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                          A Confession




                   by Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy


            Distributed by the Tolstoy Library OnLine




               First distributed in Russia in 1882








     I was baptized and brought up in the Orthodox Christian faith.


I was taught it in childhood and throughout my boyhood and youth.


But when I abandoned the second course of the university at the age


of eighteen I no longer believed any of the things I had been




     Judging by certain memories, I never seriously believed them,


but had merely relied on what I was taught and on what was


professed by the grown-up people around me, and that reliance was


very unstable.


     I remember that before I was eleven a grammar school pupil,


Vladimir Milyutin (long since dead), visited us one Sunday and


announced as the latest novelty a discovery made at his school.


This discovery was that there is no God and that all we are taught


about Him is a mere invention (this was in 1838).  I remember how


interested my elder brothers were in this information.  They called


me to their council and we all, I remember, became very animated,


and accepted it as something very interesting and quite possible.


     I remember also that when my elder brother, Dmitriy, who was


then at the university, suddenly, in the passionate way natural to


him, devoted himself to religion and began to attend all the Church


services, to fast and to lead a pure and moral life, we all -- even


our elders -- unceasingly held him up to ridicule and for some


unknown reason called him "Noah".  I remember that Musin-Pushkin,


the then Curator of Kazan University, when inviting us to dance at


his home, ironically persuaded my brother (who was declining the


invitation) by the argument that even David danced before the Ark.


I sympathized with these jokes made by my elders, and drew from


them the conclusion that though it is necessary to learn the


catechism and go to church, one must not take such things too


seriously.  I remember also that I read Voltaire when I was very


young, and that his raillery, far from shocking me, amused me very




     My lapse from faith occurred as is usual among people on our


level of education.  In most cases, I think, it happens thus:  a


man lives like everybody else, on the basis of principles not


merely having nothing in common with religious doctrine, but


generally opposed to it; religious doctrine does not play a part in


life, in intercourse with others it is never encountered, and in a


man's own life he never has to reckon with it.  Religious doctrine


is professed far away from life and independently of it.  If it is


encountered, it is only as an external phenomenon disconnected from




     Then as now, it was and is quite impossible to judge by a


man's life and conduct whether he is a believer or not.  If there


be a difference between a man who publicly professes orthodoxy and


one who denies it, the difference is not in favor of the former.


Then as now, the public profession and confession of orthodoxy was


chiefly met with among people who were dull and cruel and who


considered themselves very important.  Ability, honesty,


reliability, good-nature and moral conduct, were often met with


among unbelievers.


     The schools teach the catechism and send the pupils to church,


and government officials must produce certificates of having


received communion.  But a man of our circle who has finished his


education and is not in the government service may even now (and


formerly it was still easier for him to do so) live for ten or


twenty years without once remembering that he is living among


Christians and is himself reckoned a member of the orthodox


Christian Church.


     So that, now as formerly, religious doctrine, accepted on


trust and supported by external pressure, thaws away gradually


under the influence of knowledge and experience of life which


conflict with it, and a man very often lives on, imagining that he


still holds intact the religious doctrine imparted to him in


childhood whereas in fact not a trace of it remains.


     S., a clever and truthful man, once told me the story of how


he ceased to believe.  On a hunting expedition, when he was already


twenty-six, he once, at the place where they put up for the night,


knelt down in the evening to pray -- a habit retained from


childhood.  His elder brother, who was at the hunt with him, was


lying on some hay and watching him.  When S. had finished and was


settling down for the night, his brother said to him:  "So you


still do that?"


     They said nothing more to one another.  But from that day S.


ceased to say his prayers or go to church.  And now he has not


prayed, received communion, or gone to church, for thirty years.


And this not because he knows his brother's convictions and has


joined him in them, nor because he has decided anything in his own


soul, but simply because the word spoken by his brother was like


the push of a finger on a wall that was ready to fall by its own


weight.  The word only showed that where he thought there was


faith, in reality there had long been an empty space, and that


therefore the utterance of words and the making of signs of the


cross and genuflections while praying were quite senseless actions.


Becoming conscious of their senselessness he could not continue




     So it has been and is, I think, with the great majority of


people.  I am speaking of people of our educational level who are


sincere with themselves, and not of those who make the profession


of faith a means of attaining worldly aims.  (Such people are the


most fundamental infidels, for if faith is for them a means of


attaining any worldly aims, then certainly it is not faith.)  these


people of our education are so placed that the light of knowledge


and life has caused an artificial erection to melt away, and they


have either already noticed this and swept its place clear, or they


have not yet noticed it.


     The religious doctrine taught me from childhood disappeared in


me as in others, but with this difference, that as from the age of


fifteen I began to read philosophical works, my rejection of the


doctrine became a conscious one at a very early age.  From the time


I was sixteen I ceased to say my prayers and ceased to go to church


or to fast of my own volition.  I did not believe what had been


taught me in childhood but I believed in something.  What it was I


believed in I could not at all have said.  I believed in a God, or


rather I did not deny God -- but I could not have said what sort of


God.  Neither did I deny Christ and his teaching, but what his


teaching consisted in I again could not have said.


     Looking back on that time, I now see clearly that my faith --


my only real faith -- that which apart from my animal instincts


gave impulse to my life -- was a belief in perfecting myself.  But


in what this perfecting consisted and what its object was, I could


not have said.  I tried to perfect myself mentally -- I studied


everything I could, anything life threw in my way; I tried to


perfect my will, I drew up rules I tried to follow; I perfected


myself physically, cultivating my strength and agility by all sorts


of exercises, and accustoming myself to endurance and patience by


all kinds of privations.  And all this I considered to be the


pursuit of perfection.  the beginning of it all was of course moral


perfection, but that was soon replaced by perfection in general:


by the desire to be better not in my own eyes or those of God but


in the eyes of other people.  And very soon this effort again


changed into a desire to be stronger than others:  to be more


famous, more important and richer than others.








     Some day I will narrate the touching and instructive history


of my life during those ten years of my youth.  I think very many


people have had a like experience.  With all my soul I wished to be


good, but I was young, passionate and alone, completely alone when


I sought goodness.  Every time I tried to express my most sincere


desire, which was to be morally good, I met with contempt and


ridicule, but as soon as I yielded to low passions I was praised


and encouraged.


     Ambition, love of power, covetousness, lasciviousness, pride,


anger, and revenge -- were all respected.


     Yielding to those passions I became like the grown-up folk and


felt that they approved of me.  The kind aunt with whom I lived,


herself the purest of beings, always told me that there was nothing


she so desired for me as that I should have relations with a


married woman:  'Rien ne forme un juene homme, comme une liaison


avec une femme comme il faut'.  [Footnote:  Nothing so forms a


young man as an intimacy with a woman of good breeding.]  Another


happiness she desired for me was that I should become an aide-de-


camp, and if possible aide-de-camp to the Emperor.  But the


greatest happiness of all would be that I should marry a very rich


girl and so become possessed of as many serfs as possible.


     I cannot think of those years without horror, loathing and


heartache.  I killed men in war and challenged men to duels in


order to kill them.  I lost at cards, consumed the labor of the


peasants, sentenced them to punishments, lived loosely, and


deceived people.  Lying, robbery, adultery of all kinds,


drunkenness, violence, murder -- there was no crime I did not


commit, and in spite of that people praised my conduct and my


contemporaries considered and consider me to be a comparatively


moral man.


     So I lived for ten years.


     During that time I began to write from vanity, covetousness,


and pride.  In my writings I did the same as in my life.  to get


fame and money, for the sake of which I wrote, it was necessary to


hide the good and to display the evil.  and I did so.  How often in


my writings I contrived to hide under the guise of indifference, or


even of banter, those strivings of mine towards goodness which gave


meaning to my life!  And I succeeded in this and was praised.


     At twenty-six years of age [Footnote: He was in fact 27 at the


time.] I returned to Petersburg after the war, and met the writers.


They received me as one of themselves and flattered me.  And before


I had time to look round I had adopted the views on life of the set


of authors I had come among, and these views completely obliterated


all my former strivings to improve -- they furnished a theory which


justified the dissoluteness of my life.


     The view of life of these people, my comrades in authorship,


consisted in this: that life in general goes on developing, and in


this development we -- men of thought -- have the chief part; and


among men of thought it is we -- artists and poets -- who have the


greatest influence.  Our vocation is to teach mankind.  And lest


the simple question should suggest itself: What do I know, and what


can I teach? it was explained in this theory that this need not be


known, and that the artist and poet teach unconsciously.  I was


considered an admirable artist and poet, and therefore it was very


natural for me to adopt this theory.  I, artist and poet, wrote and


taught without myself knowing what.  For this I was paid money; I


had excellent food, lodging, women, and society; and I had fame,


which showed that what I taught was very good.


     this faith in the meaning of poetry and in the development of


life was a religion, and I was one of its priests.  To be its


priest was very pleasant and profitable.  And I lived a


considerable time in this faith without doubting its validity.  But


in the second and still more in the third year of this life I began


to doubt the infallibility of this religion and to examine it.  My


first cause of doubt was that I began to notice that the priests of


this religion were not all in accord among themselves.  Some said:


We are the best and most useful teachers; we teach what is needed,


but the others teach wrongly.  Others said: No! we are the real


teachers, and you teach wrongly.  and they disputed, quarrelled,


abused, cheated, and tricked one another.  There were also many


among us who did not care who was right and who was wrong, but were


simply bent on attaining their covetous aims by means of this


activity of ours.  All this obliged me to doubt the validity of our




     Moreover, having begun to doubt the truth of the authors'


creed itself, I also began to observe its priests more attentively,


and I became convinced that almost all the priests of that


religion, the writers, were immoral, and for the most part men of


bad, worthless character, much inferior to those whom I had met in


my former dissipated and military life; but they were self-


confident and self-satisfied as only those can be who are quite


holy or who do not know what holiness is.  These people revolted


me, I became revolting to myself, and I realized that that faith


was a fraud.


     But strange to say, though I understood this fraud and


renounced it, yet I did not renounce the rank these people gave me:


the rank of artist, poet, and teacher.  I naively imagined that I


was a poet and artist and could teach everybody without myself


knowing what I was teaching, and I acted accordingly.


     From my intimacy with these men I acquired a new vice:


abnormally developed pride and an insane assurance that it was my


vocation to teach men, without knowing what.


     To remember that time, and my own state of mind and that of


those men (though there are thousands like them today), is sad and


terrible and ludicrous, and arouses exactly the feeling one


experiences in a lunatic asylum.


     We were all then convinced that it was necessary for us to


speak, write, and print as quickly as possible and as much as


possible, and that it was all wanted for the good of humanity.  And


thousands of us, contradicting and abusing one another, all printed


and wrote -- teaching others.  And without noticing that we knew


nothing, and that to the simplest of life's questions: What is good


and what is evil? we did not know how to reply, we all talked at


the same time, not listening to one another, sometimes seconding


and praising one another in order to be seconded and praised in


turn, sometimes getting angry with one another -- just as in a


lunatic asylum.


     Thousands of workmen laboured to the extreme limit of their


strength day and night, setting the type and printing millions of


words which the post carried all over Russia, and we still went on


teaching and could in no way find time to teach enough, and were


always angry that sufficient attention was not paid us.


     It was terribly strange, but is now quite comprehensible.  Our


real innermost concern was to get as much money and praise as


possible.  To gain that end we could do nothing except write books


and papers.  So we did that.  But in order to do such useless work


and to feel assured that we were very important people we required


a theory justifying our activity.  And so among us this theory was


devised:  "All that exists is reasonable.  All that exists


develops.  And it all develops by means of Culture.  And Culture is


measured by the circulation of books and newspapers.  And we are


paid money and are respected because we write books and newspapers,


and therefore we are the most useful and the best of men."  This


theory would have been all very well if we had been unanimous, but


as every thought expressed by one of us was always met by a


diametrically opposite thought expressed by another, we ought to


have been driven to reflection.  But we ignored this; people paid


us money and those on our side praised us, so each of us considered


himself justified.


     It is now clear to me that this was just as in a lunatic


asylum; but then I only dimly suspected this, and like all


lunatics, simply called all men lunatics except myself.












     So I lived, abandoning myself to this insanity for another six


years, till my marriage.  During that time I went abroad.  Life in


Europe and my acquaintance with leading and learned Europeans


[Footnote:  Russians generally make a distinction between Europeans


and Russians. -- A.M.] confirmed me yet more in the faith of


striving after perfection in which I believed, for I found the same


faith among them.  That faith took with me the common form it


assumes with the majority of educated people of our day.  It was


expressed by the word "progress".  It then appeared to me that this


word meant something.  I did not as yet understand that, being


tormented (like every vital man) by the question how it is best for


me to live, in my answer, "Live in conformity with progress", I was


like a man in a boat who when carried along by wind and waves


should reply to what for him is the chief and only question.


"whither to steer", by saying, "We are being carried somewhere".


     I did not then notice this.  Only occasionally -- not by


reason but by instinct -- I revolted against this superstition so


common in our day, by which people hide from themselves their lack


of understanding of life....So, for instance, during my stay in


Paris, the sight of an execution revealed to me the instability of


my superstitious belief in progress.  When I saw the head part from


the body and how they thumped separately into the box, I


understood, not with my mind but with my whole being, that no


theory of the reasonableness of our present progress could justify


this deed; and that though everybody from the creation of the world


had held it to be necessary, on whatever theory, I knew it to be


unnecessary and bad; and therefore the arbiter of what is good and


evil is not what people say and do, nor is it progress, but it is


my heart and I.  Another instance of a realization that the


superstitious belief in progress is insufficient as a guide to


life, was my brother's death.  Wise, good, serious, he fell ill


while still a young man, suffered for more than a year, and died


painfully, not understanding why he had lived and still less why he


had to die.  No theories could give me, or him, any reply to these


questions during his slow and painful dying.  But these were only


rare instances of doubt, and I actually continued to live


professing a faith only in progress.  "Everything evolves and I


evolve with it:  and why it is that I evolve with all things will


be known some day."  So I ought to have formulated my faith at that




     On returning from abroad I settled in the country and chanced


to occupy myself with peasant schools.  This work was particularly


to my taste because in it I had not to face the falsity which had


become obvious to me and stared me in the face when I tried to


teach people by literary means.  Here also I acted in the name of


progress, but I already regarded progress itself critically.  I


said to myself:  "In some of its developments progress has


proceeded wrongly, and with primitive peasant children one must


deal in a spirit of perfect freedom, letting them choose what path


of progress they please."  In reality I was ever revolving round


one and the same insoluble problem, which was:  How to teach


without knowing what to teach.  In the higher spheres of literary


activity I had realized that one could not teach without knowing


what, for I saw that people all taught differently, and by


quarrelling among themselves only succeeded in hiding their


ignorance from one another.  But here, with peasant children, I


thought to evade this difficulty by letting them learn what they


liked.  It amuses me now when I remember how I shuffled in trying


to satisfy my desire to teach, while in the depth of my soul I knew


very well that I could not teach anything needful for I did not


know what was needful.  After spending a year at school work I went


abroad a second time to discover how to teach others while myself


knowing nothing.


     And it seemed to me that I had learnt this aborad, and in the


year of the peasants' emancipation (1861) I returned to Russia


armed with all this wisdom, and having become an Arbiter [Footnote:


To keep peace between peasants and owners.--A.M.] I began to teach,


both the uneducated peasants in schools and the educated classes


through a magazine I published.  Things appeared to be going well,


but I felt I was not quite sound mentally and that matters could


not long continue in that way.  And I should perhaps then have come


to the state of despair I reached fifteen years later had there not


been one side of life still unexplored by me which promised me


happiness:  that was my marriage.


     For a year I busied myself with arbitration work, the schools,


and the magazine; and I became so worn out -- as a result


especially of my mental confusion -- and so hard was my struggle as


Arbiter, so obscure the results of my activity in the schools, so


repulsive my shuffling in the magazine (which always amounted to


one and the same thing:  a desire to teach everybody and to hide


the fact that I did not know what to teach), that I fell ill,


mentally rather than physically, threw up everything, and went away


to the Bashkirs in the steppes, to breathe fresh air, drink kumys


[Footnote: A fermented drink prepared from mare's milk.--A. M.],


and live a merely animal life.


     Returning from there I married.  The new conditions of happy


family life completely diverted me from all search for the general


meaning of life.  My whole life was centred at that time in my


family, wife and children, and therefore in care to increase our


means of livelihood.  My striving after self-perfection, for which


I had already substituted a striving for perfection in general,


i.e. progress, was now again replaced by the effort simply to


secure the best possible conditions for myself and my family.


     So another fifteen years passed.


     In spite of the fact that I now regarded authorship as of no


importance -- the temptation of immense monetary rewards and


applause for my insignificant work -- and I devoted myself to it as


a means of improving my material position and of stifling in my


soul all questions as to the meaning of my own life or life in




     I wrote:  teaching what was for me the only truth, namely,


that one should live so as to have the best for oneself and one's




     So I lived; but five years ago something very strange began to


happen to me.  At first I experienced moments of perplexity and


arrest of life, and though I did not know what to do or how to


live; and I felt lost and became dejected.  But this passed and I


went on living as before.  Then these moments of perplexity began


to recur oftener and oftener, and always in the same form.  They


were always expressed by the questions:  What is it for?  What does


it lead to?


     At first it seemed to me that these were aimless and


irrelevant questions.  I thought that it was all well known, and


that if I should ever wish to deal with the solution it would not


cost me much effort; just at present I had no time for it, but when


I wanted to I should be able to find the answer.  The questions


however began to repeat themselves frequently, and to demand


replies more and more insistently; and like drops of ink always


falling on one place they ran together into one black blot.


     Then occurred what happens to everyone sickening with a mortal


internal disease.  At first trivial signs of indisposition appear


to which the sick man pays no attention; then these signs reappear


more and more often and merge into one uninterrupted period of


suffering.  The suffering increases, and before the sick man can


look round, what he took for a mere indisposition has already


become more important to him than anything else in the world -- it


is death!


     That is what happened to me.  I understood that it was no


casual indisposition but something very important, and that if


these questions constantly repeated themselves they would have to


be answered.  And I tried to answer them.  The questions seemed


such stupid, simple, childish ones; but as soon as I touched them


and tried to solve them I at once became convinced, first, that


they are not childish and stupid but the most important and


profound of life's questions; and secondly that, occupying myself


with my Samara estate, the education of my son, or the writing of


a book, I had to know *why* I was doing it.  As long as I did not


know why, I could do nothing and could not live.  Amid the thoughts


of estate management which greatly occupied me at that time, the


question would suddenly occur:  "Well, you will have 6,000


desyatinas [Footnote: The desyatina is about 2.75 acres.--A.M.] of


land in Samara Government and 300 horses, and what then?" ... And


I was quite disconcerted and did not know what to think.  Or when


considering plans for the education of my children, I would say to


myself:  "What for?"  Or when considering how the peasants might


become prosperous, I would suddenly say to myself:  "But what does


it matter to me?"  Or when thinking of the fame my works would


bring me, I would say to myself, "Very well; you will be more


famous than Gogol or Pushkin or Shakespeare or Moliere, or than all


the writers in the world -- and what of it?"  And I could find no


reply at all.  The questions would not wait, they had to be


answered at once, and if I did not answer them it was impossible to


live.  But there was no answer.


     I felt that what I had been standing on had collapsed and that


I had nothing left under my feet.  What I had lived on no longer


existed, and there was nothing left.








     My life came to a standstill.  I could breathe, eat, drink,


and sleep, and I could not help doing these things; but there was


no life, for there were no wishes the fulfillment of which I could


consider reasonable.  If I desired anything, I knew in advance that


whether I satisfied my desire or not, nothing would come of it.


Had a fairy come and offered to fulfil my desires I should not have


know what to ask.  If in moments of intoxication I felt something


which, though not a wish, was a habit left by former wishes, in


sober moments I knew this to be a delusion and that there was


really nothing to wish for.  I could not even wish to know the


truth, for I guessed of what it consisted.  The truth was that life


is meaningless.  I had as it were lived, lived, and walked, walked,


till I had come to a precipice and saw clearly that there was


nothing ahead of me but destruction.  It was impossible to stop,


impossible to go back, and impossible to close my eyes or avoid


seeing that there was nothing ahead but suffering and real death --


complete annihilation.


     It had come to this, that I, a healthy, fortunate man, felt I


could no longer live: some irresistible power impelled me to rid


myself one way or other of life.  I cannot say I *wished* to kill


myself.  The power which drew me away from life was stronger,


fuller, and more widespread than any mere wish.  It was a force


similar to the former striving to live, only in a contrary


direction.  All my strength drew me away from life.  The thought of


self-destruction now came to me as naturally as thoughts of how to


improve my life had come formerly.  and it was seductive that I had


to be cunning with myself lest I should carry it out too hastily.


 I did not wish to hurry, because I wanted to use all efforts to


disentangle the matter.  "If I cannot unravel matters, there will


always be time."  and it was then that I, a man favoured by


fortune, hid a cord from myself lest I should hang myself from the


crosspiece of the partition in my room where I undressed alone


every evening, and I ceased to go out shooting with a gun lest I


should be tempted by so easy a way of ending my life.  I did not


myself know what I wanted:  I feared life, desired to escape from


it, yet still hoped something of it.


     And all this befell me at a time when all around me I had what


is considered complete good fortune.  I was not yet fifty; I had a


good wife who lived me and whom I loved, good children, and a large


estate which without much effort on my part improved and increased.


I was respected by my relations and acquaintances more than at any


previous time.  I was praised by others and without much self-


deception could consider that my name was famous.  And far from


being insane or mentally diseased, I enjoyed on the contrary a


strength of mind and body such as I have seldom met with among men


of my kind; physically I could keep up with the peasants at mowing,


and mentally I could work for eight and ten hours at a stretch


without experiencing any ill results from such exertion.  And in


this situation I came to this -- that I could not live, and,


fearing death, had to employ cunning with myself to avoid taking my


own life.


     My mental condition presented itself to me in this way:  my


life is a stupid and spiteful joke someone has played on me.


Though I did not acknowledge a "someone" who created me, yet such


a presentation -- that someone had played an evil and stupid joke


on my by placing me in the world -- was the form of expression that


suggested itself most naturally to me.


     Involuntarily it appeared to me that there, somewhere, was


someone who amused himself by watching how I lived for thirty or


forty years:  learning, developing, maturing in body and mind, and


how, having with matured mental powers reached the summit of life


from which it all lay before me, I stood on that summit -- like an


arch-fool -- seeing clearly that there is nothing in life, and that


there has been and will be nothing.  And *he* was amused. ...


     But whether that "someone" laughing at me existed or not, I


was none the better off.  I could give no reasonable meaning to any


single action or to my whole life.  I was only surprised that I


could have avoided understanding this from the very beginning -- it


has been so long known to all.  Today or tomorrow sickness and


death will come (they had come already) to those I love or to me;


nothing will remain but stench and worms.  Sooner or later my


affairs, whatever they may be, will be forgotten, and I shall not


exist.  Then why go on making any effort? ... How can man fail to


see this?  And how go on living?  That is what is surprising!  One


can only live while one is intoxicated with life; as soon as one is


sober it is impossible not to see that it is all a mere fraud and


a stupid fraud!  That is precisely what it is:  there is nothing


either amusing or witty about it, it is simply cruel and stupid.


     There is an Eastern fable, told long ago, of a traveller


overtaken on a plain by an enraged beast.  Escaping from the beast


he gets into a dry well, but sees at the bottom of the well a


dragon that has opened its jaws to swallow him.  And the


unfortunate man, not daring to climb out lest he should be


destroyed by the enraged beast, and not daring to leap to the


bottom of the well lest he should be eaten by the dragon, seizes s


twig growing in a crack in the well and clings to it.  His hands


are growing weaker and he feels he will soon have to resign himself


to the destruction that awaits him above or below, but still he


clings on.  Then he sees that two mice, a black one and a white


one, go regularly round and round the stem of the twig to which he


is clinging and gnaw at it.  And soon the twig itself will snap and


he will fall into the dragon's jaws.  The traveller sees this and


knows that he will inevitably perish; but while still hanging he


looks around, sees some drops of honey on the leaves of the twig,


reaches them with his tongue and licks them.  So I too clung to the


twig of life, knowing that the dragon of death was inevitably


awaiting me, ready to tear me to pieces; and I could not understand


why I had fallen into such torment.  I tried to lick the honey


which formerly consoled me, but the honey no longer gave me


pleasure, and the white and black mice of day and night gnawed at


the branch by which I hung.  I saw the dragon clearly and the honey


no longer tasted sweet.  I only saw the unescapable dragon and the


mice, and I could not tear my gaze from them.  and this is not a


fable but the real unanswerable truth intelligible to all.


     The deception of the joys of life which formerly allayed my


terror of the dragon now no longer deceived me.  No matter how


often I may be told, "You cannot understand the meaning of life so


do not think about it, but live," I can no longer do it: I have


already done it too long.  I cannot now help seeing day and night


going round and bringing me to death.  That is all I see, for that


alone is true.  All else is false.


     The two drops of honey which diverted my eyes from the cruel


truth longer than the rest: my love of family, and of writing --


art as I called it -- were no longer sweet to me.


     "Family"...said I to myself.  But my family -- wife and


children -- are also human.  They are placed just as I am: they


must either live in a lie or see the terrible truth.  Why should


they live?  Why should I love them, guard them, bring them up, or


watch them?  That they may come to the despair that I feel, or else


be stupid?  Loving them, I cannot hide the truth from them: each


step in knowledge leads them to the truth.  And the truth is death.


     "Art, poetry?"...Under the influence of success and the praise


of men, I had long assured myself that this was a thing one could


do though death was drawing near -- death which destroys all


things, including my work and its remembrance; but soon I saw that


that too was a fraud.  It was plain to me that art is an adornment


of life, an allurement to life.  But life had lost its attraction


for me, so how could I attract others?  As long as I was not living


my own life but was borne on the waves of some other life -- as


long as I believed that life had a meaning, though one I could not


express -- the reflection of life in poetry and art of all kinds


afforded me pleasure:  it was pleasant to look at life in the


mirror of art.  But when I began to seek the meaning of life and


felt the necessity of living my own life, that mirror became for me


unnecessary, superfluous, ridiculous, or painful.  I could no


longer soothe myself with what I now saw in the mirror, namely,


that my position was stupid and desperate.  It was all very well to


enjoy the sight when in the depth of my soul I believed that my


life had a meaning.  Then the play of lights -- comic, tragic,


touching, beautiful, and terrible -- in life amused me.  No


sweetness of honey could be sweet to me when I saw the dragon and


saw the mice gnawing away my support.


     Nor was that all.  Had I simply understood that life had no


meaning I could have borne it quietly, knowing that that was my


lot.  But I could not satisfy myself with that.  Had I been like a


man living in a wood from which he knows there is no exit, I could


have lived; but I was like one lost in a wood who, horrified at


having lost his way, rushes about wishing to find the road.  He


knows that each step he takes confuses him more and more, but still


he cannot help rushing about.


     It was indeed terrible.  And to rid myself of the terror I


wished to kill myself.  I experienced terror at what awaited me --


knew that that terror was even worse than the position I was in,


but still I could not patiently await the end.  However convincing


the argument might be that in any case some vessel in my heart


would give way, or something would burst and all would be over, I


could not patiently await that end.  The horror of darkness was too


great, and I wished to free myself from it as quickly as possible


by noose or bullet.  that was the feeling which drew me most


strongly towards suicide.












     "But perhaps I have overlooked something, or misunderstood


something?" said to myself several times.  "It cannot be that this


condition of despair is natural to man!"  And I sought for an


explanation of these problems in all the branches of knowledge


acquired by men.  I sought painfully and long, not from idle


curiosity or listlessly, but painfully and persistently day and


night -- sought as a perishing man seeks for safety -- and I found




     I sought in all the sciences, but far from finding what I


wanted, became convinced that all who like myself had sought in


knowledge for the meaning of life had found nothing.  And not only


had they found nothing, but they had plainly acknowledged that the


very thing which made me despair -- namely the senselessness of


life -- is the one indubitable thing man can know.


     I sought everywhere; and thanks to a life spent in learning,


and thanks also to my relations with the scholarly world, I had


access to scientists and scholars in all branches of knowledge, and


they readily showed me all their knowledge, not only in books but


also in conversation, so that I had at my disposal all that science


has to say on this question of life.


     I was long unable to believe that it gives no other reply to


life's questions than that which it actually does give.  It long


seemed to me, when I saw the important and serious air with which


science announces its conclusions which have nothing in common with


the real questions of human life, that there was something I had


not understood.  I long was timid before science, and it seemed to


me that the lack of conformity between the answers and my questions


arose not by the fault of science but from my ignorance, but the


matter was for me not a game or an amusement but one of life and


death, and I was involuntarily brought to the conviction that my


questions were the only legitimate ones, forming the basis of all


knowledge, and that I with my questions was not to blame, but


science if it pretends to reply to those questions.


     My question -- that which at the age of fifty brought me to


the verge of suicide -- was the simplest of questions, lying in the


soul of every man from the foolish child to the wisest elder: it


was a question without an answer to which one cannot live, as I had


found by experience.  It was: "What will come of what I am doing


today or shall do tomorrow?  What will come of my whole life?"


     Differently expressed, the question is:  "Why should I live,


why wish for anything, or do anything?"  It can also be expressed


thus:  "Is there any meaning in my life that the inevitable death


awaiting me does not destroy?"


     To this one question, variously expressed, I sought an answer


in science.  And I found that in relation to that question all


human knowledge is divided as it were into tow opposite hemispheres


at the ends of which are two poles:  the one a negative and the


other a positive; but that neither at the one nor the other pole is


there an answer to life's questions.


     The one series of sciences seems not to recognize the


question, but replies clearly and exactly to its own independent


questions: that is the series of experimental sciences, and at the


extreme end of it stands mathematics.  The other series of sciences


recognizes the question, but does not answer it; that is the series


of abstract sciences, and at the extreme end of it stands




     From early youth I had been interested in the abstract


sciences, but later the mathematical and natural sciences attracted


me, and until I put my question definitely to myself, until that


question had itself grown up within me urgently demanding a


decision, I contented myself with those counterfeit answers which


science gives.


     Now in the experimental sphere I said to myself: "Everything


develops and differentiates itself, moving towards complexity and


perfection, and there are laws directing this movement.  You are a


part of the whole.  Having learnt as far as possible the whole, and


having learnt the law of evolution, you will understand also your


place in the whole and will know yourself."  Ashamed as I am to


confess it, there wa a time when I seemed satisfied with that.  It


was just the time when I was myself becoming more complex and was


developing. My muscles were growing and strengthening, my memory


was being enriched, my capacity to think and understand was


increasing, I was growing and developing; and feeling this growth


in myself it was natural for me to think that such was the


universal law in which I should find the solution of the question


of my life.  But a time came when the growth within me ceased.  I


felt that I was not developing, but fading, my muscles were


weakening, my teeth falling out, and I saw that the law not only


did not explain anything to me, but that there never had been or


could be such a law, and that I had taken for a law what I had


found in myself at a certain period of my life.  I regarded the


definition of that law more strictly, and it became clear to me


that there could be no law of endless development; it became clear


that to say, "in infinite space and time everything develops,


becomes more perfect and more complex, is differentiated", is to


say nothing at all.  These are all words with no meaning, for in


the infinite there is neither complex nor simple, neither forward


nor backward, nor better or worse.


     Above all, my personal question, "What am I with my desires?"


remained quite unanswered.  And I understood that those sciences


are very interesting and attractive, but that they are exact and


clear in inverse proportion to their applicability to the question


of life: the less their applicability to the question of life, the


more exact and clear they are, while the more they try to reply to


the question of life, the more obscure and unattractive they


become.  If one turns to the division of sciences which attempt to


reply to the questions of life -- to physiology, psychology,


biology, sociology -- one encounters an appalling poverty of


thought, the greatest obscurity, a quite unjustifiable pretension


to solve irrelevant question, and a continual contradiction of each


authority by others and even by himself.  If one turns to the


branches of science which are not concerned with the solution of


the questions of life, but which reply to their own special


scientific questions, one is enraptured by the power of man's mind,


but one knows in advance that they give no reply to life's


questions.  Those sciences simply ignore life's questions.  They


say:  "To the question of what you are and why you live we have no


reply, and are not occupied with that; but if you want to know the


laws of light, of chemical combinations, the laws of development of


organisms, if you want to know the laws of bodies and their form,


and the relation of numbers and quantities, if you want to know the


laws of your mind, to all that we have clear, exact and


unquestionable replies."


     In general the relation of the experimental sciences to life's


question may be expressed thus:  Question: "Why do I live?"


Answer: "In infinite space, in infinite time, infinitely small


particles change their forms in infinite complexity, and when you


have under stood the laws of those mutations of form you will


understand why you live on the earth."


     Then in the sphere of abstract science I said to myself:  "All


humanity lives and develops on the basis of spiritual principles


and ideals which guide it.  Those ideals are expressed in


religions, in sciences, in arts, in forms of government.  Those


ideals become more and more elevated, and humanity advances to its


highest welfare.  I am part of humanity, and therefore my vocation


is to forward the recognition and the realization of the ideals of


humanity."  And at the time of my weak-mindedness I was satisfied


with that; but as soon as the question of life presented itself


clearly to me, those theories immediately crumbled away.  Not to


speak of the unscrupulous obscurity with which those sciences


announce conclusions formed on the study of a small part of mankind


as general conclusions; not to speak of the mutual contradictions


of different adherents of this view as to what are the ideals of


humanity; the strangeness, not to say stupidity, of the theory


consists in the fact that in order to reply to the question facing


each man:  "What am I?" or "Why do I live?" or "What must I do?"


one has first to decide the question: "What is the life of the


whole?" (which is to him unknown and of which he is acquainted with


one tiny part in one minute period of time.  To understand what he


is, one man must first understand all this mysterious humanity,


consisting of people such as himself who do not understand one




     I have to confess that there was a time when I believed this.


It was the time when I had my own favourite ideals justifying my


own caprices, and I was trying to devise a theory which would allow


one to consider my caprices as the law of humanity.  But as soon as


the question of life arose in my soul in full clearness that reply


at once few to dust.  And I understood that as in the experimental


sciences there are real sciences, and semi-sciences which try to


give answers to questions beyond their competence, so in this


sphere there is a whole series of most diffused sciences which try


to reply to irrelevant questions.  Semi-sciences of that kind, the


juridical and the social-historical, endeavour to solve the


questions of a man's life by pretending to decide each in its own


way, the question of the life of all humanity.


     But as in the sphere of man's experimental knowledge one who


sincerely inquires how he is to live cannot be satisfied with the


reply -- "Study in endless space the mutations, infinite in time


and in complexity, of innumerable atoms, and then you will


understand your life" -- so also a sincere man cannot be satisfied


with the reply: "Study the whole life of humanity of which we


cannot know either the beginning or the end, of which we do not


even know a small part, and then you will understand your own


life." And like the experimental semi-sciences, so these other


semi-sciences are the more filled with obscurities, inexactitudes,


stupidities, and contradictions, the further they diverge from the


real problems.  The problem of experimental science is the sequence


of cause and effect in material phenomena.  It is only necessary


for experimental science to introduce the question of a final cause


for it to become nonsensical.  The problem of abstract science is


the recognition of the primordial essence of life.  It is only


necessary to introduce the investigation of consequential phenomena


(such as social and historical phenomena) and it also becomes




     Experimental science only then gives positive knowledge and


displays the greatness of the human mind when it does not introduce


into its investigations the question of an ultimate cause.  And, on


the contrary, abstract science is only then science and displays


the greatness of the human mind when it puts quite aside questions


relating to the consequential causes of phenomena and regards man


solely in relation to an ultimate cause.  Such in this realm of


science -- forming the pole of the sphere -- is metaphysics or


philosophy.  That science states the question clearly:  "What am I,


and what is the universe?  And why do I exist, and why does the


universe exist?"  And since it has existed it has always replied in


the same way.  Whether the philosopher calls the essence of life


existing within me, and in all that exists, by the name of "idea",


or "substance", or "spirit", or "will", he says one and the same


thing:  that this essence exists and that I am of that same


essence; but why it is he does not know, and does not say, if he is


an exact thinker.  I ask:  "Why should this essence exist?  What


results from the fact that it is and will be?" ... And philosophy


not merely does not reply, but is itself only asking that question.


And if it is real philosophy all its labour lies merely in trying


to put that question clearly.  And if it keeps firmly to its task


it cannot reply to the question otherwise than thus:  "What am I,


and what is the universe?"  "All and nothing"; and to the question


"Why?" by "I do not know".


     So that however I may turn these replies of philosophy, I can


never obtain anything like an answer -- and not because, as in the


clear experimental sphere, the reply does not relate to my


question, but because here, though all the mental work is directed


just to my question, there is no answer, but instead of an answer


one gets the same question, only in a complex form.










     In my search for answers to life's questions I experienced


just what is felt by a man lost in a forest.


     He reaches a glade, climbs a tree, and clearly sees the


limitless distance, but sees that his home is not and cannot be


there; then he goes into the dark wood and sees the darkness, but


there also his home is not.


     So I wandered n that wood of human knowledge, amid the gleams


of mathematical and experimental science which showed me clear


horizons but in a direction where there could be no home, and also


amid the darkness of the abstract sciences where I was immersed in


deeper gloom the further I went, and where I finally convinced


myself that there was, and could be, no exit.


     Yielding myself to the bright side of knowledge, I understood


that I was only diverting my gaze from the question.  However


alluringly clear those horizons which opened out before me might


be, however alluring it might be to immerse oneself in the


limitless expanse of those sciences, I already understood that the


clearer they were the less they met my need and the less they


applied to my question.


     "I know," said I to myself, "what science so persistently


tries to discover, and along that road there is no reply to the


question as to the meaning of my life."  In the abstract sphere I


understood that notwithstanding the fact, or just because of the


fact, that the direct aim of science is to reply to my question,


there is no reply but that which I have myself already given:


"What is the meaning of my life?"  "There is none."  Or:  "What


will come of my life?" "Nothing."  Or:  "Why does everything exist


that exists, and why do I exist?"  "Because it exists."


     Inquiring for one region of human knowledge, I received an


innumerable quantity of exact replies concerning matters about


which I had not asked:  about the chemical constituents of the


stars, about the movement of the sun towards the constellation


Hercules, about the origin of species and of man, about the forms


of infinitely minute imponderable particles of ether; but in this


sphere of knowledge the only answer to my question, "What is the


meaning of my life?" was: "You are what you call your 'life'; you


are a transitory, casual cohesion of particles.  The mutual


interactions and changes of these particles produce in you what you


call your "life".  That cohesion will last some time; afterwards


the interaction of these particles will cease and what you call


"life" will cease, and so will all your questions.  You are an


accidentally united little lump of something.  that little lump


ferments.  The little lump calls that fermenting its 'life'.  The


lump will disintegrate and there will be an end of the fermenting


and of all the questions."  So answers the clear side of science


and cannot answer otherwise if it strictly follows its principles.


     From such a reply one sees that the reply does not answer the


question.  I want to know the meaning of my life, but that it is a


fragment of the infinite, far from giving it a meaning destroys its


every possible meaning.  The obscure compromises which that side of


experimental exact science makes with abstract science when it says


that the meaning of life consists in development and in cooperation


with development, owing to their inexactness and obscurity cannot


be considered as replies.


     The other side of science -- the abstract side -- when it


holds strictly to its principles, replying directly to the


question, always replies, and in all ages has replied, in one and


the same way:  "The world is something infinite and


incomprehensible part of that incomprehensible 'all'."  Again I


exclude all those compromises between abstract and experimental


sciences which supply the whole ballast of the semi-sciences called


juridical, political, and historical. In those semi-sciences the


conception of development and progress is again wrongly introduced,


only with this difference, that there it was the development of


everything while here it is the development of the life of mankind.


The error is there as before: development and progress in infinity


can have no aim or direction, and, as far as my question is


concerned, no answer is given.


     In truly abstract science, namely in genuine philosophy -- not


in that which Schopenhauer calls "professorial philosophy" which


serves only to classify all existing phenomena in new philosophic


categories and to call them by new names -- where the philosopher


does not lose sight of the essential question, the reply is always


one and the same -- the reply given by Socrates, Schopenhauer,


Solomon, and buddha.


     "We approach truth only inasmuch as we depart from life", said


Socrates when preparing for death.  "For what do we, who love


truth, strive after in life?  To free ourselves from the body, and


from all the evil that is caused by the life of the body!  If so,


then how can we fail to be glad when death comes to us?


     "The wise man seeks death all his life and therefore death is


not terrible to him."


     And Schopenhauer says:


     "Having recognized the inmost essence of the world as *will*,


and all its phenomena -- from the unconscious working of the


obscure forces of Nature up to the completely conscious action of


man -- as only the objectivity of that will, we shall in no way


avoid the conclusion that together with the voluntary renunciation


and self-destruction of the will all those phenomena also


disappear, that constant striving and effort without aim or rest on


all the stages of objectivity in which and through which the world


exists; the diversity of successive forms will disappear, and


together with the form all the manifestations of will, with its


most universal forms, space and time, and finally its most


fundamental form -- subject and object.  Without will there is no


concept and no world.  Before us, certainly, nothing remains.  But


what resists this transition into annihilation, our nature, is only


that same wish to live -- *Wille zum Leben* -- which forms


ourselves as well as our world.  That we are so afraid of


annihilation or, what is the same thing, that we so wish to live,


merely means that we are ourselves nothing else but this desire to


live, and know nothing but it.  And so what remains after the


complete annihilation of the will, for us who are so full of the


will, is, of course, nothing; but on the other hand, for those in


whom the will has turned and renounced itself, this so real world


of ours with all its suns and milky way is nothing."


     "Vanity of vanities", says Solomon -- "vanity of vanities --


all is vanity.  What profit hath a man of all his labor which he


taketh under the sun?  One generation passeth away, and another


generation commeth: but the earth abideth for ever....The thing


that hath been, is that which shall be; and that which is done is


that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.


Is there anything whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath


been already of old time, which was before us.  there is no


remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any


remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come


after.  I the Preacher was King over Israel in Jerusalem.  And I


gave my heart to seek and search out by wisdom concerning all that


is done under heaven:  this sore travail hath God given to the sons


of man to be exercised therewith.  I have seen all the works that


are done under the sun; and behold, all is vanity and vexation of


spirit....I communed with my own heart, saying, Lo, I am come to


great estate, and have gotten more wisdom than all they that have


been before me over Jerusalem: yea, my heart hath great experience


of wisdom and knowledge.  And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and


to know madness and folly: I perceived that this also is vexation


of spirit.  For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that


increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.


     "I said in my heart, Go to now, I will prove thee with mirth,


therefore enjoy pleasure: and behold this also is vanity. I said of


laughter, It is mad:  and of mirth, What doeth it?  I sought in my


heart how to cheer my flesh with wine, and while my heart was


guided by wisdom, to lay hold on folly, till I might see what it


was good for the sons of men that they should do under heaven the


number of the days of their life.  I made me great works; I builded


me houses; I planted me vineyards; I made me gardens and orchards,


and I planted trees in them of all kinds of fruits: I made me pools


of water, to water therefrom the forest where trees were reared: I


got me servants and maidens, and had servants born in my house;


also I had great possessions of herds and flocks above all that


were before me in Jerusalem: I gathered me also silver and gold and


the peculiar treasure from kings and from the provinces: I got me


men singers and women singers; and the delights of the sons of men,


as musical instruments and all that of all sorts.  So I was great,


and increased more than all that were before me in Jerusalem: also


my wisdom remained with me.  And whatever mine eyes desired I kept


not from them.  I withheld not my heart from any joy....Then I


looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the


labour that I had laboured to do: and, behold, all was vanity and


vexation of spirit, and there was no profit from them under the


sun.  And I turned myself to behold wisdom, and madness, and


folly.... But I perceived that one even happeneth to them all.


Then said I in my heart, As it happeneth to the fool, so it


happeneth even to me, and why was I then more wise?  then I said in


my heart, that this also is vanity.  For there is no remembrance of


the wise more than of the fool for ever; seeing that which now is


in the days to come shall all be forgotten.  And how dieth the wise


man? as the fool.  Therefore I hated life; because the work that is


wrought under the sun is grievous unto me: for all is vanity and


vexation of spirit.  Yea, I hated all my labour which I had taken


under the sun: seeing that I must leave it unto the man that shall


be after me.... For what hath  man of all his labour, and of the


vexation of his heart, wherein he hath laboured under the sun?  For


all his days are sorrows, and his travail grief; yea, even in the


night his heart taketh no rest.  this is also vanity.  Man is not


blessed with security that he should eat and drink and cheer his


soul from his own labour.... All things come alike to all: there is


one event to the righteous and to the wicked; to the good and to


the evil; to the clean and to the unclean; to him that sacrificeth


and to him that sacrificeth not; as is the good, so is the sinner;


and he that sweareth, as he that feareth an oath.  This is an evil


in all that is done under the sun, that there is one event unto


all; yea, also the heart of the sons of men is full of evil, and


madness is in their heart while they live, and after that they go


to the dead.  For him that is among the living there is hope: for


a living dog is better than a dead lion.  For the living know that


they shall die: but the dead know not any thing, neither have they


any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten.  also their


love, and their hatred, and their envy, is now perished; neither


have they any more a portion for ever in any thing that is done


under the sun."


     So said Solomon, or whoever wrote those words.  [Footnote:


tolstoy's version differs slightly in a few places from our own


Authorized or Revised version.  I have followed his text, for in a


letter to Fet, quoted on p. 18, vol. ii, of my "Life of Tolstoy,"


he says that "The Authorized English version [of Ecclesiastes] is


bad." -- A.M.]


     And this is what the Indian wisdom tells:


     Sakya Muni, a young, happy prince, from whom the existence of


sickness, old age, and death had been hidden, went out to drive and


saw a terrible old man, toothless and slobbering.  the prince, from


whom till then old age had been concealed, was amazed, and asked


his driver what it was, and how that man had come to such a


wretched and disgusting condition, and when he learnt that this was


the common fate of all men, that the same thing inevitably awaited


him -- the young prince -- he could not continue his drive, but


gave orders to go home, that he might consider this fact.  So he


shut himself up alone and considered it.  and he probably devised


some consolation for himself, for he subsequently again went out to


drive, feeling merry and happy.  But this time he saw a sick man.


He saw an emaciated, livid, trembling man with dim eyes.  The


prince, from whom sickness had been concealed, stopped and asked


what this was.  And when he learnt that this was sickness, to which


all men are liable, and that he himself -- a healthy and happy


prince -- might himself fall ill tomorrow, he again was in no mood


to enjoy himself but gave orders to drive home, and again sought


some solace, and probably found it, for he drove out a third time


for pleasure.  But this third time he saw another new sight: he saw


men carrying something.  'What is that?'  'A dead man.'  'What does


*dead* mean?' asked the prince.  He was told that to become dead


means to become like that man.  The prince approached the corpse,


uncovered it, and looked at it.  'What will happen to him now?'


asked the prince.  He was told that the corpse would be buried in


the ground.  'Why?'  'Because he will certainly not return to life,


and will only produce a stench and worms.'  'And is that the fate


of all men?  Will the same thing happen to me?  Will they bury me,


and shall I cause a stench and be eaten by worms?'  'Yes.'  'Home!


I shall not drive out for pleasure, and never will so drive out




     And Sakya Muni could find no consolation in life, and decided


that life is the greatest of evils; and he devoted all the strength


of his soul to free himself from it, and to free others; and to do


this so that, even after death, life shall not be renewed any more


but be completely destroyed at its very roots.  So speaks all the


wisdom of India.


     These are the direct replies that human wisdom gives when it


replies to life's question.


     "The life of the body is an evil and a lie.  Therefore the


destruction of the life of the body is a blessing, and we should


desire it," says Socrates.


     "Life is that which should not be -- an evil; and the passage


into Nothingness is the only good in life," says Schopenhauer.


     "All that is in the world -- folly and wisdom and riches and


poverty and mirth and grief -- is vanity and emptiness.  Man dies


and nothing is left of him.  And that is stupid," says Solomon.


     "To life in the consciousness of the inevitability of


suffering, of becoming enfeebled, of old age and of death, is


impossible -- we must free ourselves from life, from all possible


life," says Buddha.


     And what these strong minds said has been said and thought and


felt by millions upon millions of people like them.  And I have


thought it and felt it.


     So my wandering among the sciences, far from freeing me from


my despair, only strengthened it.  One kind of knowledge did not


reply to life's question, the other kind replied directly


confirming my despair, indicating not that the result at which I


had arrived was the fruit of error or of a diseased state of my


mind, but on the contrary that I had thought correctly, and that my


thoughts coincided with the conclusions of the most powerful of


human minds.


     It is no good deceiving oneself. It is all -- vanity!  Happy


is he who has not been born:  death is better than life, and one


must free oneself from life.










     Not finding an explanation in science I began to seek for it


in life, hoping to find it among the people around me.  And I began


to observe how the people around me -- people like myself -- lived,


and what their attitude was to this question which had brought me


to despair.


     And this is what I found among people who were in the same


position as myself as regards education and manner of life.


     I found that for people of my circle there were four ways out


of the terrible position in which we are all placed.


     The first was that of ignorance. It consists in not knowing,


not understanding, that life is an evil and an absurdity.  People


of this sort -- chiefly women, or very young or very dull people --


have not yet understood that question of life which presented


itself to Schopenhauer, Solomon, and Buddha.  They see neither the


dragon that awaits them nor the mice gnawing the shrub by which


they are hanging, and they lick the drops of honey.  but they lick


those drops of honey only for a while:  something will turn their


attention to the dragon and the mice, and there will be an end to


their licking.  From them I had nothing to learn -- one cannot


cease to know what one does know.


     The second way out is epicureanism.  It consists, while


knowing the hopelessness of life, in making use meanwhile of the


advantages one has, disregarding the dragon and the mice, and


licking the honey in the best way, especially if there is much of


it within reach.  Solomon expresses this way out thus:  "Then I


commended mirth, because a man hath no better thing under the sun,


than to eat, and to drink, and to be merry: and that this should


accompany him in his labour the days of his life, which God giveth


him under the sun.


     "Therefore eat thy bread with joy and drink thy wine with a


merry heart.... Live joyfully with the wife whom thou lovest all


the days of the life of thy vanity...for this is thy portion in


life and in thy labours which thou takest under the sun....


Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, for there


is not work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave,


whither thou goest."


     That is the way in which the majority of people of our circle


make life possible for themselves.  Their circumstances furnish


them with more of welfare than of hardship, and their moral


dullness makes it possible for them to forget that the advantage of


their position is accidental, and that not everyone can have a


thousand wives and palaces like Solomon, that for everyone who has


a thousand wives there are a thousand without a wife, and that for


each palace there are a thousand people who have to build it in the


sweat of their brows; and that the accident that has today made me


a Solomon may tomorrow make me a Solomon's slave.  The dullness of


these people's imagination enables them to forget the things that


gave Buddha no peace -- the inevitability of sickness, old age, and


death, which today or tomorrow will destroy all these pleasures.


     So think and feel the majority of people of our day and our


manner of life.  The fact that some of these people declare the


dullness of their thoughts and imaginations to be a philosophy,


which they call Positive, does not remove them, in my opinion, from


the ranks of those who, to avoid seeing the question, lick the


honey.  I could not imitate these people; not having their dullness


of imagination I could not artificially produce it in myself.  I


could not tear my eyes from the mice and the dragon, as no vital


man can after he has once seen them.


     The third escape is that of strength and energy.  It consists


in destroying life, when one has understood that it is an evil and


an absurdity.  A few exceptionally strong and consistent people act


so.  Having understood the stupidity of the joke that has been


played on them, and having understood that it is better to be dead


than to be alive, and that it is best of all not to exist, they act


accordingly and promptly end this stupid joke, since there are


means:  a rope round one's neck, water, a knife to stick into one's


heart, or the trains on the railways; and the number of those of


our circle who act in this way becomes greater and greater, and for


the most part they act so at the best time of their life, when the


strength of their mind is in full bloom and few habits degrading to


the mind have as yet been acquired.


     I saw that this was the worthiest way of escape and I wished


to adopt it.


     The fourth way out is that of weakness.  It consists in seeing


the truth of the situation and yet clinging to life, knowing in


advance that nothing can come of it.  People of this kind know that


death is better than life, but not having the strength to act


rationally -- to end the deception quickly and kill themselves --


they seem to wait for something.  This is the escape of weakness,


for if I know what is best and it is within my power, why not yield


to what is best? ... I found myself in that category.


     So people of my class evade the terrible contradiction in four


ways.  Strain my attention as I would, I saw no way except those


four.  One way was not to understand that life is senseless,


vanity, and an evil, and that it is better not to live.  I could


not help knowing this, and when I once knew it could not shut my


eyes to it.  the second way was to use life such as it is without


thinking of the future.  And I could not do that.  I, like Sakya


Muni, could not ride out hunting when I knew that old age,


suffering, and death exist.  My imagination was too vivid.  Nor


could I rejoice in the momentary accidents that for an instant


threw pleasure to my lot.  The third way, having under stood that


life is evil and stupid, was to end it by killing oneself.  I


understood that, but somehow still did not kill myself.  The fourth


way was to live like Solomon and Schopenhauer -- knowing that life


is a stupid joke played upon us, and still to go on living, washing


oneself, dressing, dining, talking, and even writing books.  This


was to me repulsive and tormenting, but I remained in that




     I see now that if I did not kill myself it was due to some dim


consciousness of the invalidity of my thoughts.  However convincing


and indubitable appeared to me the sequence of my thoughts and of


those of the wise that have brought us to the admission of the


senselessness of life, there remained in me a vague doubt of the


justice of my conclusion.


     It was like this:  I, my reason, have acknowledged that life


is senseless.  If there is nothing higher than reason (and there is


not: nothing can prove that there is), then reason is the creator


of life for me.  If reason did not exist there would be for me no


life.  How can reason deny life when it is the creator of life?  Or


to put it the other way: were there no life, my reason would not


exist; therefore reason is life's son.  Life is all.  Reason is its


fruit yet reason rejects life itself!  I felt that there was


something wrong here.


     Life is a senseless evil, that is certain, said I to myself.


Yet I have lived and am still living, and all mankind lived and


lives.  How is that?  Why does it live, when it is possible not to


live?  Is it that only I and Schopenhauer are wise enough to


understand the senselessness and evil of life?


     The reasoning showing the vanity of life is not so difficult,


and has long been familiar to the very simplest folk; yet they have


lived and still live.  How is it they all live and never think of


doubting the reasonableness of life?


     My knowledge, confirmed by the wisdom of the sages, has shown


me that everything on earth -- organic and inorganic -- is all most


cleverly arranged -- only my own position is stupid.  and those


fools -- the enormous masses of people -- know nothing about how


everything organic and inorganic in the world is arranged; but they


live, and it seems to them that their life is very wisely arranged!




     And it struck me:  "But what if there is something I do not


yet know?  Ignorance behaves just in that way.  Ignorance always


says just what I am saying.  When it does not know something, it


says that what it does not know is stupid.  Indeed, it appears that


there is a whole humanity that lived and lives as if it understood


the meaning of its life, for without understanding it could not


live; but I say that all this life is senseless and that I cannot




     "Nothing prevents our denying life by suicide.  well then,


kill yourself, and you won't discuss.  If life displeases you, kill


yourself!  You live, and cannot understand the meaning of life --


then finish it, and do not fool about in life, saying and writing


that you do not understand it.  You have come into good company


where people are contented and know what they are doing; if you


find it dull and repulsive -- go away!"


     Indeed, what are we who are convinced of the necessity of


suicide yet do not decide to commit it, but the weakest, most


inconsistent, and to put it plainly, the stupidest of men, fussing


about with our own stupidity as a fool fusses about with a painted


hussy?  For our wisdom, however indubitable it may be, has not


given us the knowledge of the meaning of our life.  But all mankind


who sustain life -- millions of them -- do not doubt the meaning of




     Indeed, from the most distant time of which I know anything,


when life began, people have lived knowing the argument about the


vanity of life which has shown me its senselessness, and yet they


lived attributing some meaning to it.


     From the time when any life began among men they had that


meaning of life, and they led that life which has descended to me.


All that is in me and around me, all, corporeal and incorporeal, is


the fruit of their knowledge of life.  Those very instruments of


thought with which I consider this life and condemn it were all


devised not be me but by them.  I myself was born, taught, and


brought up thanks to them.  They dug out the iron, taught us to cut


down the forests, tamed the cows and horses, taught us to sow corn


and to live together, organized our life, and taught me to think


and speak.  And I, their product, fed, supplied with drink, taught


by them, thinking with their thoughts and words, have argued that


they are an absurdity!  "There is something wrong," said I to


myself.  "I have blundered somewhere."  But it was a long time


before I could find out where the mistake was.










     All these doubts, which I am now able to express more or less


systematically, I could not then have expressed.  I then only felt


that however logically inevitable were my conclusions concerning


the vanity of life, confirmed as they were by the greatest


thinkers, there was something not right about them.  Whether it was


in the reasoning itself or in the statement of the question I did


not know -- I only felt that the conclusion was rationally


convincing, but that that was insufficient.  All these conclusions


could not so convince me as to make me do what followed from my


reasoning, that is to say, kill myself.  And I should have told an


untruth had I, without killing myself, said that reason had brought


me to the point I had reached.  Reason worked, but something else


was also working which I can only call a consciousness of life.  A


force was working which compelled me to turn my attention to this


and not to that; and it was this force which extricated me from my


desperate situation and turned my mind in quite another direction.


This force compelled me to turn my attention to the fact that I and


a few hundred similar people are not the whole of mankind, and that


I did not yet know the life of mankind.


     Looking at the narrow circle of my equals, I saw only people


who had not understood the question, or who had understood it and


drowned it in life's intoxication, or had understood it and ended


their lives, or had understood it and yet from weakness were living


out their desperate life.  And I saw no others.  It seemed to me


that that narrow circle of rich, learned, and leisured people to


which I belonged formed the whole of humanity, and that those


milliards of others who have lived and are living were cattle of


some sort -- not real people.


     Strange, incredibly incomprehensible as it now seems to me


that I could, while reasoning about life, overlook the whole life


of mankind that surrounded me on all sides; that I could to such a


degree blunder so absurdly as to think that my life, and Solomon's


and Schopenhauer's, is the real, normal life, and that the life of


the milliards is a circumstance undeserving of attention -- strange


as this now is to me, I see that so it was.  In the delusion of my


pride of intellect it seemed to me so indubitable that I and


Solomon and Schopenhauer had stated the question so truly and


exactly that nothing else was possible -- so indubitable did it


seem that all those milliards consisted of men who had not yet


arrived at an apprehension of all the profundity of the question --


that I sought for the meaning of my life without it once occurring


to me to ask:  "But what meaning is and has been given to their


lives by all the milliards of common folk who live and have lived


in the world?"


     I long lived in this state of lunacy, which, in fact if not in


words, is particularly characteristic of us very liberal and


learned people.  But thanks either to the strange physical


affection I have for the real labouring people, which compelled me


to understand them and to see that they are not so stupid as we


suppose, or thanks to the sincerity of my conviction that I could


know nothing beyond the fact that the best I could do was to hang


myself, at any rate I instinctively felt that if I wished to live


and understand the meaning of life, I must seek this meaning not


among those who have lost it and wish to kill themselves, but among


those milliards of the past and the present who make life and who


support the burden of their own lives and of ours also.  And I


considered the enormous masses of those simple, unlearned, and poor


people who have lived and are living and I saw something quite


different.  I saw that, with rare exceptions, all those milliards


who have lived and are living do not fit into my divisions, and


that I could not class them as not understanding the question, for


they themselves state it and reply to it with extraordinary


clearness.  Nor could I consider them epicureans, for their life


consists more of privations and sufferings than of enjoyments.


Still less could I consider them as irrationally dragging on a


meaningless existence, for every act of their life, as well as


death itself, is explained by them.  To kill themselves they


consider the greatest evil.  It appeared that all mankind had a


knowledge, unacknowledged and despised by me, of the meaning of


life.  It appeared that reasonable knowledge does not give the


meaning of life, but excludes life: while the meaning attributed to


life by milliards of people, by all humanity, rests on some


despised pseudo-knowledge.


     Rational knowledge presented by the learned and wise, denies


the meaning of life, but the enormous masses of men, the whole of


mankind receive that meaning in irrational knowledge. And that


irrational knowledge is faith, that very thing which I could not


but reject.  It is God, One in Three; the creation in six days; the


devils and angels, and all the rest that I cannot accept as long as


I retain my reason.


     My position was terrible.  I knew I could find nothing along


the path of reasonable knowledge except a denial of life; and there


-- in faith -- was nothing but a denial of reason, which was yet


more impossible for me than a denial of life.  From rational


knowledge it appeared that life is an evil, people know this and it


is in their power to end life; yet they lived and still live, and


I myself live, though I have long known that life is senseless and


an evil.  By faith it appears that in order to understand the


meaning of life I must renounce my reason, the very thing for which


alone a meaning is required.










     A contradiction arose from which there were two exits.  Either


that which I called reason was not so rational as I supposed, or


that which seemed to me irrational was not so irrational as I


supposed.  And I began to verify the line of argument of my


rational knowledge.


     Verifying the line of argument of rational knowledge I found


it quite correct.  The conclusion that life is nothing was


inevitable; but I noticed a mistake.  The mistake lay in this, that


my reasoning was not in accord with the question I had put.  The


question was:  "Why should I live, that is to say, what real,


permanent result will come out of my illusory transitory life --


what meaning has my finite existence in this infinite world?"  And


to reply to that question I had studied life.


     The solution of all the possible questions of life could


evidently not satisfy me, for my question, simple as it at first


appeared, included a demand for an explanation of the finite in


terms of the infinite, and vice versa.


     I asked: "What is the meaning of my life, beyond time, cause,


and space?"  And I replied to quite another question:  "What is the


meaning of  my life within time, cause, and space?"  With the


result that, after long efforts of thought, the answer I reached


was: "None."


     In my reasonings I constantly compared (nor could I do


otherwise) the finite with the finite, and the infinite with the


infinite; but for that reason I reached the inevitable result:


force is force, matter is matter, will is will, the infinite is the


infinite, nothing is nothing -- and that was all that could result.


     It was something like what happens in mathematics, when


thinking to solve an equation, we find we are working on an


identity.  the line of reasoning is correct, but results in the


answer that a equals a, or x equals x, or o equals o.  the same


thing happened with my reasoning in relation to the question of the


meaning of my life.  The replies given by all science to that


question only result in -- identity.


     And really, strictly scientific knowledge -- that knowledge


which begins, as Descartes's did, with complete doubt about


everything -- rejects all knowledge admitted on faith and builds


everything afresh on the laws of reason and experience, and cannot


give any other reply to the question of life than that which I


obtained: an indefinite reply.  Only at first had it seemed to me


that knowledge had given a positive reply -- the reply of


Schopenhauer: that life has no meaning and is an evil.  But on


examining the matter I understood that the reply is not positive,


it was only my feeling that so expressed it.  Strictly expressed,


as it is by the Brahmins and by Solomon and Schopenhauer, the reply


is merely indefinite, or an identity: o equals o, life is nothing.


So that philosophic knowledge denies nothing, but only replies that


the question cannot be solved by it -- that for it the solution


remains indefinite.


     Having understood this, I understood that it was not possible


to seek in rational knowledge for a reply to my question, and that


the reply given by rational knowledge is a mere indication that a


reply can only be obtained by a different statement of the question


and only when the relation of the finite to the infinite is


included in the question.  And I understood that, however


irrational and distorted might be the replies given by faith, they


have this advantage, that they introduce into every answer a


relation between the finite and the infinite, without which there


can be no solution.


     In whatever way I stated the question, that relation appeared


in the answer.  How am I to live? --  According to the law of God.


What real result will come of my life?  --  Eternal torment or


eternal bliss.  What meaning has life that death does not destroy?


-- Union with the eternal God: heaven.


     So that besides rational knowledge, which had seemed to me the


only knowledge, I was inevitably brought to acknowledge that all


live humanity has another irrational knowledge -- faith which makes


it possible to live.  Faith still remained to me as irrational as


it was before, but I could not but admit that it alone gives


mankind a reply to the questions of life, and that consequently it


makes life possible.  Reasonable knowledge had brought me to


acknowledge that life is senseless -- my life had come to a halt


and I wished to destroy myself.  Looking around on the whole of


mankind I saw that people live and declare that they know the


meaning of life.  I looked at myself -- I had lived as long as I


knew a meaning of life and had made life possible.


     Looking again at people of other lands, at my contemporaries


and at their predecessors, I saw the same thing.  Where there is


life, there since man began faith has made life possible for him,


and the chief outline of that faith is everywhere and always




     Whatever the faith may be, and whatever answers it may give,


and to whomsoever it gives them, every such answer gives to the


finite existence of man an infinite meaning, a meaning not


destroyed by sufferings, deprivations, or death.  This means that


only in faith can we find for life a meaning and a possibility.


What, then, is this faith?  And I understood that faith is not


merely "the evidence of things not seen", etc., and is not a


revelation (that defines only one of the indications of faith, is


not the relation of man to God (one has first to define faith and


then God, and not define faith through God); it not only agreement


with what has been told one (as faith is most usually supposed to


be), but faith is a knowledge of the meaning of human life in


consequence of which man does not destroy himself but lives.  Faith


is the strength of life.  If a man lives he believes in something.


If he did not believe that one must live for something, he would


not live.  If he does not see and recognize the illusory nature of


the finite, he believes in the finite; if he understands the


illusory nature of the finite, he must believe in the infinite.


Without faith he cannot live.


     And I recalled the whole course of my mental labour and was


horrified.  It was now clear to me that for man to be able to live


he must either not see the infinite, or have such an explanation of


the meaning of life as will connect the finite with the infinite.


Such an explanation I had had; but as long as I believed in the


finite I did not need the explanation, and I began to verify it by


reason.  And in the light of reason the whole of my former


explanation flew to atoms.  But a time came when I ceased to


believe in the finite.  And then I began to build up on rational


foundations, out of what I knew, an explanation which would give a


meaning to life; but nothing could I build.  Together with the best


human intellects I reached the result that o equals o, and was much


astonished at that conclusion, though nothing else could have




     What was I doing when I sought an answer in the experimental


sciences?  I wished to know why I live, and for this purpose


studied all that is outside me.  Evidently I might learn much, but


nothing of what I needed.


     What was I doing when I sought an answer in philosophical


knowledge?  I was studying the thoughts of those who had found


themselves in the same position as I, lacking a reply to the


question "why do I live?" Evidently I could learn nothing but what


I knew myself, namely that nothing can be known.


     What am I? -- A part of the infinite.  In those few words lies


the whole problem.


     Is it possible that humanity has only put that question to


itself since yesterday?  And can no one before me have set himself


that question -- a question so simple, and one that springs to the


tongue of every wise child?


     Surely that question has been asked since man began; and


naturally for the solution of that question since man began it has


been equally insufficient to compare the finite with the finite and


the infinite with the infinite, and since man began the relation of


the finite to the infinite has been sought out and expressed.


     All these conceptions in which the finite has been adjusted to


the infinite and a meaning found for life -- the conception of God,


of will, of goodness -- we submit to logical examination.  And all


those conceptions fail to stand reason's criticism.


     Were it not so terrible it would be ludicrous with what pride


and self-satisfaction we, like children, pull the watch to pieces,


take out the spring, make a toy of it, and are then surprised that


the watch does not go.


     A solution of the contradiction between the finite and the


infinite, and such a reply to the question of life as will make it


possible to live, is necessary and precious.  And that is the only


solution which we find everywhere, always, and among all peoples:


a solution descending from times in which we lose sight of the life


of man, a solution so difficult that we can compose nothing like it


-- and this solution we light-heartedly destroy in order again to


set the same question, which is natural to everyone and to which we


have no answer.


     The conception of an infinite god, the divinity of the soul,


the connexion of human affairs with God, the unity and existence of


the soul, man's conception of moral goodness and evil -- are


conceptions formulated in the hidden infinity of human thought,


they are those conceptions without which neither life nor I should


exist; yet rejecting all that labour of the whole of humanity, I


wished to remake it afresh myself and in my own manner.


     I did not then think like that, but the germs of these


thoughts were already in me.  I understood, in the first place,


that my position with Schopenhauer and Solomon, notwithstanding our


wisdom, was stupid:  we see that life is an evil and yet continue


to live.  That is evidently stupid, for if life is senseless and I


am so fond of what is reasonable, it should be destroyed, and then


there would be no one to challenge it.  Secondly, I understood that


all one's reasonings turned in a vicious circle like a wheel out of


gear with its pinion.  However much and however well we may reason


we cannot obtain a reply to the question; and o will always equal


o, and therefore our path is probably erroneous.  Thirdly, I began


to understand that in the replies given by faith is stored up the


deepest human wisdom and that I had no right to deny them on the


ground of reason, and that those answers are the only ones which


reply to life's question.










     I understood this, but it made matters no better for me.  I


was now ready to accept any faith if only it did not demand of me


a direct denial of reason -- which would be a falsehood.  And I


studied Buddhism and Mohammedanism from books, and most of all I


studied Christianity both from books and from the people around me.


     Naturally I first of all turned to the orthodox of my circle,


to people who were learned:  to Church theologians, monks, to


theologians of the newest shade, and even to Evangelicals who


profess salvation by belief in the Redemption.  And I seized on


these believers and questioned them as to their beliefs and their


understanding of the meaning of life.


     But though I made all possible concessions, and avoided all


disputes, I could not accept the faith of these people.  I saw that


what they gave out as their faith did not explain the meaning of


life but obscured it, and that they themselves affirm their belief


not to answer that question of life which brought me to faith, but


for some other aims alien to me.


     I remember the painful feeling of fear of being thrown back


into my former state of despair, after the hope I often and often


experienced in my intercourse with these people.


     The more fully they explained to me their doctrines, the more


clearly did I perceive their error and realized that my hope of


finding in their belief an explanation of the meaning of life was




     It was not that in their doctrines they mixed many unnecessary


and unreasonable things with the Christian truths that had always


been near to me: that was not what repelled me.  I was repelled by


the fact that these people's lives were like my own, with only this


difference -- that such a life did not correspond to the principles


they expounded in their teachings.  I clearly felt that they


deceived themselves and that they, like myself found no other


meaning in life than to live while life lasts, taking all one's


hands can seize.  I saw this because if they had had a meaning


which destroyed the fear of loss, suffering, and death, they would


not have feared these things.  But they, these believers of our


circle, just like myself, living in sufficiency and superfluity,


tried to increase or preserve them, feared privations, suffering,


and death, and just like myself and all of us unbelievers, lived to


satisfy their desires, and lived just as badly, if not worse, than


the unbelievers.


     No arguments could convince me of the truth of their faith.


Only deeds which showed that they saw a meaning in life making what


was so dreadful to me -- poverty, sickness, and death -- not


dreadful to them, could convince me.  And such deeds I did not see


among the various believers in our circle.  On the contrary, I saw


such deeds done [Footnote: this passage is noteworthy as being one


of the few references made by Tolstoy at this period to the


revolutionary or "Back-to-the-People" movement, in which many young


men and women were risking and sacrificing home, property, and life


itself from motives which had much in common with his own


perception that the upper layers of Society are parasitic and prey


on the vitals of the people who support them. -- A.M.] by people of


our circle who were the most unbelieving, but never by our so-


called believers.


     And I understood that the belief of these people was not the


faith I sought, and that their faith is not a real faith but an


epicurean consolation in life.


     I understood that that faith may perhaps serve, if not for a


consolation at least for some distraction for a repentant Solomon


on his death-bed, but it cannot serve for the great majority of


mankind, who are called on not to amuse themselves while consuming


the labour of others but to create life.


     For all humanity to be able to live, and continue to live


attributing a meaning to life, they, those milliards, must have a


different, a real, knowledge of faith.  Indeed, it was not the fact


that we, with Solomon and Schopenhauer, did not kill ourselves that


convinced me of the existence of faith, but the fact that those


milliards of people have lived and are living, and have borne


Solomon and us on the current of their lives.


     And I began to draw near to the believers among the poor,


simple, unlettered folk: pilgrims, monks, sectarians, and peasants.


The faith of these common people was the same Christian faith as


was professed by the pseudo-believers of our circle.  Among them,


too, I found a great deal of superstition mixed with the Christian


truths; but the difference was that the superstitions of the


believers of our circle were quite unnecessary to them and were not


in conformity with their lives, being merely a kind of epicurean


diversion; but the superstitions of the believers among the


labouring masses conformed so with their lives that it was


impossible to imagine them to oneself without those superstitions,


which were a necessary condition of their life.  the whole life of


believers in our circle was a contradiction of their faith, but the


whole life of the working-folk believers was a confirmation of the


meaning of life which their faith gave them.  And I began to look


well into the life and faith of these people, and the more I


considered it the more I became convinced that they have a real


faith which is a necessity to them and alone gives their life a


meaning and makes it possible for them to live.  In contrast with


what I had seen in our circle -- where life without faith is


possible and where hardly one in a thousand acknowledges himself to


be a believer -- among them there is hardly one unbeliever in a


thousand.  In contrast with what I had seen in our circle, where


the whole of life is passed in idleness, amusement, and


dissatisfaction, I saw that the whole life of these people was


passed in heavy labour, and that they were content with life.  In


contradistinction to the way in which people of our circle oppose


fate and complain of it on account of deprivations and sufferings,


these people accepted illness and sorrow without any perplexity or


opposition, and with a quiet and firm conviction that all is good.


In contradistinction to us, who the wiser we are the less we


understand the meaning of life, and see some evil irony in the fact


that we suffer and die, these folk live and suffer, and they


approach death and suffering with tranquillity and in most cases


gladly.  In contrast to the fact that a tranquil death, a death


without horror and despair, is a very rare exception in our circle,


a troubled, rebellious, and unhappy death is the rarest exception


among the people.  and such people, lacking all that for us and for


Solomon is the only good of life and yet experiencing the greatest


happiness, are a great multitude.  I looked more widely around me.


I considered the life of the enormous mass of the people in the


past and the present.  And of such people, understanding the


meaning of life and able to live and to die, I saw not two or


three, or tens, but hundreds, thousands, and millions.  and they


all -- endlessly different in their manners, minds, education, and


position, as they were -- all alike, in complete contrast to my


ignorance, knew the meaning of life and death, laboured quietly,


endured deprivations and sufferings, and lived and died seeing


therein not vanity but good.


     And I learnt to love these people.  The more I came to know


their life, the life of those who are living and of others who are


dead of whom I read and heard, the more I loved them and the easier


it became for me to live.  So I went on for about two years, and a


change took place in me which had long been preparing and the


promise of which had always been in me.  It came about that the


life of our circle, the rich and learned, not merely became


distasteful to me, but lost all meaning in my eyes.  All our


actions, discussions, science and art, presented itself to me in a


new light.  I understood that it is all merely self-indulgence, and


the to find a meaning in it is impossible; while the life of the


whole labouring people, the whole of mankind who produce life,


appeared to me in its true significance.  I understood that *that*


is life itself, and that the meaning given to that life is true:


and I accepted it.










     And remembering how those very beliefs had repelled me and had


seemed meaningless when professed by people whose lives conflicted


with them, and how these same beliefs attracted me and seemed


reasonable when I saw that people lived in accord with them, I


understood why I had then rejected those beliefs and found them


meaningless, yet now accepted them and found them full of meaning.


I understood that I had erred, and why I erred.  I had erred not so


much because I thought incorrectly as because I lived badly.  I


understood that it was not an error in my thought that had hid


truth from me as much as my life itself in the exceptional


conditions of epicurean gratification of desires in which I passed


it.  I understood that my question as to what my life is, and the


answer -- and evil -- was quite correct.  The only mistake was that


the answer referred only to my life, while I had referred it to


life in general.  I asked myself what my life is, and got the


reply: An evil and an absurdity.  and really my life -- a life of


indulgence of desires -- was senseless and evil, and therefore the


reply, "Life is evil and an absurdity", referred only to my life,


but not to human life in general.  I understood the truth which I


afterwards found in the Gospels, "that men loved darkness rather


than the light, for their works were evil.  For everyone that doeth


ill hateth the light, and cometh not to the light, lest his works


should be reproved."  I perceived that to understand the meaning of


life it is necessary first that life should not be meaningless and


evil, then we can apply reason to explain it.  I understood why I


had so long wandered round so evident a truth, and that if one is


to think and speak of the life of mankind, one must think and speak


of that life and not of the life of some of life's parasites.  That


truth was always as true as that two and two are four, but I had


not acknowledged it, because on admitting two and two to be four I


had also to admit that I was bad; and to feel myself to be good was


for me more important and necessary than for two and two to be


four.  I came to love good people, hated myself, and confessed the


truth.  Now all became clear to me.


     What if an executioner passing his whole life in torturing


people and cutting off their heads, or a hopeless drunkard, or a


madman settled for life in a dark room which he has fouled and


imagines that he would perish if he left -- what if he asked


himself: "What is life?"  Evidently he could not other reply to


that question than that life is the greatest evil, and the madman's


answer would be perfectly correct, but only as applied to himself.


What if I am such a madman?  What if all we rich and leisured


people are such madmen? and I understood that we really are such


madmen.  I at any rate was certainly such.


     And indeed a bird is so made that it must fly, collect food,


and build a nest, and when I see that a bird does this I have


pleasure in its joy.  A goat, a hare, and a wolf are so made that


they must feed themselves, and must breed and feed their family,


and when they do so I feel firmly assured that they are happy and


that their life is a reasonable one.  then what should a man do?


He too should produce his living as the animals do, but with this


difference, that he will perish if he does it alone; he must obtain


it not for himself but for all.  And when he does that, I have a


firm assurance that he is happy and that his life is reasonable.


But what had I done during the whole thirty years of my responsible


life?  Far from producing sustenance for all, I did not even


produce it for myself.  I lived as a parasite, and on asking


myself, what is the use of my life? I got the reply: "No use."  If


the meaning of human life lies in supporting it, how could I -- who


for thirty years had been engaged not on supporting life but on


destroying it in myself and in others -- how could I obtain any


other answer than that my life was senseless and an evil? ... It


was both senseless and evil.


     The life of the world endures by someone's will -- by the life


of the whole world and by our lives someone fulfills his purpose.


To hope to understand the meaning of that will one must first


perform it by doing what is wanted of us.  But if I will not do


what is wanted of me, I shall never understand what is wanted of


me, and still less what is wanted of us all and of the whole world.


     If a naked, hungry beggar has been taken from the cross-roads,


brought into a building belonging to a beautiful establishment,


fed, supplied with drink, and obliged to move a handle up and down,


evidently, before discussing why he was taken, why he should move


the handle, and whether the whole establishment is reasonably


arranged -- the begger should first of all move the handle.  If he


moves the handle he will understand that it works a pump, that the


pump draws water and that the water irrigates the garden beds; then


he will be taken from the pumping station to another place where he


will gather fruits and will enter into the joy of his master, and,


passing from lower to higher work, will understand more and more of


the arrangements of the establishment, and taking part in it will


never think of asking why he is there, and will certainly not


reproach the master.


     So those who do his will, the simple, unlearned working folk,


whom we regard as cattle, do not reproach the master; but we, the


wise, eat the master's food but do not do what the master wishes,


and instead of doing it sit in a circle and discuss: "Why should


that handle be moved?  Isn't it stupid?"  So we have decided.  We


have decided that the master is stupid, or does not exist, and that


we are wise, only we feel that we are quite useless and that we


must somehow do away with ourselves.










     The consciousness of the error in reasonable knowledge helped


me to free myself from the temptation of idle ratiocination.  the


conviction that knowledge of truth can only be found by living led


me to doubt the rightness of my life; but I was saved only by the


fact that I was able to tear myself from my exclusiveness and to


see the real life of the plain working people, and to understand


that it alone is real life.  I understood that if I wish to


understand life and its meaning, I must not live the life of a


parasite, but must live a real life, and -- taking the meaning


given to live by real humanity and merging myself in that life --


verify it.


     During that time this is what happened to me.  During that


whole year, when I was asking myself almost every moment whether I


should not end matters with a noose or a bullet -- all that time,


together with the course of thought and observation about which I


have spoken, my heart was oppressed with a painful feeling, which


I can only describe as a search for God.


     I say that that search for God was not reasoning, but a


feeling, because that search proceeded not from the course of my


thoughts -- it was even directly contrary to them -- but proceeded


from the heart. It was a feeling of fear, orphanage, isolation in


a strange land, and a hope of help from someone.


     Though I was quite convinced of the impossibility of proving


the existence of a Deity (Kant had shown, and I quite understood


him, that it could not be proved), I yet sought for god, hoped that


I should find Him, and from old habit addressed prayers to that


which I sought but had not found.  I went over in my mind the


arguments of Kant and Schopenhauer showing the impossibility of


proving the existence of a God, and I began to verify those


arguments and to refute them.  Cause, said I to myself, is not a


category of thought such as are Time and Space.  If I exist, there


must be some cause for it, and a cause of causes.  And that first


cause of all is what men have called "God".  And I paused on that


thought, and tried with all my being to recognize the presence of


that cause.  And as soon as I acknowledged that there is a force in


whose power I am, I at once felt that I could live.  But I asked


myself: What is that cause, that force?  How am I to think of it?


What are my relations to that which I call "God"?  And only the


familiar replies occurred to me:  "He is the Creator and


Preserver."  This reply did not satisfy me, and I felt I was losing


within me what I needed for my life.  I became terrified and began


to pray to Him whom I sought, that He should help me.  But the more


I prayed the more apparent it became to me that He did not hear me,


and that there was no one to whom to address myself.  And with


despair in my heart that there is no God at all, I said:  "Lord,


have mercy, save me!  Lord, teach me!"  But no one had mercy on me,


and I felt that my life was coming to a standstill.


     But again and again, from various sides, I returned to the


same conclusion that I could not have come into the world without


any cause or reason or meaning; I could not be such a fledgling


fallen from its nest as I felt myself to be.  Or, granting that I


be such, lying on my back crying in the high grass, even then I cry


because I know that a mother has borne me within her, has hatched


me, warmed me, fed me, and loved me.  Where is she -- that mother?


If I have been deserted, who has deserted me?  I cannot hide from


myself that someone bored me, loving me.  Who was that someone?


Again "God"?  He knows and sees my searching, my despair, and my




     "He exists," said I to myself.  And I had only for an instant


to admit that, and at once life rose within me, and I felt the


possibility and joy of being.  But again, from the admission of the


existence of a God I went on to seek my relation with Him; and


again I imagined *that* God -- our Creator in Three Persons who


sent His Son, the Saviour -- and again *that* God, detached from


the world and from me, melted like a block of ice, melted before my


eyes, and again nothing remained, and again the spring of life


dried up within me, and I despaired and felt that I had nothing to


do but to kill myself.  And the worst of all was, that I felt I


could not do it.


     Not twice or three times, but tens and hundreds of times, I


reached those conditions, first of joy and animation, and then of


despair and consciousness of the impossibility of living.


     I remember that it was in early spring: I was alone in the


wood listening to its sounds.  I listened and thought ever of the


same thing, as I had constantly done during those last three years.


I was again seeking God.


     "Very well, there is no God," said I to myself; "there is no


one who is not my imagination but a reality like my whole life. 


He does not exist, and no miracles can prove His existence, because


the miracles would be my imagination, besides being irrational.


     "But my *perception* of God, of Him whom I seek," I asked


myself, "where has that perception come from?"  And again at this


thought the glad waves of life rose within me.  All that was around


me came to life and received a meaning.  But my joy did not last


long.  My mind continued its work.


     "The conception of God is not God," said I to myself.  "The


conception is what takes place within me.  The conception of God is


something I can evoke or can refrain from evoking in myself.  That


is not what I seek.  I seek that without which there can be no


life."  And again all around me and within me began to die, and


again I wished to kill myself.


     But then I turned my gaze upon myself, on what went on within


me, and I remembered all those cessations of life and reanimations


that recurred within me hundreds of times.  I remembered that I


only lived at those times when I believed in God.  As it was


before, so it was now; I need only be aware of God to live; I need


only forget Him, or disbelieve Him, and I died.


     What is this animation and dying?  I do not live when I lose


belief in the existence of God.  I should long ago have killed


myself had I not had a dim hope of finding Him.  I live, really


live, only when I feel Him and seek Him.  "What more do you seek?"


exclaimed a voice within me.  "This is He.  He is that without


which one cannot live.  To know God and to live is one and the same


thing.  God is life."


     "Live seeking God, and then you will not live without God."


And more than ever before, all within me and around me lit up, and


the light did not again abandon me.


     And I was saved from suicide.  When and how this change


occurred I could not say.  As imperceptibly and gradually the force


of life in me had been destroyed and I had reached the


impossibility of living, a cessation of life and the necessity of


suicide, so imperceptibly and gradually did that force of life


return to me.  And strange to say the strength of life which


returned to me was not new, but quite old -- the same that had


borne me along in my earliest days.


     I quite returned to what belonged to my earliest childhood and


youth.  I returned to the belief in that Will which produced me and


desires something of me.  I returned to the belief that the chief


and only aim of my life is to be better, i.e. to live in accord


with that Will.  and I returned to the belief that I can find the


expression of that Will in what humanity, in the distant past


hidden from, has produced for its guidance:  that is to say, I


returned to a belief in God, in moral perfection, and in a


tradition transmitting the meaning of life.  There was only this


difference, that then all this was accepted unconsciously, while


now I knew that without it I could not live.


     What happened to me was something like this:  I was put into


a boat (I do not remember when) and pushed off from an unknown


shore, shown the direction of the opposite shore, had oars put into


my unpractised hands, and was left alone.  I rowed as best I could


and moved forward; but the further I advanced towards the middle of


the stream the more rapid grew the current bearing me away from my


goal and the more frequently did I encounter others, like myself,


borne away by the stream.  There were a few rowers who continued to


row, there were others who had abandoned their oars; there were


large boats and immense vessels full of people.  Some struggled


against the current, others yielded to it.  And the further I went


the more, seeing the progress down the current of all those who


were adrift, I forgot the direction given me.  In the very centre


of the stream, amid the crowd of boats and vessels which were being


borne down stream, I quite lost my direction and abandoned my oars.


Around me on all sides, with mirth and rejoicing, people with sails


and oars were borne down the stream, assuring me and each other


that no other direction was possible.  And I believed them and


floated with them.  And I was carried far; so far that I heard the


roar of the rapids in which I must be shattered, and I saw boats


shattered in them.  And I recollected myself.  I was long unable to


understand what had happened to me.  I saw before me nothing but


destruction, towards which I was rushing and which I feared.  I saw


no safety anywhere and did not know what to do; but, looking back,


I perceived innumerable boats which unceasingly and strenuously


pushed across the stream, and I remembered about the shore, the


oars, and the direction, and began to pull back upwards against the


stream and towards the whore.


     That shore was God; that direction was tradition; the oars


were the freedom given me to pull for the shore and unite with God.


And so the force of life was renewed in me and I again began to












     I turned from the life of our circle, acknowledging that ours


is not life but a simulation of life -- that the conditions of


superfluity in which we live deprive us of the possibility of


understanding life, and that in order to understand life I must


understand not an exceptional life such as our who are parasites on


life, but the life of the simple labouring folk -- those who make


life -- and the meaning which they attribute to it.  The simplest


labouring people around me were the Russian people, and I turned to


them and to the meaning of life which they give.  That meaning, if


one can put it into words, was as follows:  Every man has come into


this world by the will of God.  And God has so made man that every


man can destroy his soul or save it.  The aim of man in life is to


save his soul, and to save his soul he must live "godly" and to


live "godly" he must renounce all the pleasures of life, must


labour, humble himself, suffer, and be merciful.  That meaning the


people obtain from the whole teaching of faith transmitted to them


by their pastors and by the traditions that live among the people.


This meaning was clear to me and near to my heart.  But together


with this meaning of the popular faith of our non-sectarian folk,


among whom I live, much was inseparably bound up that revolted me


and seemed to me inexplicable: sacraments, Church services, fasts,


and the adoration of relics and icons.  The people cannot separate


the one from the other, nor could I.  And strange as much of what


entered into the faith of these people was to me, I accepted


everything, and attended the services, knelt morning and evening in


prayer, fasted, and prepared to receive the Eucharist: and at first


my reason did not resist anything.  The very things that had


formerly seemed to me impossible did not now evoke in me any




     My relations to faith before and after were quite different.


Formerly life itself seemed to me full of meaning and faith


presented itself as the arbitrary assertion of propositions to me


quite unnecessary, unreasonable, and disconnected from life.  I


then asked myself what meaning those propositions had and,


convinced that they had none, I rejected them.  Now on the contrary


I knew firmly that my life otherwise has, and can have, no meaning,


and the articles of faith were far from presenting themselves to me


as unnecessary --  on the contrary I had been led by indubitable


experience to the conviction that only these propositions presented


by faith give life a meaning.  formerly I looked on them as on some


quite unnecessary gibberish, but now, if I did not understand them,


I yet knew that they had a meaning, and I said to myself that I


must learn to understand them.


     I argued as follows, telling myself that the knowledge of


faith flows, like all humanity with its reason, from a mysterious


source.  That source is God, the origin both of the human body and


the human reason.  As my body has descended to me from God, so also


has my reason and my understanding of life, and consequently the


various stages of the development of that understanding of life


cannot be false.  All that people sincerely believe in must be


true; it may be differently expressed but it cannot be a lie, and


therefore if it presents itself to me as a lie, that only means


that I have not understood it.  Furthermore I said to myself, the


essence of every faith consists in its giving life a meaning which


death does not destroy.  Naturally for a faith to be able to reply


to the questions of a king dying in luxury, of an old slave


tormented by overwork, of an unreasoning child, of a wise old man,


of a half-witted old woman, of a young and happy wife, of a youth


tormented by passions, of all people in the most varied conditions


of life and education -- if there is one reply to the one eternal


question of life:  "Why do I live and what will result from my


life?" -- the reply, though one in its essence, must be endlessly


varied in its presentation; and the more it is one, the more true


and profound it is, the more strange and deformed must it naturally


appear in its attempted expression, conformably to the education


and position of each person.  But this argument, justifying in my


eyes the queerness of much on the ritual side of religion, did not


suffice to allow me in the one great affair of life -- religion --


to do things which seemed to me questionable.  With all my soul I


wished to be in a position to mingle with the people, fulfilling


the ritual side of their religion; but I could not do it.  I felt


that I should lie to myself and mock at what was sacred to me, were


I to do so.  At this point, however, our new Russian theological


writers came to my rescue.


     According to the explanation these theologians gave, the


fundamental dogma of our faith is the infallibility of the Church.


From the admission of that dogma follows inevitably the truth of


all that is professed by the Church.  The Church as an assembly of


true believers united by love and therefore possessed of true


knowledge became the basis of my belief.  I told myself that divine


truth cannot be accessible to a separate individual; it is revealed


only to the whole assembly of people united by love.  To attain


truth one must not separate, and in order not to separate one must


love and must endure things one may not agree with.


     Truth reveals itself to love, and if you do not submit to the


rites of the Church you transgress against love; and by


transgressing against love you deprive yourself of the possibility


of recognizing the truth.  I did not then see the sophistry


contained in this argument.  I did not see that union in love may


give the greatest love, but certainly cannot give us divine truth


expressed in the definite words of the Nicene Creed.  I also did


not perceive that love cannot make a certain expression of truth an


obligatory condition of union.  I did not then see these mistakes


in the argument and thanks to it was able to accept and perform all


the rites of the Orthodox Church without understanding most of


them.  I then tried with all strength of my soul to avoid all


arguments and contradictions, and tried to explain as reasonably as


possible the Church statements I encountered.


     When fulfilling the rites of the Church I humbled my reason


and submitted to the tradition possessed by all humanity.  I united


myself with my forefathers: the father, mother, and grandparents I


loved. They and all my predecessors believed and lived, and they


produced me.  I united myself also with the missions of the common


people whom I respected.  Moveover, those actions had nothing bad


in themselves ("bad" I considered the indulgence of one's desires).


When rising early for Church services I knew I was doing well, if


only because I was sacrificing my bodily ease to humble my mental


pride, for the sake of union with my ancestors and contemporaries,


and for the sake of finding the meaning of life.  It was the same


with my preparations to receive Communion, and with the daily


reading of prayers with genuflections, and also with the observance


of all the fasts.  However insignificant these sacrifices might be


I made them for the sake of something good.  I fasted, prepared for


Communion, and observed the fixed hours of prayer at home and in


church.  During Church service I attended to every word, and gave


them a meaning whenever I could.  In the Mass the most important


words for me were: "Let us love one another in conformity!"  The


further words, "In unity we believe in the Father, the Son, and


Holy Ghost", I passed by, because I could not understand them.










     In was then so necessary for me to believe in order to live


that I unconsciously concealed from myself the contradictions and


obscurities of theology.  but this reading of meanings into the


rites had its limits.  If the chief words in the prayer for the


Emperor became more and more clear to me, if I found some


explanation for the words "and remembering our Sovereign Most-Holy


Mother of God and all the Saints, ourselves and one another, we


give our whole life to Christ our God", if I explained to myself


the frequent repetition of prayers for the Tsar and his relations


by the fact that they are more exposed to temptations than other


people and therefore are more in need of being prayed for -- the


prayers about subduing our enemies and evil under our feet (even if


one tried to say that *sin* was the enemy prayed against), these


and other prayers, such as the "cherubic song" and the whole


sacrament of oblation, or "the chosen Warriors", etc. -- quite two-


thirds of all the services -- either remained completely


incomprehensible or, when I forced an explanation into them, made


me feel that I was lying, thereby quite destroying my relation to


God and depriving me of all possibility of belief.


     I felt the same about the celebration of the chief holidays.


To remember the Sabbath, that is to devote one day to God, was


something I could understand.  But the chief holiday was in


commemoration of the Resurrection, the reality of which I could not


picture to myself or understand.  And that name of "Resurrection"


was also given the weekly holiday.   [Footnote: In Russia Sunday


was called Resurrection-day. -- A. M.]  And on those days the


Sacrament of the Eucharist was administered, which was quite


unintelligible to me.  The rest of the twelve great holidays,


except Christmas, commemorated miracles -- the things I tried not


to think about in order not to deny: the Ascension, Pentecost,


Epiphany, the Feast of the Intercession of the Holy Virgin, etc.


At the celebration of these holidays, feeling that importance was


being attributed to the very things that to me presented a negative


importance, I either devised tranquillizing explanations or shut my


eyes in order not to see what tempted me.


     Most of all this happened to me when taking part in the most


usual Sacraments, which are considered the most important: baptism


and communion.  There I encountered not incomprehensible but fully


comprehensible doings: doings which seemed to me to lead into


temptation, and I was in a dilemma -- whether to lie or to reject




     Never shall I forge the painful feeling I experienced the day


I received the Eucharist for the first time after many years.  The


service, confession, and prayers were quite intelligible and


produced in me a glad consciousness that the meaning of life was


being revealed to me.  The Communion itself I explained as an act


performed in remembrance of Christ, and indicating a purification


from sin and the full acceptance of Christ's teaching.  If that


explanation was artificial I did not notice its artificiality: so


happy was I at humbling and abasing myself before the priest -- a


simple, timid country clergyman -- turning all the dirt out of my


soul and confessing my vices, so glad was I to merge in thought


with the humility of the fathers who wrote the prayers of the


office, so glad was I of union with all who have believed and now


believe, that I did not notice the artificiality of my explanation.


But when I approached the altar gates, and the priest made me say


that I believed that what I was about to swallow was truly flesh


and blood, I felt a pain in my heart: it was not merely a false


note, it was a cruel demand made by someone or other who evidently


had never known what faith is.


     I now permit myself to say that it was a cruel demand, but I


did not then think so: only it was indescribably painful to me.  I


was no longer in the position in which I had been in youth when I


thought all in life was clear; I had indeed come to faith because,


apart from faith, I had found nothing, certainly nothing, except


destruction; therefore to throw away that faith was impossible and


I submitted.  And I found in my soul a feeling which helped me to


endure it.  This was the feeling of self-abasement and humility.


I humbled myself, swallowed that flesh and blood without any


blasphemous feelings and with a wish to believe.  But the blow had


been struck and, knowing what awaited me, I could not go a second




     I continued to fulfil the rites of the Church and still


believed that the doctrine I was following contained the truth,


when something happened to me which I now understand but which then


seemed strange.


     I was listening to the conversation of an illiterate peasant,


a pilgrim, about God, faith, life, and salvation, when a knowledge


of faith revealed itself to me.  I drew near to the people,


listening to their opinions of life and faith, and I understood the


truth more and more.  So also was it when I read the Lives of Holy


men, which became my favourite books.  Putting aside the miracles


and regarding them as fables illustrating thoughts, this reading


revealed to me life's meaning.  There were the lives of Makarius


the Great, the story of Buddha, there were the words of St. John


Chrysostom, and there were the stories of the traveller in the


well, the monk who found some gold, and of Peter the publican.


There were stories of the martyrs, all announcing that death does


not exclude life, and there were the stories of ignorant, stupid


men, who knew nothing of the teaching of the Church but who yet


were saves.


     But as soon as I met learned believers or took up their books,


doubt of myself, dissatisfaction, and exasperated disputation were


roused within me, and I felt that the more I entered into the


meaning of these men's speech, the more I went astray from truth


and approached an abyss.










     How often I envied the peasants their illiteracy and lack of


learning!  Those statements in the creeds which to me were evident


absurdities, for them contained nothing false; they could accept


them and could believe in the truth -- the truth I believed in.


Only to me, unhappy man, was it clear that with truth falsehood was


interwoven by finest threads, and that I could not accept it in


that form.


     So I lived for about three years.  At first, when I was only


slightly associated with truth as a catechumen and was only


scenting out what seemed to me clearest, these encounters struck me


less.  When I did not understand anything, I said, "It is my fault,


I am sinful";  but the more I became imbued with the truths I was


learning, the more they became the basis of my life, the more


oppressive and the more painful became these encounters and the


sharper became the line between what I do not understand because I


am not able to understand it, and what cannot be understood except


by lying to oneself.


     In spite of my doubts and sufferings I still clung to the


Orthodox Church.  But questions of life arose which had to be


decided; and the decision of these questions by the Church --


contrary to the very bases of the belief by which I lived --


obliged me at last to renounce communion with Orthodoxy as


impossible.  These questions were:  first the relation of the


Orthodox Eastern Church to other Churches -- to the Catholics and


to the so-called sectarians.  At that time, in consequence of my


interest in religion, I came into touch with believers of various


faiths:  Catholics, protestants, Old-Believers, Molokans [Footnote:


A sect that rejects sacraments and ritual.],  and others.  And I


met among them many men of lofty morals who were truly religious.


I wished to be a brother to them.  And what happened?  That


teaching which promised to unite all in one faith and love -- that


very teaching, in the person of its best representatives, told me


that these men were all living a lie; that what gave them their


power of life was a temptation of the devil; and that we alone


possess the only possible truth.  And I saw that all who do not


profess an identical faith with themselves are considered by the


Orthodox to be heretics, just as the Catholics and others consider


the Orthodox to be heretics.  And i saw that the Orthodox (though


they try to hide this) regard with hostility all who do not express


their faith by the same external symbols and words as themselves;


and this is naturally so; first, because the assertion that you are


in falsehood and I am in truth, is the most cruel thing one man can


say to another; and secondly, because a man loving his children and


brothers cannot help being hostile to those who wish to pervert his


children and brothers to a false belief.  And that hostility is


increased in proportion to one's greater knowledge of theology.


And to me who considered that truth lay in union by love, it became


self-evident that theology was itself destroying what it ought to




     This offence is so obvious to us educated people who have


lived in countries where various religions are professed and have


seen the contempt, self-assurance, and invincible contradiction


with which Catholics behave to the Orthodox Greeks and to the


Protestants, and the Orthodox to Catholics and Protestants, and the


Protestants to the two others, and the similar attitude of Old-


Believers, Pashkovites (Russian Evangelicals), Shakers, and all


religions -- that the very obviousness of the temptation at first


perplexes us.  One says to oneself: it is impossible that it is so


simple and that people do not see that if two assertions are


mutually contradictory, then neither of them has the sole truth


which faith should possess.  There is something else here, there


must be some explanation.  I thought there was, and sought that


explanation and read all I could on the subject, and consulted all


whom I could.  And no one gave me any explanation, except the one


which causes the Sumsky Hussars to consider the Sumsky Hussars the


best regiment in the world, and the Yellow Uhlans to consider that


the best regiment in the world is the Yellow Uhlans.  The


ecclesiastics of all the different creeds, through their best


representatives, told me nothing but that they believed themselves


to have the truth and the others to be in error, and that all they


could do was to pray for them.  I went to archimandrites, bishops,


elders, monks of the strictest orders, and asked them; but none of


them made any attempt to explain the matter to me except one man,


who explained it all and explained it so that I never asked any one


any more about it.  I said that for every unbeliever turning to a


belief (and all our young generation are in a position to do so)


the question that presents itself first is, why is truth not in


Lutheranism nor in Catholicism, but in Orthodoxy?  Educated in the


high school he cannot help knowing what the peasants do not know --


that the Protestants and Catholics equally affirm that their faith


is the only true one.  Historical evidence, twisted by each


religion in its own favour, is insufficient.  Is it not possible,


said I, to understand the teaching in a loftier way, so that from


its height the differences should disappear, as they do for one who


believes truly?  Can we not go further along a path like the one we


are following with the Old-Believers?  They emphasize the fact that


they have a differently shaped cross and different alleluias and a


different procession round the altar.  We reply:  You believe in


the Nicene Creed, in the seven sacraments, and so do we.  Let us


hold to that, and in other matters do as you pease.  We have united


with them by placing the essentials of faith above the


unessentials.  Now with the Catholics can we not say:  You believe


in so and so and in so and so, which are the chief things, and as


for the Filioque clause and the Pope -- do as you please.  Can we


not say the same to the Protestants, uniting with them in what is


most important?


     My interlocutor agreed with my thoughts, but told me that such


conceptions would bring reproach o the spiritual authorities for


deserting the faith of our forefathers, and this would produce a


schism; and the vocation of the spiritual authorities is to


safeguard in all its purity the Greco-Russian Orthodox faith


inherited from our forefathers.


     And I understood it all.  I am seeking a faith, the power of


life; and they are seeking the best way to fulfil in the eyes of


men certain human obligations.  and fulfilling these human affairs


they fulfil them in a human way.  However much they may talk of


their pity for their erring brethren, and of addressing prayers for


them to the throne of the Almighty -- to carry out human purposes


violence is necessary, and it has always been applied and is and


will be applied.  If of two religions each considers itself true


and the other false, then men desiring to attract others to the


truth will preach their own doctrine.  And if a false teaching is


preached to the inexperienced sons of their Church -- which as the


truth -- then that Church cannot but burn the books and remove the


man who is misleading its sons.  What is to be done with a


sectarian -- burning, in the opinion of the Orthodox, with the fire


of false doctrine -- who in the most important affair of life, in


faith, misleads the sons of the Church?  What can be done with him


except to cut off his head or to incarcerate him?  Under the Tsar


Alexis Mikhaylovich people were burned at the stake, that is to


say, the severest method of punishment of the time was applied, and


in our day also the severest method of punishment is applied --


detention in solitary confinement.  [Footnote:  At the time this


was written capital punishment was considered to be abolished in


Russia. -- A.M.]


     The second relation of the Church to a question of life was


with regard to war and executions.


     At that time Russia was at war.  And Russians, in the name of


Christian love, began to kill their fellow men.  It was impossible


not to think about this, and not to see that killing is an evil


repugnant to the first principles of any faith.  Yet prayers were


said in the churches for the success of our arms, and the teachers


of the Faith acknowledged killing to be an act resulting from the


Faith.  And besides the murders during the war, I saw, during the


disturbances which followed the war, Church dignitaries and


teachers and monks of the lesser and stricter orders who approved


the killing of helpless, erring youths.  And I took note of all


that is done by men who profess Christianity, and I was horrified.










     And I ceased to doubt, and became fully convinced that not all


was true in the religion I had joined.  Formerly I should have said


that it was all false, but I could not say so now.  The whole of


the people possessed a knowledge of the truth, for otherwise they


could not have lived.  Moreover, that knowledge was accessible to


me, for I had felt it and had lived by it.  But I no longer doubted


that there was also falsehood in it.  And all that had previously


repelled me now presented itself vividly before me.  And though I


saw that among the peasants there was a smaller admixture of the


lies that  repelled me than among the representatives of the


Church, I still saw that in the people's belief also falsehood was


mingled with the truth.


     But where did the truth and where did the falsehood come from?


Both the falsehood and the truth were contained in the so-called


holy tradition and in the Scriptures.  Both the falsehood and the


truth had been handed down by what is called the Church.


     And whether I liked or not, I was brought to the study and


investigation of these writings and traditions -- which till now I


had been so afraid to investigate.


     And I turned to the examination of that same theology which I


had once rejected with such contempt as unnecessary.  Formerly it


seemed to me a series of unnecessary absurdities, when on all sides


I was surrounded by manifestations of life which seemed to me clear


and full of sense; now I should have been glad to throw away what


would not enter a health head, but I had nowhere to turn to.  On


this teaching religious doctrine rests, or at least with it the


only knowledge of the meaning of life that I have found is


inseparably connected.  However wild it may seem too my firm old


mind, it was the only hope of salvation.  It had to be carefully,


attentively examined in order to understand it, and not even to


understand it as I understand the propositions of science:  I do


not seek that, nor can I seek it, knowing the special character of


religious knowledge.  I shall not seek the explanation of


everything.  I know that the explanation of everything, like the


commencement of everything, must be concealed in infinity.  But I


wish to understand in a way which will bring me to what is


inevitably inexplicable.  I wish to recognize anything that is


inexplicable as being so not because the demands of my reason are


wrong (they are right, and apart from them I can understand


nothing), but because I recognize the limits of my intellect.  I


wish to understand in such a way that everything that is


inexplicable shall present itself to me as being necessarily


inexplicable, and not as being something I am under an arbitrary


obligation to believe.


     That there is truth in the teaching is to me indubitable, but


it is also certain that there is falsehood in it, and I must find


what is true and what is false, and must disentangle the one from


the other.  I am setting to work upon this task.  What of falsehood


I have found in the teaching and what I have found of truth, and to


what conclusions I came, will form the following parts of this


work, which if it be worth it and if anyone wants it, will probably


some day be printed somewhere.






     The foregoing was written by me some three years ago, and will


be printed.


     Now a few days ago, when revising it and returning to the line


of thought and to the feelings I had when I was living through it


all, I had a dream.  This dream expressed in condensed form all


that I had experienced and described, and I think therefore that,


for those who have understood me, a description of this dream will


refresh and elucidate and unify what has been set forth at such


length in the foregoing pages.  The dream was this:


     I saw that I was lying on a bed.  I was neither comfortable


nor uncomfortable: I was lying on my back.  But I began to consider


how, and on what, I was lying -- a question which had not till then


occurred to me.  And observing my bed, I saw I was lying on plaited


string supports attached to its sides: my feet were resting on one


such support, by calves on another, and my legs felt uncomfortable.


I seemed to know that those supports were movable, and with a


movement of my foot I pushed away the furthest of them at my feet -


- it seemed to me that it would be more comfortable so.  But I


pushed it away too far and wished to reach it again with my foot,


and that movement caused the next support under my calves to slip


away also, so that my legs hung in the air.  I made a movement with


my whole body to adjust myself, fully convinced that I could do so


at once; but the movement caused the other supports under me to


slip and to become entangled, and I saw that matters were going


quite wrong: the whole of the lower part of my body slipped and


hung down, though my feet did not reach the ground.  I was holding


on only by the upper part of my back, and not only did it become


uncomfortable but I was even frightened.  And then only did I ask


myself about something that had not before occurred to me.  I asked


myself:  Where am I and what am I lying on? and I began to look


around and first of all to look down in the direction which my body


was hanging and whiter I felt I must soon fall.  I looked down and


did not believe my eyes.  I was not only at a height comparable to


the height of the highest towers or mountains, but at a height such


as I could never have imagined.


     I could not even make out whether I saw anything there below,


in that bottomless abyss over which I was hanging and whiter I was


being drawn.  My heart contracted, and I experienced horror.  To


look thither was terrible.  If I looked thither I felt that I


should at once slip from the last support and perish.  And I did


not look.  But not to look was still worse, for I thought of what


would happen to me directly I fell from the last support.  And I


felt that from fear I was losing my last supports, and that my back


was slowly slipping lower and lower.  Another moment and I should


drop off.  And then it occurred to me that this cannot e real.  It


is a dream.  Wake up! I try to arouse myself but cannot do so.


What am I to do?  What am I to do?  I ask myself, and look upwards.


Above, there is also an infinite space.  I look into the immensity


of sky and try to forget about the immensity below, and I really do


forget it.  The immensity below repels and frightens me; the


immensity above attracts and strengthens me.  I am still supported


above the abyss by the last supports that have not yet slipped from


under me; I know that I am hanging, but I look only upwards and my


fear passes.  As happens in dreams, a voice says: "Notice this,


this is it!"  And I look more and more into the infinite above me


and feel that I am becoming calm.  I remember all that has


happened, and remember how it all happened; how I moved my legs,


how I hung down, how frightened I was, and how I was saved from


fear by looking upwards.  And I ask myself: Well, and now am I not


hanging just the same?  And I do not so much look round as


experience with my whole body the point of support on which I am


held.  I see that I no longer hang as if about to fall, but am


firmly held.  I ask myself how I am held: I feel about, look round,


and see that under me, under the middle of my body, there is one


support, and that when I look upwards I lie on it in the position


of securest balance, and that it alone gave me support before.  And


then, as happens in dreams, I imagined the mechanism by means of


which I was held; a very natural intelligible, and sure means,


though to one awake that mechanism has no sense.  I was even


surprised in my dream that I had not understood it sooner.  It


appeared that at my head there was a pillar, and the security of


that slender pillar was undoubted though there was nothing to


support it.  From the pillar a loop hung very ingeniously and yet


simply, and if one lay with the middle of one's body in that loop


and looked up, there could be no question of falling.  This was all


clear to me, and I was glad and tranquil.  And it seemed as if


someone said to me:  "See that you remember."


     And I awoke.































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