# The Complete Works of Lyof N. Tolstoï/The First Step

THE FIRST STEP
I
WHEN a man is working, not for show, but with the desire of accomplishing what he has undertaken, he inevitably shapes his actions into a certain order of succession, this order being determined by the nature of the work. If a man postpones to a later time that which, from the nature of the work, should be done first, or altogether omits some essential part,—he is certainly not working seriously, but is only making a pretense. This rule holds unalterably true, whether the work be material or not. As one cannot have any serious intention of baking bread, unless one first kneads the flour and then heats the oven, sweeps out the ashes, and so on, exactly in the same way one cannot seriously desire to lead a righteous life, without adopting a certain order of succession in the attainment of the necessary qualities.
This rule is especially important in connection with righteousness of life; for whereas in the case of material work, such for instance as making bread, it is easy to discover, by the result of his actions, whether a man is seriously engaged in work, or only pretending, in the case of leading a righteous life this verification is impossible. If people, without kneading the dough, or heating the oven, only pretend to make bread,—as on the stage,—then from the result, the absence of bread, it becomes evident that they were only pretending; but when a man pretends to be leading a righteous life, we have no such ​direct indications that he is not striving seriously, but is only making a pretense; for, not only are the results of a right life not always evident to those around, but very often they even appear to be pernicious. Respect for a man's activity and the acknowledgment of its utility and pleasantness for those around furnish no proof that his life is really good.
Therefore, for the distinguishing of a really good life from the mere appearance of one, this indication is especially valuable, namely, a regular order of succession in the acquirement of the qualities essential to a righteous life. And this indication is valuable, not so much for the discovery of the seriousness of other men's strivings after goodness, but for the testing of this sincerity in ourselves, as in this respect we are liable to deceive ourselves even more than others.
A correct order of succession in the attainment of virtues is an inevitable condition of advance toward a righteous life, consequently the teachers of mankind have always prescribed a certain invariable order for their attainment.
All moral teachings set up a ladder, as Chinese wisdom puts it, reaching from earth to heaven, the ascent of which can only be accomplished by starting from the lowest step. As in the teaching of the Brahmans, Buddhists, Confucians, so also in the teaching of the Greek sages, steps were fixed, and a higher step could not be attained without the lower one having been previously taken. All the moral teachers of mankind, religious and non-religious alike, have admitted the necessity of a definite order of succession in the attainment of the qualities essential to a righteous life. The necessity for this lies in the very essence of things, and therefore, it would seem, ought to be recognized by all.
But, strange to say, from the time Christianity spread widely, the consciousness of this necessary order appears to have been more and more lost, and is now retained only in the region of asceticism and monasticism. Secular Christians suppose and admit the possibility of the acquirement of the superior qualities of a righteous life, ​not only in the absence of the lower virtues, which are a necessary condition of the higher ones, but even in the presence of the widest development of vices; in consequence of which there prevails in our time, among the majority of the men of the world, the greatest confusion as to what a right life is. The very conception of what constitutes a righteous life has been lost.
II
This, it seems to me, has come about in the following way.
When Christianity replaced heathenism it put forth moral demands superior to the heathen ones, and at the same time—as was also the case with pagan morality—it necessarily laid down one indispensable order for the attainment of virtues—certain steps in the attainment of a righteous life.
Plato's virtues, beginning with temperance, advanced through manliness and wisdom to justice; the Christian virtues, commencing with self-renunciation, rise through devotion to the will of God to love.
Those who accepted Christianity seriously and strove to live righteous Christian lives, thus understood Christianity, and always began living rightly by a renunciation of their desires, which renunciation included the temperance of the pagans.
But let it not be supposed that Christianity in this matter was only echoing the teachings of paganism; let me not be accused of degrading Christianity from its lofty position to the level of heathenism. Such an accusation would be unjust, for I regard the Christian teaching as the highest the world has known, and as quite different from heathenism. The Christian teaching replaced the pagan one simply because it was different from and superior to it. But both Christian and pagan alike ​lead men toward truth and goodness; and, as truth and goodness are always the same, the way to them must also be the same, and the first steps on this way must inevitably be the same for the Christian as for the heathen.
The difference between the Christian and pagan teaching of goodness lies in this: that the heathen teaching is one of final perfection, while the Christian teaching is one of infinite perfecting. Plato, for instance, makes justice the model of perfection, whereas Christ's model is the infinite perfecting of love. "Be ye perfect, even as your Father in Heaven is perfect."
In this lies the difference. And hence the different relations of the pagan and Christian teachings toward different grades of virtue. According to the former the attainment of the highest virtue was possible, and each step toward this attainment had its comparative merit; the higher the step the greater the merit; so that from the pagan point of view men may be divided into moral and immoral—into more or less virtuous; whereas, according to the Christian teaching, which sets up the ideal of infinite perfection, this division is impossible. There can be neither higher nor lower grades—all steps are equal in relation to the infinite ideal.
Among the heathen the stage of virtue attained by a man constituted his merit; in Christianity merit consists only in the process of attainment, in the greater or lesser speed of attainment. From the heathen point of view a man who possessed the virtue of reasonableness stood morally higher than one deficient in that virtue; a man who in addition to reasonableness possessed manliness stood higher still; a man who to reasonableness and manliness added justice stood still higher. Whereas one Christian cannot be regarded as morally either higher or lower than another. A man is more or less of a Christian only in proportion to the speed with which he advances toward infinite perfection, irrespective of the stage he may have reached at a given moment. Hence the stationary righteousness of the Pharisee is lower than the advance of the repentant thief on the cross.
​Such is the difference between the Christian and the heathen teachings. Consequently the stages of virtue, as for instance temperance and manliness, which in heathenism constitute merit, constitute none whatever in Christianity. In this respect the teachings differ. But with regard to the fact that there can be no advance toward virtue—toward perfection, independently of the lowest steps in virtue, as well in paganism as in Christianity—here there can be no difference.
The Christian (no less than the heathen) must commence the work of perfecting himself from the beginning, i.e. with the step at which the heathen begins it, namely temperance, just as a man who wishes to ascend a flight of stairs cannot avoid beginning with the first step. The only difference is that, for the pagan, temperance itself constitutes a virtue; whereas for the Christian, it is only a part of that self-abnegation which is itself but an indispensable condition of all aspiration after perfection. Therefore the manifestation of true Christianity could not but follow the same path as had been indicated and followed by heathenism.
But not all men have understood Christianity as an aspiration toward the perfection of the Heavenly Father. The majority of people have regarded it as a teaching about salvation, i.e. deliverance from sin, by means of grace transmitted among Roman Catholics and Greek Orthodox through the Church, according to Protestants, the Reformed Church, and Calvinists, by means of faith in the redemption, and according to some by means of the two combined.
And precisely this teaching has destroyed the sincerity and seriousness of men's relation to the moral teaching of Christianity. However much the representatives of these faiths may preach about these means of salvation in hindering man in his aspiration after a right-eous life, but, on the contrary, contributing toward it,—still out of certain propositions, there necessarily ensue certain conclusions; and no arguments can prevent men from arriving at these conclusions, when once they have accepted the statements from ​which they result. If a man believe that he can be saved through grace given to him by the Church, or through the redemption, it is natural that he should think that his efforts to live a righteous life are unnecessary—the more so when he is told that even the hope that his efforts will make him better is a sin. Consequently a man who believes that there are means of salvation other than personal effort cannot strive with the same energy and seriousness as the man who knows no other means. And not striving with perfect seriousness and knowing of other means besides personal effort, a man will inevitably neglect that unalterable order of succession for the attainment of the virtues necessary to a righteous life. And this has happened with the majority of those who profess Christianity.
III
The doctrine that personal effort is not necessary for the attainment by man of spiritual perfection, but that there are other means for its acquirement, is the cause of the relaxation of effort after a righteous life, and of the neglect of the consecutiveness indispensable to such a life.
The great mass of mankind, accepting Christianity only externally, took advantage of the substitution of Christianity for paganism to free themselves from the demands of the heathen virtues,—no longer necessary for a Christian,—and to free themselves from all conflict with their animal nature.
The same thing happens with those that cease to believe in the teaching of the Church. They are like the before-mentioned believers, only they put forward—instead of grace bestowed by the Church or through redemption—some imaginary good work, approved of by the majority of men, such as the service of science, ​art, or humanity;—in the name of this imaginary good work they liberate themselves from the consecutive attainment of the qualities necessary for a right life, and are satisfied with pretending, like men on the stage, to be living a righteous life.
Those people that fell away from heathenism, without embracing Christianity in its true significance, began to preach love for God and man apart from self-renunciation and justice, and without temperance, i.e. to preach the higher virtues without the attainment of the lower ones, i.e. not the virtues themselves, but their semblance.
Some preach love to God and man without self-renunciation, and others humaneness, the service of humanity without temperance. And, as this teaching, while pretending to introduce him into higher moral regions, encourages the animal nature of man by liberating him from the most elementary demands of morality long ago laid down by the heathens, and not only not rejected, but strengthened, by true Christianity, it was readily accepted both by believers and unbelievers.
Only the other day the Pope's encyclical about socialism was published, in which, after a supposed refutation of the socialists' views as to the wrongfulness of private property, it was plainly stated that "certainly no one is obliged to help his neighbors by giving what he or his family needs, nor even to diminish anything of that which is required by him for decency. No one, indeed, need live contrary to custom." "But after needful attention has been given to necessity and decency," continues the encyclical, "the duty of every one is to give the surplus to the poor."
Thus preaches the head of the most widely accepted Church of our time. Thus have preached all the Church teachers regarding salvation by works as insufficient. And, together with this teaching of selfishness, which prescribes that you shall give to your neighbors only that which you do not want yourself, they preach love and recall with pathos the celebrated words of Paul in the ​thirteenth chapter of the first epistle to the Corinthians, about love.
Notwithstanding that the Gospels overflow with demands for self-renunciation, with indications that self-renunciation is the first condition of Christian perfection, notwithstanding such clear expressions as: "Whosoever will not take up his cross,…." "Whosoever hath not forsaken father, mother,…." "Whosoever shall lose his life…." people assure themselves, and others, that it is possible to love men without renouncing, not only that to which one is accustomed, but also what one regards as decent for oneself.
So say the Church people, and those who reject not only the Church but also the Christian teaching—free-thinkers—think, speak, write, and act in an exactly similar manner. These men assure themselves, and others, that, without in the least diminishing their needs, without overcoming their desires, they can serve mankind, i.e. lead a righteous life.
Men have thrown aside the heathen consecutiveness of virtues, and without accepting the Christian teaching in its true significance, and, not having accepted the Christian order of succession, they remain without any guidance.
IV
In olden times, when there was no Christian teaching, all the teachers of life, beginning with Socrates, regarded as the first virtue of life, temperance—ἐγκράτεια or σωφροσύνη; and it was understood that every virtue must begin with and pass through this one. It was clear that a man who had no self-command, who had developed an immense number of desires, and had yielded himself up to them, could not lead a righteous life. It was evident that, before a man could even think of disinterestedness, justice,—to say nothing of generosity or love—he must learn to exercise control over himself. Now, according to our ideas, nothing of this ​sort is necessary. We are convinced that a man whose desires are developed to the highest degree attained in our society, a man who cannot live without satisfying a hundred unnecessary habits which have taken possession of him, can lead an altogether moral and righteous life. Looked at from any point of view,—the lowest, utilitarian, the higher, pagan, which demands justice, or especially from the highest, the Christian, which demands love,—it should surely be clear to every one that a man who uses for his own pleasure (with which he might easily dispense) the labor, often the painful labor, of others behaves badly, and that this is the very first wrong action he must cease to commit, if he wishes to live a good life.
From the utilitarian point of view such conduct is bad because, while forcing others to work for him, a man is always in an unstable position; he accustoms himself to the satisfaction of his desires and becomes their slave, while those who work for him do so with hatred and envy, and only await an opportunity to free themselves from the necessity of so working. Consequently such a man is always in danger of being left with deeply rooted habits, which he is unable to satisfy.
From the point of view of justice, such conduct is bad, because it is not well to employ for one's own pleasure the labor of other men, who cannot themselves afford a hundredth part of the pleasures enjoyed by him for whom they labor.
From the point of view of Christian love, it can hardly be necessary to prove that a man who loves others will give them his own labor rather than take from them for his own pleasure the fruit of their labor.
But these demands of utility, justice, and love are altogether ignored by the society of our day. With us the tendency to limit one's desires is regarded as neither the first, nor even the last, but as an altogether unnecessary, condition of a righteous life.
According to the prevailing and most widely spread teaching of life to-day, the augmentation of one's wants ​is, on the contrary, regarded as a desirable condition, as a sign of development, civilization, culture, and perfection. So-called educated people regard habits of comfort, i.e. of effeminacy, as not only harmless, but even good, indicating a certain moral elevation,—almost a virtue.
It is thought that the more the wants, and the more refined these wants, the better.
Nothing corroborates this statement better than the descriptive poetry, and especially the novels of the last two centuries.
How are the heroes and heroines who represent the ideals of virtue portrayed?
In most cases the men who are meant to represent something noble and lofty from—Childe Harold down to the latest heroes of Feuillet, Trollope, De Maupassant—are nothing else than depraved sluggards, consuming in luxury the labor of thousands, and themselves doing nothing useful for anybody. The heroines, their mistresses, who in one way or another afford more or less delight to these men, are equally idle, also devouring by their luxury the labor of others.
I do not refer to those representations of really abstinent and industrious people with which one occasionally meets in literature; I am speaking of the usual type, representing an ideal to the masses of the person whom the majority of men and women are trying to resemble. I remember the difficulty (inexplicable to me at the time) that I experienced when I wrote novels, and with which I contended, and with which I know all now contend who have even the dimmest conception of what constitutes real moral beauty,—the difficulty of portraying a type taken from the upper classes, ideally good and kind, and at the same time true to life.
A description of a man or woman of the upper classes would be true to life only if it represented him in his usual surroundings, i.e. in luxury, physical idleness, and demanding much. From a moral point of view such a person is undoubtedly objectionable. But it is necessary to represent this person in such a way that he may ​appear attractive. And novelists try so to represent him. I also tried. And, strange to say! such a representation, i.e. of a fornicator, a murderer (duellist or soldier), an utterly useless, idly moving about, fashionable buffoon, who appears attractive, does not require much art or effort. The readers of novels are, for the most part, exactly such men, and therefore readily believe that these Childe Harolds, Onyegins, Messieurs de Camors, and the like, are very excellent people.
V
The fact that the men of our time do not admit heathen abstinence and Christian self-renunciation to be good and desirable qualities, but, on the contrary, regard the augmentation of wants as good and elevated, is clearly proved by the education given to the vast majority of children in our society. Instead of accustoming them to temperance, like heathens, or to the self-renunciation proper to Christians, they are deliberately inoculated with habits of effeminacy, physical idleness, and luxury.
I have long wished to write a fairy tale of this kind: A woman, wishing to avenge herself on one who has insulted her, carries off her enemy's child, and, going to a sorcerer, asks him to teach her how she can most cruelly avenge herself on the stolen infant. The sorcerer bids her carry the child to a place which he indicates, and assures her that a most terrible vengeance will be the result. The incensed woman follows his advice, but, keeping her eye upon the child, is astonished to find that it is found and adopted by a wealthy, childless man. She goes to the sorcerer and reproaches him, but he bids her wait. The child grows up in luxury and effeminacy. The woman is perplexed, but again the sorcerer bids her wait. And at length the time comes when the wicked woman is not only satisfied, but even feels compassion for her victim, He grows up in the ​effeminacy and dissoluteness of wealth, and, thanks to his good nature, is ruined.
Then begins a series of physical sufferings, poverty and humiliation to which he is especially sensitive, and with which he knows not how to contend. He has aspirations toward a moral life,—but his flesh is weak; he has grown effeminate by being accustomed to luxury and idleness; he struggles in vain; he falls lower and ever lower; he indulges in drunkenness to drown thought, then comes crime or insanity or suicide.
And indeed one cannot regard without horror the education of the children of the wealthy class in our day. Only the cruelest foe would, one would think, inoculate a child with those defects and vices which are now instilled into him by his parents, especially by mothers. One is horror-struck at the sight, and still more at the results of this, if only one knows how to discern what is taking place in the souls of the best of these children, so carefully ruined by their parents.
Young creatures are inoculated with habits of effeminacy at a time when they do not yet understand their moral significance.
Not only is the habit of temperance and self-control neglected, but, contrary to the educational practice of Sparta and the ancient world in general, this quality is altogether atrophied. Not only do men grow up unaccustomed to work, and devoid of the qualities essential to all labor,—concentration of mind, strenuousness, firmness, enthusiasm for the work, ability to repair what is spoiled, familiarity with fatigue, joy in attainment,—but they are habituated to idleness, and to contempt for all the products of labor, are taught to spoil, throw away, and again procure for money anything they fancy, without a thought as to how things are made. Men are bereft of the power of acquiring the virtue,—first in order of consecutiveness, and indispensable for the attainment of all the others,—reasonableness, and are let loose in a world where the lofty virtues of justice, the service of man, and love are preached, and apparently esteemed.
​It is well if the youth be endowed with a morally feeble and obtuse nature, which does not detect the difference between make-believe and genuine righteousness of life, and is satisfied with the prevailing mutual deception. If this be the case, all goes apparently well, and such a man will sometimes quietly live on, with his moral consciousness unawakened, till death.
But it is not always thus, especially of late, now that the consciousness of the immorality of such a life fills the air, and penetrates the heart unsought. Frequently, and ever more frequently, it happens that there awakens a demand for real, unfeigned morality; and then begin the inner painful struggle and sufferings, which end but rarely in the triumph of the moral sentiment.
A man feels that his life is bad, that he must reform it from the very beginning, and he tries to do so; but here he is attacked on all sides by those that have passed through a similar struggle and been vanquished. They endeavor by every means to convince him that this reform is quite unnecessary, that goodness does not at all depend upon temperance and self-renunciation, that it is possible for a man, while addicting himself to gluttony, personal adornment, physical idleness, fornication even, to be perfectly good and useful. And the struggle, in most cases, terminates lamentably. The man, either overcome by his weakness, yields to the general opinion, stifles the voice of conscience, distorts his reason to justify himself, and continues to lead the same dissipated life, assuring himself that it is redeemed by faith in the redemption or the sacraments, or by the service of science, the state, or of art; or else he struggles, suffers, and finally becomes insane, or shoots himself.
It seldom happens that, amid all the temptations that surround him, a man of our society understands what has been for thousands of years, and still is, an elementary truth for all reasonable people, namely, that for the attainment of a good life it is necessary, in the first place, to cease to live an evil life; and for the attainment of the higher virtues it is needful, first of all, to acquire the virtue of temperance or self-control, as the heathens ​called it, or of self-renunciation, as Christianity has it, and gradually, by strenuous efforts, succeeds in attaining this primary virtue.
VI
I have just been reading some letters, written between 1840 and 1850 by a highly educated, advanced man, the exile Ogaref, to another still more highly educated and clever man, Herzen. In these letters Ogaref gives expression to his sincere thoughts and highest aspirations, and one cannot fail to see that—as was natural to a young man—he somewhat shows off before his friend. He talks of self-perfecting, of sacred friendship, love, the service of science, of humanity, and the like. And at the same time he calmly writes that he often irritates the companion of his life by, as he expresses it, "returning home in an unsober state, or disappearing for long hours with a fallen, but dear creature. …."
Evidently it never even occurred to this remarkably kind-hearted, talented, and educated man that there was anything in the least objectionable in the fact that he, a married man, awaiting the confinement of his wife (in his next letter he writes that his wife has given birth to a child), returned home intoxicated, and disappears with dissolute women. It did not enter his head that until he had commenced the struggle, and had, at least to some extent, conquered his inclination to drunkenness and fornication, he could not think of friendship and love, and still less of serving any one or anything. But he not only did not struggle against these vices, he evidently thought there was something very nice in them, and that they did not in the least hinder aspiration after perfection; and, therefore, instead of hiding them from the friend in whose eyes he wishes to appear in a good light, he exhibits them.
Thus it was half a century ago. I was contemporary with such men. I knew Ogaref and Herzen themselves, and others of that stamp, and men educated in ​the same traditions. There was a remarkable absence of consistency in the lives of all these men. Together with a sincere and ardent desire for good, there was an utter looseness of personal desire, which, they thought, could not hinder the living of a good life, nor the performance of good, and even great, deeds. They put unkneaded loaves into a cold oven, and believed that bread would be baked. And then, when, with advancing years, they began to remark that the bread did not bake, i.e. that no good came of their lives, they saw in this something peculiarly tragic.
And the tragedy of such lives is indeed terrible. And this same tragedy that appeared in the lives of Herzen, Ogaref, and others of their time, exists to-day in those of very many so-called educated people, who hold the same views. A man desires to lead a good life, but that consecutiveness which is indispensable for this is lost in the society in which he lives. As, fifty years ago, Ogaref, Herzen, and others, so also the majority of men of the present day are persuaded that to lead an effeminate life, to eat sweet and fat dishes, delighting oneself in every way and satisfying all one's desires, does not hinder one from living a good life. But as it is evident that a righteous life in their case does not result, they give themselves up to pessimism, and say, "Such is the tragical fate of man."
What is also strange about the case is that these people know that the distribution of pleasures among men is unequal, and they regard this inequality as an evil and wish to correct it, and yet they do not cease to strive toward the augmentation of their pleasures, i.e. toward the augmentation of the inequality of the distribution of pleasures. In acting thus, these people are like men who, having entered before others into an orchard, hasten to gather all the fruit they can lay their hands on ; and yet would like to organize a more equal distribution of the fruit of the orchard between themselves and the late-comers, while they continue to pluck all the fruit they come across.
VII
The delusion that men, while addicting themselves to their desires and regarding this life of desire as good, can nevertheless lead a good, useful, just, and loving life, is so astonishing that men of later generations will, I should think, simply fail to understand what the men of our time meant by the words "good life," when they said that the gluttons, the effeminate, lustful sluggards of our wealthy classes led good lives. Indeed, one need only put aside, for a time, the customary view of the life of our wealthy classes, and look at it,—I do not say from the Christian point of view, but from the heathen standpoint of common justice, in order to be convinced that, living amidst the violation of the plainest laws of justice or fairness, such as even children in their games think it wrong to violate, we, men of the wealthy classes, have no right even to talk about a good life.
Any man of our society who would,—I. do not say begin a good life, but even begin to make some little approach toward it, must first of all cease to lead a bad life, must begin to destroy those conditions of an evil life with which he finds himself surrounded.
How often one hears, as an excuse for not reforming our lives, the argument, that any act which is contrary to the usual mode of life would be unnatural, ludicrous,—would look like a desire to show off and would therefore not be a good action. This argument seems framed expressly to prevent people from ever changing their evil lives. If all our life were good, just, kind, then and only then would an action in conformity with the usual mode of life be good. If one half of our life were good and the other half bad, then there would be as much chance of an action out of conformity with the usual mode of life being good as of its being bad. But when life is altogether bad, and irregular, as is the case in our upper classes, then a man cannot perform one good action without ​disturbing the usual current of life. He can do a bad action without disturbing this current, but not a good one.
A man accustomed to the life of our well-to-do classes cannot lead a righteous life without first coming out of those conditions of evil in which he is immersed,—he cannot begin to do good until he has ceased to do evil. It is impossible for a man living in luxury to lead a righteous life. All his efforts after goodness will be in vain, until he changes his life, until he performs that work which stands before him first in sequence. A good life according to the heathen view, and still more according to the Christian one, is measured solely, nor can it be measured in any other way, by the mathematical relation of love for self, and love for others. The less there is of love for self, with all the ensuing care about self and the selfish demands made upon the labor of others, and the more there is of love for others, with the resultant care for and labor bestowed upon others, the better is the life.
Thus has righteousness of life been understood by all the sages of the world and all true Christians, and in exactly the same way do all men understand it now. The more a man gives to others and the less he demands for himself, the better he is; the less he gives to others and the more he demands for himself, the worse he is.
If we move the fulcrum of a lever from the long end to the short one, this will not only elongate the long arm, but will also reduce the short one. So also if a man, possessing a certain faculty, love, augment his love and care for himself, he will thereby diminish his power of loving and caring for others, not only in proportion to the love he has transferred to himself, but in a much greater degree. Instead of feeding others a man eats too much himself; by so doing he not only diminishes the possibility of giving away the surplus, but, by overeating, he deprives himself of power to help others.
In order to love others in reality and not in word only, one must cease to love oneself also in reality and not in word. In most cases it happens thus: we think we love ​others, we assure ourselves and others that it is so, but we love them only in words, while ourselves we love in reality. Others we forget to feed and put to bed, ourselves—never. Therefore, in order really to love others in deed, we must learn not to love ourselves in deed, learn to forget to feed ourselves and put ourselves to bed, exactly as we forget to do these things for others.
We say of an effeminate person, accustomed to lead a luxurious life, that he is a "good man" and "leads a good life." But such a person,—whether man or woman,—although he may possess the most amiable traits of character, meekness, good-nature, etc., cannot lead a good life, any more than a knife of the very best workmanship and steel can be sharp and cut well, without the process of sharpening, i.e. preparation. To be good and lead a good life means to give to others more than one takes from them. Whereas an effeminate man, accustomed to a luxurious life, cannot do this, first because he himself is always in want of much (and this, not on account of his selfishness, but because he is accustomed to luxury, and it is painful for him to be deprived of that to which he is accustomed); and secondly, because by consuming all that he receives from others he weakens himself and renders himself unfit to labor, and therefore unfit to serve others. An effeminate man who sleeps long upon a soft bed, eats and drinks abundance of fat, sweet food, is always dressed cleanly and suitably to the temperature, who has never accustomed himself to the effort of laborious work, can do very little.
We are so accustomed to our own lies and the lies of others, and it is so advantageous for us not to see through the lies of others, in order that they may not see through ours, that we are not in the least astonished at, and do not doubt the truth of, the assertion of the virtuousness, sometimes even the sanctity, of people who are leading a perfectly loose life.
A person, man or woman, sleeps on a spring bed with two mattresses, and two smooth, clean sheets, and feather pillows in pillow cases. At the bedside is a rug, that the feet may not get cold on stepping out of bed, ​notwithstanding that slippers also lie by the bedside. Here also are to be found the necessary utensils so that he need not leave the house,—whatever uncleanliness he may produce will all be carried away and made tidy. The windows are covered with curtains, that the daylight may not awaken him, and he sleeps as long as he is inclined. Besides all this, measures are taken that the room may be warm in winter and cool in summer, and that he may not be disturbed by the noise of flies or other insects. While he sleeps, water, hot and cold, for his ablutions, sometimes baths and preparations for shaving, are provided. Tea and coffee are also prepared, stimulating drinks to be taken immediately upon rising. Boots, shoes, galoshes, several pairs soiled the previous day, are already being cleaned and made to shine like glass, freed from every speck of dust. Similarly are cleaned various garments, soiled on the preceding day, differing in texture, to suit not only summer and winter, but also spring, autumn, rainy, damp, and warm weather. Clean linen, washed, starched, and ironed, is being made ready with studs, shirt buttons, buttonholes, all carefully inspected by specially appointed people.
If the person be active he rises early—at seven o'clock, i.e. still two or three hours later than those who are making all these preparations for him. Besides preparing clothes for the day and covering for the night, there is also a costume and foot-gear for the time of dressing: dressing-gown and slippers. So he undertakes his washing, cleaning, brushing, for which several kinds of brushes are used, as well as soap and a great quantity of water. (Many English men and women for some reason or other are specially proud of using a great deal of soap and pouring a large quantity of water over themselves.) Then he dresses, brushes his hair before a special kind of looking-glass (different from those that hang in almost every room in the house), takes the things he needs, such as spectacles or eye-glasses, and then distributes, in different pockets, a clean pocket-handkerchief, a watch with a chain, though in almost every room he goes to there will be a clock, money of various ​kinds, small change, often in a specially contrived case, which saves him the trouble of looking for the required coin, and bank-notes; also visiting cards on which is printed his name, saving him the trouble of saying or writing it, pocket-book, and pencil. In the case of women, the toilet is still more complicated: corsets, arranging of long hair, adornments, laces, elastics, ribbons, ties, hairpins, pins, brooches.
But at last all is complete and the day commences, generally with eating; tea and coffee are drunk with a great quantity of sugar, bread made of the finest white flour is eaten with large quantities of butter and sometimes the flesh of pigs. The men for the most part smoke cigars or cigarettes at this time, and read the newly arrived papers. Then they leave the house for their office or business, or drive in carriages, produced specially to move such people about. Then comes a luncheon of slain beasts, birds, and fish, followed by a dinner consisting, if it be very modest, of three courses, dessert, and coffee. Then playing at cards and playing music,—or the theater, reading, and conversation, in soft spring arm-chairs, by the light of intensified and shaded light of candles, gas, or electricity. After this tea, again eating supper, and again to bed,—shaken up and prepared with clean linen, and washed utensils to be again made foul.
Thus pass the days of a man of modest life, of whom, if he be good-natured and do not possess any habits specially obnoxious to those about him, it is said that he leads a good life.
But a good life is the life of a man who does good to others; and can a man accustomed to live thus do good to others? Before he can do good to men he must cease to do evil. Reckon up all the harm such a man, often unconsciously, does to others, and you will see that he is far indeed from doing good; he would have to perform many acts of heroism in order to redeem the evil he commits, whereas he is too much enfeebled by his life full of desires to perform any such acts. He might sleep with more advantage, ​both physical and moral, lying on the floor, wrapped in his cloak, as Marcus Aurelius did; and thus he might save all the labor and trouble involved in the manufacture of mattresses, springs, and pillows, as also the daily labor of the laundress,—one of the weaker sex burdened by the bearing and nursing of children,—who washes linen for this strong man. By going to bed earlier and getting up earlier he might save window-curtains and the evening lamp. He might sleep in the same shirt he wears during the day, might step barefooted upon the floor, and go out into the yard; he might wash at the well,—in a word, he might live like those who work for him, and might thus save all this work that is done for him. He might save all the labor expended upon his clothing, his refined food, his recreations. And he knows under what conditions all these labors are performed: how in performing them men perish, suffer, and often hate those that take advantage of their poverty to force them to do it.
How then is such a man to do good to others, and to lead a righteous life, without abandoning this effeminate, luxurious life?
But we need not speak of how other people appear in our eyes,—every one must see and feel this with regard to himself.
I cannot but repeat this same thing again and again, notwithstanding the cold and hostile silence with which my words are received. A moral man, living a life of comfort, a man even of the middle class (I will not speak of the upper classes, who daily consume, to satisfy their caprices, the results of hundreds of working days), cannot live quietly, knowing that all that he is using is produced by the labor and crushed lives of the working-people, who are dying without hope, ignorant, drunken, dissolute, half savage creatures, employed in mines, factories, and at agricultural labor, producing the articles that he uses.
At the present moment I, who am writing this, and you who will read it, whoever you may be, both you and I have ​wholesome, sufficient, perhaps abundant, luxurious food, pure, warm air to breathe, winter and summer clothing, various recreations, and, most important of all, we have leisure by day and undisturbed repose at night. And here, by our side, live the working-people, who have neither wholesome food, nor healthful lodgings, nor sufficient clothing, nor recreations, and who, above all, are deprived not only of leisure, but even of rest: old men, children, women, worn out by labor, by sleepless nights, by disease, who spend their whole lives providing for us those articles of comfort and luxury which they do not possess, and which are for us not necessities, but superfluities. Therefore, a moral man, I do not say a Christian, but simply a man professing humane views or merely justice, cannot but wish to change his life and cease to use articles of luxury produced under such conditions.
If a man really pities those that manufacture tobacco, then the first thing he will naturally do will be to cease smoking, because by continuing to smoke and buy tobacco he encourages the preparation of tobacco by which men's health is destroyed. And so with every other article of luxury. If a man can still continue to eat bread even under the present conditions of labor and hard work by which it is produced, this is owing to his inability to deny himself what is indispensable. But with regard to things which are not only unnecessary, but even superfluous, there can be no other conclusion than this, that if I pity men engaged in the manufacture of certain articles, then I shall in no wise accustom myself to require such articles.
But in these days men argue otherwise. They invent the most various and intricate arguments, but never say what naturally occurs to every plain man. According to them it is not at all necessary to abstain from luxuries. One can sympathize with the condition of the working-men, deliver speeches and write books in their behalf, and at the same time continue to profit by the labor that one deems ruinous to them.
According to one argument it appears that I may ​profit by the ruinous labors of the working-men, because, if I do not, another will. Something like the argument that I must drink wine that is injurious to me, because it has been bought, and, if I do not drink it, others will do so.
According to another argument, it is even beneficial to the working-men to employ their labors in producing luxuries, as in this way we provide them with money, i.e. the means of subsistence; as if we could not provide them with the means of subsistence in any other way than by making them produce articles injurious to them and superfluous to us.
But according to the argument now most widely spread, it appears that, since there is such a thing as division of labor, any work upon which a man is engaged, whether he be a government official, priest, landowner, manufacturer, or merchant, is so useful that it fully compensates for the labor of the working-classes by which he profits. One serves the State, another the Church, a third science, a fourth art, and a fifth serves those who serve the State, science, and art; and all are firmly convinced that what they give to mankind certainly compensates for all they take. And it is astonishing how, while continually augmenting their luxurious requirements without increasing their activity, these people continue to be certain that their activity compensates for all that they consume.
Whereas, if you listen to these people's judgment of one another, it appears that each individual is far from being worth what he consumes. Government officials say that the work of the landlords is not worth what they spend, landlords say the same about merchants, and merchants about government officials, and so on. But this does not disconcert them, and they continue to assure men that they, each of them, profit by the labor of others exactly in proportion as they give to others. So that the payment is not determined by the work, but the value of the imaginary work is determined by the payment. So do they assure each other, but they know perfectly well in the depth of their soul that all their ​arguments do not justify them, that they are not at all required by the working-men, and that they profit by the labor of these men, not on account of any division of labor, but simply because they have the power to do so, and because they are so perverted that they cannot dispense with this labor.
And all this arises from people imagining that it is possible to lead a good life, without first acquiring the first quality which is necessary for a righteous life.
And this first quality is temperance.
VIII
There never has been, and cannot be, a righteous life without temperance. Apart from temperance no righteous life is imaginable. The attainment of righteousness must commence with it.
There is a scale of virtues, and it is necessary, if one would mount the higher steps, to begin with the lowest; and the first virtue a man must acquire, if he wishes to acquire the others, is that which the ancients called ἐγκράεια or σωφροσύνη, i.e. reasonableness or self-control.
If in the Christian teaching temperance was included in the conception of self-renunciation, still the order of succession remains the same, and the acquirement of no Christian virtue is possible without temperance,—and this not because such a rule has been invented by any one, but because such is the essential nature of the matter.
But even temperance, the first step in every righteous life, is not attainable all at once, but only by degrees.
Temperance is the liberation of man from desires,—their subordination to reasonableness, σωφροσύνη. But a man's desires are many and various, and in order successfully to contend with them he must begin with the fundamental ones,—those upon which the more complicated ones have grown up, and not with those complex lusts which have grown up upon the fundamental ones. ​There are complex lusts, like that of the adornment of the body, sports, amusements, idle talk, inquisitiveness, and many others; and there are also fundamental desires, gluttony, idleness, sexual love. And one must begin to contend with these lusts from the beginning, not with the complex, but with the fundamental ones, and that also in a definite order. And this order is determined both by the nature of things, and also by the tradition of human wisdom.
A man who eats too much cannot strive against laziness, while a gluttonous and idle man will never be able to contend with sexual lust. Therefore, according to all the moral teachings, the effort toward temperance commences with a struggle against the lust of gluttony,—commences with fasting. In our time, however, every serious relation to the attainment of a good life has been so long and so completely lost, that not only is the very first virtue,—temperance,—without which the others are unattainable, regarded as superfluous, but the order of succession necessary for the attainment of this first virtue is also disregarded, and fasting is quite forgotten, or is looked upon as a silly superstition, and utterly unnecessary.
And yet, just as the first condition of a good life is temperance, so the first condition of a life of temperance is fasting.
One can wish to be good, one can dream of goodness, without fasting; but to be good without fasting is as impossible as it is to advance without getting up on to one's feet.
Fasting is an indispensable condition of a good life, whereas gluttony is, and always has been, the first sign of the opposite, a bad life; and unfortunately this vice is in the highest degree characteristic of the life of the majority of the men of our time.
Look at the faces and figures of the men of our circle and day,—on many of those faces with their pendent cheeks and double chins, those corpulent limbs and prominent abdomens, lies the indelible seal of a dissolute life. Nor can it be otherwise. Consider our life, ​the actuating motive of the majority of the men of our society; ask yourself what is the chief interest of this majority? And, however strange it may appear to us who are accustomed to hide our real interests and profess false, artificial ones, you will see that the chief interest of their life is the satisfaction of the palate,—the pleasure of eating, gluttony. From the poorest to the richest, eating is, I think, the chief aim,—the chief pleasure of our life.
Poor working-people form an exception only inasmuch as want prevents their addicting themselves to this passion. No sooner have they the time and means than, in imitation of the higher classes, they procure what is sweetest and most delectable, and eat and drink as much as they can. The more they eat the more do they deem themselves, not only happy, but also strong and healthy. And in this conviction they are encouraged by the upper classes, who regard food in precisely the same way. The educated classes imagine that happiness and health (as medical men assure them, stating that the most expensive food, meat, is the most wholesome) consist in devouring savory, nourishing, easily digested food, though they try to conceal this.
Look at rich people's lives, listen to their conversation. What lofty subjects seem to occupy them: philosophy, science, art, poetry, the distribution of wealth, the welfare of the people, and the education of the young; but all this is, for the immense majority, a sham; all this occupies them in the intervals of business, real business, between luncheon and dinner, while the stomach is full, and it is impossible to eat more. The only real, living interest of the majority of both men and women is eating, especially after early youth. How to eat, what to eat, where, when?
No solemnity, no rejoicing, no consecration, no opening of anything can dispense with eating. Look at people traveling. In their case it is especially evident. "Museums, libraries, parliament—how very interesting! But where shall we dine? Who provides the best food? "Look at people when they come together ​for dinner, dressed up, perfumed, around a table decorated with flowers, how joyfully they rub their hands and smile.
If we could look into the hearts of the majority of people, what should we find they most desire? Appetite for breakfast, for dinner. What is the severest punishment from infancy upward? To be put on bread and water. What artisans get the highest wages? Cooks. What is the chief interest of the mistress of the house? To what subject does the conversation of middle-class housewives generally tend? And if the conversation of the members of the higher classes does not tend in the same direction, it is not because they are better educated or are occupied with higher interests, but simply because they have a housekeeper or a butler who relieves them of all anxiety about their dinner.
But once deprive them of this convenience, and you will see what causes them most anxiety. It all comes round to the subject of eating, the price of grouse, the best way of making coffee, of baking sweet cakes, etc. Men come together, whatever the occasion,—a christening, a funeral, a wedding, the consecration of a church, the departure or arrival of a friend, the consecration of regimental colors, the celebration of a memorable day, the death or birth of a great scientist, philosopher, teacher of morality,—men come together as if occupied by the most lofty interests. So they say; but it is only a pretense: they all know that there will be eating—good, savory food—and drinking, and it is chiefly this that brings them together.
For several days before animals have been slaughtered, baskets of provisions brought from gastronomic shops; cooks and their helpers, kitchen boys and maids, specially attired in clean, starched frocks and caps, have been "at work." "Chefs," receiving $250 a month and more, have been occupied in giving instructions. Cooks have been chopping, kneading, roasting, arranging, adorning. With like solemnity and importance a master of the ceremonies has been working, calculating, pondering, adjusting with his eye, like an artist. A gardener ​has been employed upon the flowers. Scullery maids … An army of men has been at work, the result of thousands of working days are being swallowed up, and all this that people may come together to talk about some great teacher of science or morality, or to recall the memory of a deceased friend, or to greet a young couple just entering upon a new life.
In the middle and lower classes it is perfectly evident that every festivity, every funeral or wedding, means gluttony. There the matter is so understood. To such an extent is gluttony the motive of the assembly that in Greek and in French the same word means both "wedding" and "feast." But in the upper classes, among the refined who have long possessed wealth, great skill is used to conceal this and to make it appear that eating is a secondary matter, necessary only for appearance. And this pretense is easy, as in the majority of cases the guests are satiated in the true sense of the word,—they are never hungry.
They pretend that dinner, eating, is not necessary to them, is even a burden; but this is a lie. Try giving them, instead of the refined dishes they expect, I do not say bread and water, but porridge or gruel or something of that kind, and see what a storm it will call forth, and how evident will become the real truth, namely, that the chief interest of the assembly is, not the ostensible one,—but gluttony.
Look at what men sell; go through a town and see what men buy:—articles of adornment and things to devour. And indeed this must be so, it cannot be otherwise. It is possible not to think about eating,—to keep this lust under control only when a man does not eat except in obedience to necessity; but if a man ceases to eat only in obedience to necessity, i.e. when the stomach is full, then all this cannot be otherwise. If men love the pleasure of eating, if they allow themselves to love this pleasure, if they find it good (as is the case with the vast majority of men in our time, and with educated men quite as much as uneducated, although they pretend that it is not so), then there is no ​limit to the augmentation of this pleasure, no limit beyond which it may not grow. The satisfaction of a need has limits, but pleasure has none. For the satisfaction of our needs, it is necessary and sufficient to eat bread, porridge, or rice; for the augmentation of pleasure there is no end to the flavorings and seasonings.
Bread is a necessary and sufficient food. (This is proved by the millions of men who are strong, active, healthy, and hard-working, on rye-bread alone.) But it is pleasanter to eat bread with some flavoring. It is well to soak the bread in water boiled with meat. Still better to put into this water some vegetable, or better yet, several vegetables. It is well to eat meat. And meat is better not stewed, but only roasted. And better still with butter, and underdone, and then only certain parts of the meat. And add to this vegetables and mustard. And drink wine with it, red wine for preference. One does not need any more, but one can eat some fish, if it is well flavored with sauces, and swallowed down with white wine. It would seem as if one could get through nothing more, either rich or savory, but a sweet dish can still be eaten, in summer ices, in winter compote, preserves, and the like. And thus we have a dinner, a modest dinner. The pleasure of such a dinner can be greatly increased. And it is augmented, and there is no limit to this increase: stimulating snacks, "zakouskas" before dinner, and entremets and desserts, and various combinations of savory things, and flowers and decorations and music during dinner.
And, strange to say, men who daily overeat themselves at such dinners,—in comparison with which the feast of Belshazzar, which evoked the prophetic warning, was nothing,—are naïvely persuaded that they may at the same time lead a moral life.
IX
Fasting is an indispensable condition of a good life; but in fasting, as in temperance in general, the question arises with what shall we begin, how to fast,—how ​often to eat, what to eat, what to avoid eating? And as we can do no work seriously without regarding the necessary order of sequence, so also we cannot fast without knowing where to begin,—with what to commence temperance in food.
Fasting! And moreover the analysis of how to fast, and where to begin. This notion seems ridiculous to the majority of men.
I remember how once an evangelical preacher who was attacking monastic asceticism and priding himself on his originality said to me, "My Christianity is not concerned with fasting and privations, but with beefsteaks." Christianity, or virtue in general—with beefsteaks!
During that long period of darkness and of the absence of all guidance, heathen or Christian, so many wild, immoral ideas got infused into our life, especially into that lower region concerning the first steps toward a good life,—our relation to food, to which no one paid any attention,—that it is difficult for us even to understand the audacity and senselessness of upholding Christianity or virtue with beefsteaks.
We are not horrified by this association solely because a strange thing has befallen us. We look and see not; listen and hear not. There is no bad odor, no sound, no monstrosity, to which man cannot become accustomed, so that he ceases to remark that which would strike a man unaccustomed to it. Precisely so it is in the moral region. Christianity and morality with beefsteaks!
A few days ago I visited the slaughter-house in our town of Tula. It is constructed according to the new and improved system practised in large towns, with a view to the animals suffering as little as possible. It was on a Friday, two days before Trinity Sunday. There were many cattle there.
Long before this, when reading the excellent book, "The Ethics of Diet," I had wished to visit a slaughter-house, in order to see with my own eyes the truth of the matter brought in question when vegetarianism is discussed. But at first I felt ashamed to do so, as ​one is always ashamed of going to look at suffering which one knows is about to take place, but cannot avert; and so I kept putting off my visit.
But a little while ago I met on the road a butcher returning to Tula after a visit to his home. He was not as yet an experienced butcher, and his duty was to stab with a knife. I asked him whether he did not feel sorry to kill animals. And he gave me the usual answer: "Why should I feel sorry? It is necessary."
But when I told him that eating meat is not necessary, but is only a luxury, he agreed, and then he admitted that he was sorry.
"But what can I do? I must earn my bread," he said. "At first I was afraid to kill. My father, he never even killed a chicken in all his life."
The majority of Russians cannot kill, they feel pity, and express it by the words "to be afraid." This man had also been afraid, but he was so no longer. He told me that most of the work was done on Fridays, when it continues until the evening.
Not long ago I also talked with a retired soldier, a butcher, and he too was astonished at my assertion that it was a pity to kill, and said the usual things about its being ordained; but afterward he agreed with me: "Especially when they are quiet, tame cattle. They come, poor things, and trust you. It is very pitiful."
This is dreadful. Not the suffering and death of the animals, but that a man suppresses within himself, unnecessarily, the highest spiritual capacity, that of sympathy and pity toward living creatures like himself, and by violating himself becomes cruel. And how deeply seated in the human heart is the injunction not to kill animals!
Once, when walking near Moscow, I was offered a lift by some carmen who were going from Serpukhovo to a neighboring forest to fetch wood. It was the Thursday before Easter. I was seated in the first cart, with the izvoshchik, a strong, red, coarse muzhik, who evidently drank. On entering one village we saw a well-fed, naked, pink pig being dragged out of the first yard to be slaughtered. It was squealing in a desperate ​voice, resembling the shriek of a man. Just as we were passing they began to kill it. One of the men gashed its throat with a knife. The pig squealed still more loudly and piercingly, broke away from them, and ran off covered with blood. Being near-sighted, I did not see all the details. I saw only the human-looking pink body of the pig, and heard its desperate squeal; but the carter saw all the details and watched closely. They caught the pig, knocked it down, and finished cutting its throat. When its squeals ceased the izvoshchik sighed heavily. "Do men really not have to answer for this?" he said.
So strong is man's aversion to all killing; but by example, by encouraging greediness, by the assertion that God has allowed it, and, above all by habit, people are entirely deprived of this natural feeling.
On Friday I went to Tula, and meeting a gentle, kind acquaintance of mine, I invited him to accompany me.
"Yes, I have heard that the arrangements are good, and have been wishing to go and see it; but if they are slaughtering, I will not go in."
"Why not? That is just what I want to see! If we eat meat, it must be killed."
"No, no, I cannot."
It is worth while to remark that this man is a sportsman, and himself kills beasts and birds.
So we went to the slaughter-house. Even at the entrance one could perceive the heavy, disgusting, fetid smell of carpenter's glue or paint on glue. The nearer we approached, the stronger became the smell. The building is of red brick, very large, with vaults and high chimneys. We entered the gates. To the right was a spacious inclosed yard, three-quarters of an acre in extent,—twice a week cattle are driven in here for sale,—and adjoining this inclosure was the porter's lodge. To the left were the "chambers," as they are called, i.e. rooms with arched entrances, sloping asphalt floors, and contrivances for the moving and hanging up of carcasses. On a bench against the wall of the porter's lodge were seated half a dozen butchers, in frocks covered with blood, their tucked-up sleeves disclosing their muscular ​arms, also besmeared with blood. Their work had been completed half an hour ago, so that day we could only see the empty "chambers." Notwithstanding that these chambers were open on both sides, there was an oppressive smell of warm blood, the floor was brown and shining, with congealed black blood in the cavities.
One of the butchers described the process of slaughtering, and showed us the place where it was done. I did not quite understand him, and formed for myself a wrong, but very horrible, idea of the way the animals are slaughtered; and I fancied that, as is often the case, the reality would very likely produce upon me a weaker impression than the imagination. But in this I was mistaken.
The next time I visited the slaughter-house I went in time. It was the Friday before Trinity. It was a warm day in June. The smell of glue and blood was even stronger and more penetrating than on my first visit. The work was at its height. The dusty yard was full of cattle, and animals had been driven into all the inclosures beside the chambers.
In the street, before the entrance, stood carts to which oxen, calves, and cows were tied. Other carts drawn by good horses and filled with live calves, their heads hanging down and swaying about, drew up and were unloaded; and similar carts containing the carcasses of oxen, with trembling legs sticking out, with heads and bright red lungs and brown livers, drove away from the slaughter-house. By the fence stood the cattle-dealers' horses. The dealers themselves, in their long coats, with their whips and knouts in their hands, were walking about the yard, either marking with tar the cattle belonging to the same owner, or bargaining or else directing the passage of the oxen and bulls from the great yard into the inclosures which led into the chambers. These men were evidently all preoccupied with money dealings and calculations, and any thought as to whether it was right or wrong to kill these animals was as far from their minds as questions about the chemical composition of the blood that covered the floor of the chambers.
​No butchers were to be seen in the yard; they were all in the chambers, at work. That day about a hundred head of cattle were slaughtered. I was about to enter one of the chambers, but stopped short at the door. I stopped because the chamber was crowded with carcasses being moved about, and also because blood was flowing below and dropping from above. All the butchers present were besmeared with blood, and, had I entered, I should certainly have been covered with it. One suspended carcass was being taken down, another was being moved toward the door, a third, a slaughtered ox, was lying with its white legs raised, while a butcher with his strong hand was ripping up its tight-stretched hide.
Through the door opposite to the one at which I was standing, a big, red, well-fed ox was led in. Two men were dragging it, and hardly had it entered when I saw a butcher raise a knife above its neck and stab it. The ox, as if all four legs had suddenly given way, fell heavily upon its belly, immediately turned over on one side, and began to work its legs and all its hind quarters. Another butcher immediately threw himself upon the ox from the side opposite to the twitching legs, caught its horns, twisted its head down to the ground, while another butcher cut its throat with a knife. From beneath the head there flowed a stream of blackish red blood, which a besmeared boy caught in a tin basin. All the time this was going on, the ox kept incessantly twitching its head as if trying to get up, and waved its four legs in the air. The basin was quickly filling, but the ox still lived, and, its stomach heaving heavily, both hind and fore legs worked so violently that the butchers held aloof. When one basin was full, the boy carried it away on his head to the albumen factory, while another boy placed a fresh basin which also began to fill up. But still the ox heaved its body and worked its hind legs.
When the blood ceased to flow, the butcher raised the animal's head and began to skin it. The ox continued to writhe. The head, stripped of its skin, showed red with white veins, and kept the position given ​it by the butcher; on both sides hung the skin. Still the animal did not cease to writhe. Then another butcher caught hold of one of the legs, broke it, and cut it off. In the remaining legs and the stomach the convulsions still continued. The other legs were cut off and thrown aside, together with those of other oxen belonging to the same owner. Then the carcass was dragged away and hung up, and here the convulsions ceased.
Thus I looked on from the door at the second, third, fourth ox. With all it was the same: the same cutting off of the head with the tongue bitten, and the same convulsed members. The only difference was that the butcher did not always strike at once so as to make the animal fall. Sometimes he missed his aim, upon which the ox leaped up, roared, and, covered with blood, tried to escape. But then his head was pulled under the bar, struck a second time, and he fell.
I afterward entered by the door through which the oxen were led in. Here I saw the same thing, only nearer and therefore more plainly. I also saw here what I had not seen before: how the oxen were forced to enter the door. Each time an ox was seized in the inclosure and pulled forward by a rope tied to its horns; the animal, smelling blood, refused to advance, sometimes bellowed and drew back. Two men were unable to drag it in by force, so one of the butchers went round each time and grasped the animal's tail and twitched it, breaking the stump so that the gristle crackled,—then the ox advanced.
When they had finished with the cattle of one owner, they brought in those of another. The first animal of this next lot was not an ox, but a bull—a fine, well-bred creature, black with white spots on legs, young, muscular, full of energy. He was dragged forward, lowering his head and resisted sturdily. But the butcher, who followed behind, seized the tail,—like an engine-driver grasping the handle of the whistle,—twisted it, the gristle cracked, and the bull rushed forward, upsetting the men who held the rope. Then ​it stopped, squinting with its black eyes, the white of which had filled with blood. But again the tail cracked, and the bull sprang forward and reached the required spot. The striker approached, took aim, and struck. But the blow missed the mark. The bull leaped up, shook its head, roared, and, covered with blood, got free and rushed back. The men in the doorway all sprang aside. But the butchers, with the dash of men inured to danger, quickly caught the rope, again the tail operation, and again the bull was in the chamber, where he was dragged under the bar, from which he did not again escape. The striker quickly took aim at the spot where the hair divides like a star, and, notwithstanding the blood, found it, struck, and the fine animal, full of life, fell, its head and legs writhing as it was bled and the head skinned.
"There, the cursed devil has fallen on the wrong side again," grumbled the butcher as he cut the skin from the head.
Five minutes later the head was stuck up, red instead of black, without skin, the eyes, that had shone with such splendid color five minutes before, fixed and glassy.
Afterward I went into the compartment where small animals are slaughtered,—a spacious chamber with asphalt floor, and tables with backs, on which sheep and calves are killed. Here the work was already finished; there were only two butchers in the chamber. One was blowing into the leg of a dead lamb and patting the swollen stomach with his hand; the other, a young fellow in a frock besmeared with blood, was smoking a cigarette. There was no one else in the long, dark chamber, pervaded with the smell of blood. After me there entered a man, apparently an ex-soldier, bringing in a young yearling ram, black with a white mark on its neck, with its legs tied. This animal he placed upon one of the tables, as if upon a bed. The old soldier greeted the butchers, with whom he was evidently acquainted, and began to ask about when their master let them have leave. The fellow with the cigarette approached with ​a knife, sharpened it on the edge of the table, and answered that they were free on holidays. The live ram was lying as quietly as the dead inflated one, except that it was briskly wagging its short little tail, and its sides were heaving more quickly than usual. The soldier pressed down its uplifted head gently, without effort; the butcher, still continuing the conversation, grasped with his left hand the head of the ram, and cut its throat. The ram quivered, and the little tail stiffened and ceased to wave. The fellow, while waiting for the blood to flow, began to relight his cigarette, which had gone out. The blood flowed, and the ram began to writhe. The conversation continued without the slightest interruption.
And how about those hens and chickens which daily, in thousands of kitchens, with their heads cut off and streaming with blood, comically, dreadfully flop about, jerking their wings.
And you will see a kind, refined lady devour the carcasses of these animals, with full assurance that she is doing right, at the same time asserting two propositions, each of which bars out the other:
First, that she is, as her doctor assures her, so delicate that she cannot be sustained by vegetable food alone, and that for her feeble organism flesh food is indispensable; and secondly, that she is so sensitive that she is unable, not only herself to inflict suffering on animals, but even to bear the sight of suffering.
The truth of the matter is, she is weak, this poor lady, precisely because she has been taught to live upon food unnatural to man; and she cannot avoid causing suffering to animals, because she devours them.
X
We cannot pretend that we do not know this. We are not ostriches, and cannot believe that if we refuse to look at that which we do not wish to see it will not exist. This is especially the case when what we do not ​wish to see is what we wish to eat. If it were really indispensable, or, if not indispensable, at least in some way useful, it would be another thing. But it is useful for nothing, and serves only to develop animal feelings, to excite desire, to promote fornication and drunkenness.
And this is continually being confirmed by young, kind, undepraved people,—especially women and girls,—feeling, without knowing how it logically follows, that virtue is incompatible with beefsteaks, and giving up meat as soon as they desire to live good lives.
What, then, do I wish to say? That in order to be moral, people must cease to eat meat? Not at all.
I only wish to say that for a good life a certain order of good deeds is indispensable; that if a man's aspiration toward right living be serious, it will inevitably follow one definite sequence; and that in this sequence the first virtue a man will strive after will be temperance, self-renunciation. And in seeking to be temperate a man will inevitably follow one definite sequence, and in this sequence the first thing will be temperance in food, fasting. And in fasting, if he be really and seriously seeking to live a good life, the first thing from which he will abstain will always be the use of animal food, because, to say nothing of the excitation of the passions caused by such food, its use is simply immoral, as it involves the performance of an act which is contrary to the moral feeling—killing; and is called forth only by greediness, and the desire for savory food.
The precise reason why abstinence from animal food will be the first act of fasting and of a moral life is admirably explained in the book, "The Ethics of Diet;" and not by one man only, but by all mankind in the person of its best representatives during all the conscious life of humanity.
​But why, if the wrongfulness, i.e. the immorality, of animal food was so long ago known to humanity, have people not yet come to acknowledge this law? will be asked by those who are accustomed to be led rather by public opinion than by reason. The answer to this question is that the moral progress of humanity—which is the foundation of every other kind of progress—always takes place slowly; but that the sign of true, not casual, progress is its uninterruptedness and continual acceleration.
And so it is with the progress of vegetarianism. This progress is expressed both in the words of the writers cited in the above-mentioned book, and in the very life of mankind, which is continually advancing from the use of animal to that of vegetable food, both unconsciously and also consciously—in vegetarianism, which now manifests especial vigor and is attaining ever greater and greater dimensions. This movement has during the last ten years been steadily accelerating: more and more books and periodicals upon this subject appear every year; one meets more and more people who have given up animal food; and abroad, especially in Germany, England, and America, the number of vegetarian hotels and restaurants is increasing year by year.
This movement must cause especial joy to those whose life consists in seeking to found the kingdom of God upon earth, not because vegetarianism is in itself an important step toward that kingdom (all true steps are both important and unimportant), but because it is a sign that the aspiration of mankind toward moral perfection is serious and sincere, as it has taken the one unalterable order of succession natural to it, beginning with this first step.
One cannot fail to rejoice at this, as people could not fail to rejoice who, after striving to reach the upper story of a house by trying vainly and at random to climb the walls from different points, should at last begin to assemble at the first step of the staircase, and to crowd around it, convinced that there could be no way up except by this first step of the stairs.
1892.
* ↑ Written as a preface to a Russian translation of "The Ethics of Diet," by Howard Williams.
* ↑ It is hardly necessary to point out that in this article temperance is used in its real meaning, and not with any exclusive reference to the drink question.—Tr.
* ↑ As for instance by "indulgences" among the Roman Catholics.—Author's Note.
* ↑ This passage is from St. Thomas: Nullus enim inconvenienter debet vivere.
* ↑ The hero of a Russian poem by Pushkin.—Tr.
* ↑ Let those who doubt this read those numerous books upon the subject, written by scientists and doctors, in which it is proved that meat is not necessary for the nourishment of man. And let them not listen to those old-fashioned doctors who defend the assertion that meat food is necessary, only because it has long been so regarded by themselves and their predecessors; who defend their opinion with tenacity and malevolence, as all that is old and outgrown is always defended.—Author's Note.
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