I began to argue with my friend, but with such warmth and so angrily, that my wife rushed in from the adjoining room to ask what had happened. It appeared that, without being aware of it, I had shouted out in an agonized3 voice, gesticulating wildly, “We should not go on living in this way! we must not live so! we have no right!” I was rebuked4 for my unnecessary excitement; I was told that I could not talk quietly upon any question, that I was irritable5; and it was pointed6 out to me that the existence of such misery7 as I had witnessed was in no way a reason for embittering8 the life of my home-circle.
I felt that this was perfectly9 just, and held my tongue; but in the depth of my soul I knew that I was right, and I could not quiet my conscience.
The town life, which had previously10 seemed alien and strange to me, now became so hateful that all the indulgencies
of a luxurious11 existence, in which I had formerly12 delighted, began to torment13 me.
However much I tried to find some kind of excuse for my mode of life, I could not contemplate14 without irritation15 either my own or other people's drawing-rooms, nor a clean, richly served dinner-table, nor a carriage with well-fed coachman and horses, nor the shops, theatres, and entertainments. I could not help seeing, in contrast to all this, those hungry, shivering, and degraded inhabitants of the night-lodging-house. I could never free myself from the thought that these conditions were inseparable—that the one proceeded from the other. I remember that the sense of culpability16 which I had felt from the first moment never left me; but with this feeling another soon mingled17, which lessened18 the first.
When I talked to my intimate friends and acquaintances about my impressions in Liapin's house, they all answered in the same way, and expressed besides their appreciation19 of my kindness and tender-heartedness, and gave me to understand that the sight had impressed me so because I, Leo Tolstoy, was kind-hearted and good. And I willingly allowed myself to believe this.
The natural consequence of this was, that the first keen sense of self-reproach and shame became blunted, and was replaced by a sense of satisfaction at my own virtue20, and a desire to make it known to others. “It is, in truth,” I said to myself, “probably not my connection with a luxurious life which is at fault, but the unavoidable circumstances of existence. Therefore a change in my particular life would not alter the evil I had seen.”
In changing my own life, I thought, I should only render myself and those nearest and dearest to me miserable21, whilst the other misery would remain; therefore my object should be, not to alter my own way of living, as I had at first imagined, but to try as much as was in my power to ameliorate the position of those unfortunate ones who had excited my compassion22. The whole matter, I reasoned, lies in the fact that I, being an extremely kind and good man, wish to do good to my fellow-men.
So I began to arrange a plan of philanthropic activity in which I might exhibit all my virtues23. I must, however, remark here, that, while planning this charitable effort, in the depth of my heart I felt that I was not doing the right thing; but, as too often happens, reason and imagination stifled24 the voice of conscience.
About this time the census25 was being taken, and this seemed to me a good opportunity for instituting that charitable organization in which I wanted to shine.
I was acquainted with many philanthropic institutions and societies already existing in Moscow, but all their activity seemed to me both insignificant26 and wrongly directed in comparison with what I myself wished to do.
This was what I invented to excite sympathy amongst the rich for the poor: I began to collect money, and to enlist27 men who wished to help in the work, and who would, in company with the census officers, visit all the nests of pauperism28, entering into relations with the poor, finding out the details of their needs, aiding them with money and work, sending them out of Moscow, placing their children in schools, and their old men and women in homes and houses of refuge.
I thought, moreover, that from those who undertook this work a permanent society could be formed, which, by dividing between its members the various districts of Moscow, could take care that new cases of want and misery should be averted29, and so by degrees pauperism might be stifled at its very beginning, not so much by cure, as by prevention.
Already I saw in the future the entire disappearance30 of begging and poverty, I having been the means of its accomplishment31. Then we who were rich could go on living in all our luxury as before, dwelling32 in fine houses, eating dinners of five courses, driving in our carriages to theatres and entertainments, no longer being harassed33 by such sights as I had witnessed at Liapin's house.
Having invented this plan, I wrote an article about it; and, before even giving it to the printers, I went to those acquaintances from whom I hoped to obtain co-operation, and expounded34 to all whom I visited that day (chiefly the rich) the ideas I afterwards published in my article.
I proposed to profit by the census in order to study the state of pauperism in Moscow, and to help exterminate35 it by personal effort and money, after which we might all with a quiet conscience enjoy our usual pleasures. Everyone listened to me attentively36 and seriously; but, in every case, I remarked that the moment my hearers came to understand what I was driving at, they seemed to become uncomfortable and somewhat embarrassed. It was principally, I feel sure, on my own account; because they considered all that I said to be folly37. It seemed as though some outside motive38 compelled my listeners to agree for the moment with my foolishness.—“Oh, yes! Certainly. It would be delightful,” they said: “of course it is impossible not to sympathize with you. Your idea is splendid. I myself have had the same; but ... people here are so indifferent, that
it is hardly reasonable to expect a great success. However, as far as I am concerned, I am, of course, ready to share in the enterprise.”
Similar answers I received from all. They consented, as it appeared to me, not because they were persuaded by my arguments, nor yet in compliance39 with their own desire, but because of some exterior40 reason which rendered it impossible for them to refuse.
I remarked this partly because none of those who promised me their help in the form of money, defined the sum they meant to give; so that I had to name the amount by asking, “May I count upon you for twenty-five, or one hundred, or two hundred, or three hundred, rubles?” And not one of them paid the money. I draw attention to this fact, because, when people are going to pay for what they are anxious to have, they are generally in haste to give it. If it is to secure a box to see Sarah Bernhardt, the money is immediately produced; here, however, of all who agreed to give, and expressed their sympathy, not one produced the amount, but merely silently acquiesced41 in the sum I happened to name.
In the last house I visited that day there was a large party. The mistress of the house had for some years been employed in works of charity. Several carriages were waiting at the door. Footmen in expensive liveries were seated in the hall. In the spacious42 drawing-room, ladies, old and young, wearing rich dresses and ornaments43, were talking to some young men, and dressing44 up small dolls, intended for a lottery45 in aid of the poor.
The sight of this drawing-room and of the people assembled there struck me very painfully. For not only was their property worth several million rubles; not only would the interest on the capital spent here on dresses, laces, bronzes, jewels, carriages, horses, liveries, footmen, exceed a hundred times the value of these ladies' work,—but even the expenses caused by this very party of ladies and gentlemen, the gloves, the linen46, candles, tea, sugar, cakes, all this represented a sum a hundred times greater than the value of the work done.
I saw all this, and therefore might have understood that here, at all events, I should not find sympathy with my plan, but I had come in order to give a proposal, and, however painful it was, I said what I wished to say, repeating almost the words of my article.
One lady present offered me some money, adding that, owing to her sensibilities, she did not feel strong enough to visit the poor herself, but that she would give help
in this form. How much money, and when she would give it, she did not say. Another lady and a young man offered their services in visiting the poor, but I did not profit by their offer. The principal person I addressed told me that it would be impossible to do much, because the means were not forthcoming. The means were scarce, because all the rich men in Moscow who were known and could be counted upon had already given all it was possible to get from them, their charities had already been rewarded with titles, medals, and other distinctions,—which was the only effectual way to ensure success in the collection of money; and to obtain new honors from the authorities was very difficult.
When I returned home I went to bed, not only with a presentiment47 that nothing would result from my idea, but also with the shameful48 consciousness of having been doing something vile49 and contemptible50 the whole day. However, I did not desist.
First, the work had been begun, and false shame prevented my giving it up; second, not only the success of the enterprise itself, but even my part in it, afforded me the possibility of continuing to live in my usual way; whereas the failure of this enterprise would have put me under the constraint51 of giving up my present mode of life and of seeking another. Of this, I was unconsciously afraid; and therefore I refused to listen to my inner voice, and continued what I had begun.
Having sent my article to be printed, I read a proof-copy at a census-meeting in the town hall, hesitatingly, and blushing till my cheeks burned again. I felt very uncomfortable, and I saw that all my hearers were equally uncomfortable.
On my question, whether the managers of the census would accept my proposal that they should remain at their posts in order to form a link between society and those in need, an awkward silence ensued.
Then two of those present made speeches, which seemed to mend the awkwardness of my suggestions. Sympathy for me was expressed along with their general approbation52, but they pointed out the impracticability of my scheme. Everyone immediately seemed more at ease; but afterwards, still wishing to succeed, I asked each district manager separately, whether during the census he was willing to investigate the needs of the poor and afterwards remain at his post in order to form this link between the poor and the rich, all were again confounded; it seemed as though their looks said, “Why, we have listened to your silly
proposition out of personal regard for you; but here you come with it again!” This was the expression of their faces, but in words they told me that they consented; and two of them, separately, but as though they had agreed together, said in the same words, “We regard it as our moral duty to do so.” The same impression was produced by my words upon the students who had volunteered to act as clerks during the census, when I told them that they might accomplish a charitable work besides their scientific pursuits.
When we talked the matter over I noticed that they were shy of looking me straight in the face, as one often hesitates to look into the face of a good-natured man who is talking nonsense. The same impression was produced upon the editor of the paper when I handed my article to him; also upon my son, my wife, and various other people. Every one seemed embarrassed, but all found it necessary to approve of the idea itself; and all, immediately after this approbation, began to express their doubts as to the success of the plan, and, for some reason or other, all without exception took to condemning53 the indifference54 and coldness of society and of the world, though they evidently excluded themselves.
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1
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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7
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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8
embittering
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的现在分词 ) | |
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9
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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10
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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14
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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culpability
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| n.苛责，有罪 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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21
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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24
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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census
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| n.(官方的)人口调查，人口普查 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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pauperism
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| n.有被救济的资格，贫困 | |
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29
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exterminate
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| v.扑灭，消灭，根绝 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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40
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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41
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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43
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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45
lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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46
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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47
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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48
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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49
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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50
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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51
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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52
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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53
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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54
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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