent to the colonies, he has been chastised, he has been ill-treated. But in reality a benefit has been conferred on him; that is to say, his special, hard labor has been changed into a cheerful rotation of labor. In a naturally constituted society, this is quite otherwise. I know of one community where the people supported themselves. One of the members of this society was better educated than the rest; and they called upon him to read, so that he was obliged to prepare himself during the day, in order that he might read in the evening. This he did gladly, feeling that he was useful to others, and that he was performing a good deed. But he grew weary of exclusively intellectual work, and his health suffered from it. The members of the community took pity on him, and requested him to go to work in the fields.

  For men who regard labor as the substance and the joy of life, the basis, the foundation of life will always be the struggle with nature,--labor both agricultural and mechanical, and intellectual, and the establishment of communion between men. Departure from one or from many of these varieties of labor, and the adoption of special labor, will then only occur when the man possessed of a special branch, and loving this work, and knowing that he can perform it better than others, sacrifices his own profit for the satisfaction of the direct demands made upon him. Only on condition of such a view of labor, and of the natural division of labor arising from it, is that curse which is laid upon our idea of labor abrogated, and does every sort of work becomes always a joy; because a man will either perform that labor which is undoubtedly useful and joyous, and not dull, or he will possess the consciousness of self- abnegation in the fulfilment of more difficult and restricted toil, which he exercises for the good of others.

  But the division of labor is more profitable. More profitable for whom? It is more profitable in making the greatest possible quantity of calico, and boots in the shortest possible time. But who will make these boots and this calico? There are people who, for whole generations, make only the heads of pins. Then how can this be more profitable for men? If the point lies in manufacturing as much calico and as many pins as possible, then this is so. But the point concerns men and their welfare. And the welfare of men lies in life. And life is work. How, then, can the necessity for burdensome, oppressive toil be more profitable for people? For all men, that one thing is more profitable which I desire for myself,-- the utmost well-being, and the gratification of all those requirements, both bodily and spiritual, of the conscience and of the reason, which are imposed upon me. And in my own case I have found, that for my own welfare, and for the satisfaction of these needs of mine, all that I require is to cure myself of that folly in which I had been living, in company with the Krapivensky madman, and which consisted in presupposing that some people need not work, and that certain other people should direct all this, and that I should therefore do only that which is natural to man, i.e., labor for the satisfaction of their requirements; and, having discovered this, I convinced myself that labor for the satisfaction of one's own needs falls of itself into various kinds of labor, each one of which possesses its own charm, and which not only do not constitute a burden, but which serve as a respite to one another. I have made a rough division of this labor (not insisting on the justice of this arrangement), in accordance with my own needs in life, into four parts, corresponding to the four stints of labor of which the day is composed; and I seek in this manner to satisfy my requirements.

  These, then, are the answers which I have found for myself to the question, "What is to be done?"

  First, Not to lie to myself, however far removed my path in life may be from the true path which my reason discloses to me.

  Second, To renounce my consciousness of my own righteousness, my superiority especially over other people; and to acknowledge my guilt.

  Third, To comply with that eternal and indubitable law of humanity,- -the labor of my whole being, feeling no shame at any
sort of work; to contend with nature for the maintenance of my own life and the lives of others.

  Footnote:

  {1} An omission by the censor, which I am unable to supply. TRANS.

  {2} We designate as organisms the elephant and the bacterian, only because we assume by analogy in those creatures the same conjunction of feeling and consciousness that we know to exist in ourselves. But in human societies and in humanity, this actual sign is absent; and therefore, however many other signs we may discover in humanity and in organism, without this substantial token the recognition of humanity as an organism is incorrect.

  {3} v prikusku, when a lump of sugar is held in the teeth instead or being put into the tea.

  The Power of Darkness

  CHARACTERS

  PETER IGNÁTITCH. A well-to-do peasant, 42 years old, married for the second time, and sickly.

  ANÍSYA. His wife, 32 years old, fond of dress.

  AKOULÍNA. Peter's daughter by his first marriage, 16 years old, hard of hearing, mentally undeveloped.

  NAN (ANNA PETRÓVNA). His daughter by his second marriage, 10 years old.

  NIKÍTA. Their labourer, 26 years old, fond of dress.

  AKÍM. Nikíta's father, 50 years old, a plain-looking, God-fearing peasant.

  MATRYÓNA. His wife and Nikíta's mother, 50 years old.

  MARÍNA. An orphan girl, 22 years old.

  MARTHA. Peter's sister.

  MÍTRITCH. An old labourer, ex-soldier.

  SIMON. Marína's husband.

  BRIDEGROOM. Engaged to Akoulína.

  IVÁN. His father.

  A NEIGHBOUR.

  FIRST GIRL.

  SECOND GIRL.

  POLICE OFFICER.

  DRIVER.

  BEST-MAN.

  MATCHMAKER.

  VILLAGE ELDER.

  VISITORS, WOMEN, GIRLS, AND PEOPLE come to see the wedding.

  N.B.--The 'oven' mentioned is the usual large, brick, Russian baking-oven. The top of it outside is flat, so that more than one person can lie on it.

  ACT I

  The Act takes place in autumn in a large village. The Scene represents Peter's roomy hut. Peter is sitting on a wooden bench, mending a horse-collar. Anísya and Akoulína are spinning, and singing a part-song.

  PETER [looking out of the window] The horses have got loose again. If we don't look out they'll be killing the colt. Nikíta! Hey, Nikíta! Is the fellow deaf? [Listens. To the women] Shut up, one can't hear anything.

  NIKÍTA [from outside] What?

  PETER. Drive the horses in.

  NIKÍTA. We'll drive 'em in. All in good time.

  PETER [shaking his head] Ah, these labourers! If I were well, I'd not keep one on no account. There's nothing but bother with 'em. [Rises and sits down again] Nikíta!... It's no good shouting. One of you'd better go. Go, Akoúl, drive 'em in.

  AKOULÍNA. What? The horses?

  PETER. What else?

  AKOULÍNA. All right. [Exit].

  PETER. Ah, but he's a loafer, that lad ... no good at all. Won't stir a finger if he can help it.

  ANÍSYA. You're so mighty brisk yourself. When you're not sprawling on the top of the oven you're squatting on the bench. To goad others to work is all you're fit for.

  PETER. If one weren't to goad you on a bit, one'd have no roof left over one's head before the year's out. Oh what people!

  ANÍSYA. You go shoving a dozen jobs on to one's shoulders, and then do nothing but scold. It's easy to lie on the oven and give orders.

  PETER [sighing] Oh, if 'twere not for this sickness that's got hold of me, I'd not keep him on another day.

  AKOULÍNA [off the scene] Gee up, gee, woo. [A colt neighs, the stamping of horses' feet and the creaking of the gate are heard].

  PETER. Bragging, that's what he's good at. I'd like to sack him, I would indeed.

  ANÍSYA [mimicking him] "Like to sack him." You buckle to yourself, and then talk.

  AKOULÍNA [enters] It's all I could do to drive 'em in. That piebald always will ...

  PETER. And where's Nikíta?

  AKOULÍNA. Where's Nikíta? Why, standing out there in the street.

  PETER. What's he standing there for?

  AKOULÍNA. What's he standing there for? He stands there jabbering.

  PETER. One can't get any sense out of her! Who's he jabbering with?

  AKOULÍNA [does not hear] Eh, what?

  Peter waves her off. She sits down to her spinning.

  NAN [running in to her mother] Nikíta's father and mother have come. They're going to take him away. It's true!

  ANÍSYA. Nonsense!

  NAN. Yes. Blest if they're not! [Laughing] I was just going by, and Nikíta, he says, "Good-bye, Anna Petróvna," he says, "you must come and dance at my wedding. I'm leaving you," he says, and laughs.

  ANÍSYA [to her husband] There now. Much he cares. You see, he wants to leave of himself. "Sack him" indeed!

  PETER. Well, let him go. Just as if I couldn't find somebody else.

  ANÍSYA. And what about the money he's had in advance?

  Nan stands listening at the door for awhile, and then exit.

  PETER [frowning] The money? Well, he can work it off in summer, anyhow.

  ANÍSYA. Well, of course you'll be glad if he goes and you've not got to feed him. It's only me as'll have to work like a horse all the winter. That lass of yours isn't over fond of work either. And you'll be lying up on the oven. I know you.

  PETER. What's the good of wearing out one's tongue before one has the hang of the matter?

  ANÍSYA. The yard's full of cattle. You've not sold the cow, and have kept all the sheep for the winter: feeding and watering 'em alone takes all one's time, and you want to sack the labourer. But I tell you straight, I'm not going to do a man's work! I'll go and lie on the top of the oven same as you, and let everything go to pot! You may do what you like.

  PETER [to Akoulína] Go and see about the feeding, will you? it's time.

  AKOULÍNA. The feeding? All right. [Puts on a coat and takes a rope].

  ANÍSYA. I'm not going to work for you. You go and work yourself. I've had enough of it, so there!

  PETER. That'll do. What are you raving about? Like a sheep with the staggers!

  ANÍSYA. You're a crazy cur, you are! One gets neither work nor pleasure from you. Eating your fill, that's all you do, you palsied cur, you!

  PETER [spits and puts on coat] Faugh! The Lord have mercy! I'd better go myself and see what's up. [Exit].

  ANÍSYA [after him] Scurvy long-nosed devil!

  AKOULÍNA. What are you swearing at dad for?

  ANÍSYA. Hold your noise, you idiot!

  AKOULÍNA [going to the door] I know why you're swearing at him. You're an idiot yourself, you bitch. I'm not afraid of you.

  ANÍSYA. What do you mean? [Jumps up and looks round for something to hit her with] Mind, or I'll give you one with the poker.

  AKOULÍNA [opening the door] Bitch! devil! that's what you are! Devil! bitch! bitch! devil! [Runs off].

  ANÍSYA [ponders] "Come and dance at my wedding!" What new plan is this? Marry? Mind, Nikíta, if that's your intention, I'll go and ... No, I can't live without him. I won't let him go.

  NIKÍTA [enters, looks round, and seeing Anísya alone approaches quickly. In a low tone] Here's a go; I'm in a regular fix! That governor of mine wants to take me away,--tells me I'm to come home. Says quite straight I'm to marry and live at home.

  ANÍSYA. Well, go and marry! What's that to me?

  NIKÍTA. Is that it? Why, here am I reckoning how best to consider matters, and just hear her! She tells me to go and marry. Why's that? [Winking] Has she forgotten?

  ANÍSYA. Yes, go and marry! What do I care?

  NIKÍTA. What are you spitting for? Just see, she won't even let me stroke her.... What's the matter?

  ANÍSYA. This! That you want to play me false.... If you do,--why, I don't want you either. So now you know!

  NIKÍTA. That'll do, Anísya. Do you think I'll fo
rget you? Never while I live! I'll not play you false, that's flat. I've been thinking that supposing they do go and make me marry, I'd still come back to you. If only he don't make me live at home.

  ANÍSYA. Much need I'll have of you, once you're married.

  NIKÍTA. There's a go now. How is it possible to go against one's father's will?

  ANÍSYA. Yes, I daresay, shove it all on your father. You know it's your own doing. You've long been plotting with that slut of yours, Marína. It's she has put you up to it. She didn't come here for nothing t'other day.

  NIKÍTA. Marína? What's she to me? Much I care about her!... Plenty of them buzzing around.