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WHAT THEN MUST WE DO? By Leo Tolstoy Translated by Aylmer Maude

Leo Tolstoy

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What Then Must We Do?

‘What Then Must We Do?’ was first published in 1886. In ‘The World’s Classics’ Aylmer Maude’s translation as first published in 1925, revised in 1935 and reprinted in 1942.

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Leo Tolstoy

CONTENTS Editors Note

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5

CHAPTER I

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12

CHAPTER II

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14

CHAPTER III

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17

CHAPTER IV

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20

CHAPTER V

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22

CHAPTER VI

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25

CHAPTER VII

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27

CHAPTER VIII

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29

CHAPTER IX

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32

CHAPTER X

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34

CHAPTER XI

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37

CHAPTER XII

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39

CHAPTER XIII

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41

CHAPTER XIV

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45

CHAPTER XV

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49

CHAPTER XVI

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53

CHAPTER XVII

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55

CHAPTER XVIII

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60

CHAPTER XIX

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67

CHAPTER XX

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70

CHAPTER XXI

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77

CHAPTER XXII

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83

CHAPTER XXIII

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86

CHAPTER XXIV

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88

CHAPTER XXV

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95

CHAPTER XXVI

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101

CHAPTER XXVII

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105

CHAPTER XXVIII

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110

CHAPTER XXIX

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113

CHAPTER XXX

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116

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What Then Must We Do?

CHAPTER XXXI

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122

CHAPTER XXXII

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126

CHAPTER XXXIII

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128

CHAPTER XXXIV

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130

CHAPTER XXXV

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136

CHAPTER XXXVI

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137

CHAPTER XXXVII

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142

CHAPTER XXXVIII

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146

CHAPTER XXXIX

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157

CHAPTER XL

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167

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EDITOR'S NOTE THE republication of this book in a translation which has been carefully revised affords me particular pleasure. It was the first of Tolstoy's works to grip my attention, and it caused me to seek his acquaintance, which in turn led to the work I have now been engaged on for many years, namely, the preparation of the 'World's Classics' series and the Centenary Edition of his works. The economics of this book are largely those of the Tula peasantry through whose eye Tolstoy looked at society. The province of Tula, where Yasnaya is situated, lies just north of the black-earth region. Its soil is poor, and constant toil barely enabled the peasant to wring a precarious subsistence from it. But the typical Tula peasant was no fool, and his views on life are well worth our careful consideration. As expressed by Tolstoy they go to the root of things and with unerring accuracy touch the sorest spots of the world's conscience. Our life can be neither satisfactory nor secure if we neglect them. During the half-century that has passed since the book was written many political questions that then seemed highly important have passed into the dull recesses of history; but Tolstoy's impressive warning that the pursuit and worship of money does not bring satisfaction and that the possession of talents and privileged position, far from justifying self-indulgence, are a call to serve those less fortunately placed, remains as valid as when he wrote it. Social conditions have changed. Instead of the acute shortage of grain then existing in Russia, the Western world is to-day troubled by overproduction. Instead of being crushed by toil, workers are often hungry for work. Yet the fundamental problem remains. As Tolstoy says: 'Being poor does not deprive men of reason. They never have admitted and never will admit that it is right for some to have a continual holiday while others must always fast and work. . . . Where there is a man not working because he is able to compel others to work for him-there slavery exists.... The ideal of an industrious life has been replaced by the ideal of a magic and inexhaustible purse.' These sayings indicate the root of the class-war that threatens society and that Tolstoy wished to avert. The warning he uttered was disregarded, and the class-war became a consuming fire in Russia. In England it has not flamed up in that way owing partly to our various unemployment schemes, but wherever those who are prosperous cut themselves off from personal association with those who are depressed and unfortunate, the reproach and menace of class enmity smoulders and causes the 'kind of unhappiness that banknotes cannot cure' of which Tolstoy speaks. Some attempt to bridge the gulf and supply mental sustenance where it is badly needed may be found in our village Women's Institutes, as well as in various amateur dramatic groups up and down the country and in the Citizen House movement at Bath. Among plays performed by them is Michael, Miles Malleson's adaptation of Tolstoy's story, What Men Live By. Another reminder of his influence among us is given by this 'World's Classics' series of cheap books, which arose in an indirect way from a conversation W. T. Stead once had with Tolstoy when he visited him at Yasnaya Polyana. This series is

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What Then Must We Do?

gradually completing the set of Tolstoy's own works. It does not give such a collection of the world's literary masterpieces as Tolstoy aimed at, but should by no means be despised, for as he often said: 'The distance you have gone is less important than the direction in which you are going.' Such shrewd blows as Tolstoy struck at the self-complacency of the privileged classes were bound to evoke a retort, and those whose consciences he troubled soon realized that it was better tactics to cast doubts on his personal sincerity than to attempt to discuss his main propositions, which they wished to burk. Merezhkovsky was the first to start the game of detraction and insinuation, though after making Tolstoy's acquaintance and realizing his honesty he expressed regret for what he had written about him. But so unpleasant was it that so popular a writer as Tolstoy should point out that religion ought to have a practical effect on men's lives, that under the auspices of the Holy Synod a very libellous pamphlet was issued and hawked about the streets of Moscow denouncing Tolstoy in a way of which we have recently been reminded by eloquent, though belated, echoes in this country. What is curious is that his detractors always appear fully confident of their own mental and moral superiority to the man they attack though such superiority is not at all apparent to others. Tolstoy himself realized that 'to change another man's outlook on life one must oneself have a better one and live in accord with it', and it was precisely to that question-whether he lived in accord with his principles-that criticism was chiefly directed. When he finished this book he intended to hand his estate over to the peasants and to support himself by manual labour. Readers who remember the mowing scenes in Anna Karenina (written some eight years previously) can readily believe that he could have done so. But everyone must start from the spot where he stands, and Tolstoy had to encounter the demands of his wife, who was prepared to appeal to the Tsar to have her husband declared incapable of disposing of his property. Even apart from that, he wished to be considerate to his wife and not provoke her to anger; so it was arranged that his property should be dealt with as though he were dead. It was divided up equally between his wife and their nine living children, each of whom received property to the value of about £5,000. The question of book-rights remained to be dealt with, and he gave his wife an authorization to publish everything he had written before 1881, and he also issued an announcement that for the future he would neither accept money for what he wrote, nor claim any copyright in it. Anyone was to be free to publish and republish it as they pleased. By this arrangement he hoped to avoid all strife about property, but in this he was disappointed. Even apart from copyright, there was considerable advantage to be gamed by having the first publication of what he wrote. His wife had undertaken the publication of the works placed at her disposal and was very anxious to secure the first publication of whatever else he wrote and the censor permitted to be published. This desire of hers clashed with Tolstoy's own intention of allowing the publication of his works to help the causes he had at heart, such as the supply and circulation of cheap and good literature among peasants and workmen. Recurring strife with his wife over this matter rendered

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life at Yasnaya Polyana a torment to them both, and the Countess worried herself over it to such an extent that she became deranged. From the time he wrote What Then Must We Do? Tolstoy always wished to get away from Yasnaya Polyana, but every time he attempted to do so his wife demanded that he should remain, and threatened to commit suicide if he left her. This state of things grew worse and worse till at last, at the age of eighty-two, he escaped secretly one night without even having decided where to go. He fell ill on the train, and died at the wayside station of Astapovo. Before her death his wife expressed deep regret for her conduct, saying, 'I really think I was insane .... I know I was the cause of his death ....' Let us, however, accept the plea she makes in her Diary: 'Let no one raise a hand against me, for I have suffered terribly,' and let us sincerely pity the woman who thought the money her husband was rejecting was worth the sufferings her efforts to secure it inflicted both on him and on herself. What Then Must We Do? is so powerful and obviously sincere that many readers assumed that Tolstoy himself lived by manual labour, and the reaction when they learnt that he was not doing so, gave rise to suspicions that his abandonment of property was a pretence and that he was living a self-indulgent life at his wife's expense. Though in fact he remained under her roof he was simplifying his life drastically and using hardly any money. He gave up wine and the use of alcohol in any form, abandoned smoking (a sacrifice that cost him a hard struggle), became a strict vegetarian, wore cheap and coarse clothes of peasant fashion, did much field-work among the peasants as long as his strength lasted, and learnt boot-making as a handicraft and a winter occupation. His belief, expressed in On Life, was very real that no true or lasting satisfaction is obtainable by the pursuit of wealth or personal enjoyments, and that true life lies only in obeying our reasonable consciousness (the voice within) - that son of man which shows that we are sons of God. Not the increase of his personal welfare, but the betterment of life generally, was the object of his activity from then onward. The distribution of cheap literature of first-rate quality, yet suitable for the common people, was a chief interest, and in that attempt he enlisted the co-operation of a number of Russian writers and artists. His Twenty-Three Tales, as well as other short stories and plays, are examples of his own contribution to that movement, and he was active in choosing suitable matter from foreign literature and encouraging its translation. He even made several such translations himself. During 1891-3 he engaged strenuously on famine relief work which fully absorbed him till the famine was over, by which time he had worn himself out to the verge of collapse. Temperance was another movement in which he took a great interest, and he was ever ready to spend time and trouble in pleading the cause of various persecuted peasant sectarians. Incidentally he succeeded in rescuing two Uniate Bishops from incarceration in a monastery prison where they had been confined for thirty years and had been forgotten by the Ecclesiastical and Civil authorities. He was always extremely popular with children, and classes for them were another occupation in which he engaged. The keen interest he took in these activities furnished the chief interest and enjoyment of his later life, affording him great satisfaction and often rendering him happy despite his domestic misfortunes.

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It is truly remarkable that amid all these occupations he found time and energy during the last twenty-five years of his life to produce a series of works-novels, stories, plays, essays, and philippics-which would have placed him in the front rank of European writers had he not already been the most famous writer of his time. They included The Death of Ivan Ilich, The Kreutzer Sonata, The Power of Darkness, The Fruits of Enlightenment, The Live Corpse, The Kingdom of God is Within You, Hadji Murad, and his splendid Introduction to the works of Guy de Maupassant, as well as What is Art? and a series of essays on various subject. Curiously enough, those were the years during which the critics adopted the silly habit of saying that he had 'abandoned art'! One must not forget to mention his work for peace. Just as it took long to arouse a clear perception of the wrongfulness of slavery but until that had been done the abolition of slavery was impossible - so Tolstoy realized that to arouse a general perception of the wrongfulness of war is a necessary preliminary to the world's emancipation from that gigantic evil, and the work he did in that direction is perhaps as great as any of his achievements. I was able to co-operate with him myself both in work on behalf of the sectarians and by translating letters, articles, and books for him, so that I had ample opportunity to convince myself of the utter groundlessness of the insinuations directed against his sincerity and frankness. If there was a point on which he was not quite frank, it was the way m which he tried to screen his wife from blame. More than once he wrote letters for her to publish, the express object of which was to shield he: reputation; and when his Life was being written by me in English and by Birukov in Russian, we were both of us fully aware of his desire that the Countess should be spoken of as favourably as possible. It was not till later that we realized the extent to which she was tormenting him, and that she had set herself to 'cast him down from his pinnacle', as she wrote in her Diary. His attitude was in striking contrast to hers. After his death one of their sons continued the attacks on his father's memory, but he is the one on whose testimony those who know the family would be least disposed to place reliance, and many of his statements are in fact demonstrably untrue. . By What Then Must We Do? Tolstoy pricks the conscience of many who resent what he says of the futility of the society to which they belong. They do not like to be reminded that a social life that despises those whose labour makes their own luxurious lives possible, must be unsatisfactory. To disparage Tolstoy affords a natural relief to their feelings. So the example set by the Holy Synod which excommunicated and libelled him is still being repeated both in this country and elsewhere by writers reckless as to the facts of his life, but all the more eager to reveal to us the innermost workings of his soul. His words, however, cut deep, and apart from the extreme readability of the autobiographical part of this book, it affords both stimulus and encouragement to all who feel that the privileges they enjoy involve an obligation to serve those less fortunate than themselves. Almost the last article by the late Miss Jane Addams, of Hull House, Chicago, was her admirable Introduction to What Then Must We Do? in the Centenary Edition of Tolstoy's works. In it she says: 'Some books are to us not so much books as they are vital experiences. This depends not only upon the book itself, but also upon the sum of influences and of social trends under

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which it is read. A young person reading today Tolstoy's What Then Must We Do? might find it difficult to conceive the profound impression which it made upon sensitive people when it first appeared. In the late 'eighties there was a widespread moral malaise in regard to existing social conditions, ranging from a mere unformulated sense of uneasiness to an acute consciousness of unredressed wrongs. The abuses connected with the beginnings of machine production had by the end of the nineteenth century been somewhat lessened in England and the United States, but the evil slum conditions in our rapidly growing cities, with all the inevitable results on health and morals, were pressing on men's minds. Social and moral questioning, stimulated by some of the greatest leaders of English thought, had driven deep furrows in the smooth surface of nineteenth century satisfaction with the belief that progress was inevitable. 'An astonishing number of writers either formulated this uneasiness or described the conditions from which it arose. Although a few of these writers have taken a permanent place in English literature, as had their forerunners, Carlyle, Ruskin, and Arnold, many of them who have since proved ephemeral, gave at the moment a poignant challenge to the English-reading public. The Bitter Cry of Outcast London, Darkest England and the Way Out, Charles Booth's monumental study, Life and Labour of the People, Beatrice Webb's first-hand story of her voluntary experiences in sweatshop and factory, and the brilliant Fabian Essays, containing the early work of Shaw, Sidney Webb, and Olivier, found an echo in the United States, where a lesser literature of the same sort was beginning to appear, although it did not reach its zenith until a decade later. 'Into a surcharged atmosphere such as this came the trenchant challenge of Tolstoy's book written with the overwhelming sincerity and simplicity which distinguishes the works of genius. It illustrated once more that "A new simplicity is the most baffling of all human achievements and the most perdurable". It is also fair to state in defence of the multitude of other writers that none of them was faced with a situation so direct and simple in itself as that presented in Russia. The vague questionings and indictments of long established customs were much more difficult to reduce to underlying principles in the midst of our own complicated social order than they were in the simple conditions prevailing in Russia. For instance, in What Then Must We Do? Tolstoy had poignantly drawn the contrast between the toiling underfed peasants in the fields and the life led by himself and his friends at the nearby manor house, whither the idlers had come from Moscow to enjoy the pleasures of country life in summer. They were carelessly absorbing the services of peasants whose help was urgently needed to secure the crops of hay and grain during the brief and overburdened days of harvest and in certain instances, as when the ram threatened to fall upon the drying hay, their luxurious living imperilled the crop itself. The statement of Tolstoy's scruples under these conditions was curiously like that formulated by Abraham Lincol...