There are No Guilty People
MINE is a strange and wonderful lot! The chances are that there
is not a single wretched beggar suffering under the luxury
and oppression of the rich who feels anything like as keenly as I
do either the injustice, the cruelty, and the horror of their
oppression of and contempt for the poor; or the grinding humiliation
and misery which befall the great majority of the workers,
the real producers of all that makes life possible. I have felt
this for a long time, and as the years have passed by the feeling
has grown and grown, until recently it reached its climax.
Although I feel all this so vividly, I still live on amid
the depravity and sins of rich society; and I cannot leave it,
because I have neither the knowledge nor the strength to do so.
I cannot. I do not know how to change my life so that my
physical needs--food, sleep, clothing, my going to and fro--
may be satisfied without a sense of shame and wrongdoing
in the position which I fill.
There was a time when I tried to change my position, which was not
in harmony with my conscience; but the conditions created by the past,
by my family and its claims upon me, were so complicated that they would
not let me out of their grasp, or rather, I did not know how to free myself.
I had not the strength. Now that I am over eighty and have become feeble,
I have given up trying to free myself; and, strange to say, as my feebleness
increases I realise more and more strongly the wrongfulness of my position,
and it grows more and more intolerable to me.
It has occurred to me that I do not occupy this position for nothing:
that Providence intended that I should lay bare the truth of my feelings,
so that I might atone for all that causes my suffering, and might
perhaps open the eyes of those--or at least of some of those--
who are still blind to what I see so clearly, and thus might lighten
the burden of that vast majority who, under existing conditions,
are subjected to bodily and spiritual suffering by those who deceive
them and also deceive themselves. Indeed, it may be that the
position which I occupy gives me special facilities for revealing
the artificial and criminal relations which exist between men--
for telling the whole truth in regard to that position without
confusing the issue by attempting to vindicate myself, and without
rousing the envy of the rich and feelings of oppression in the hearts
of the poor and downtrodden. I am so placed that I not only have
no desire to vindicate myself; but, on the contrary, I find it
necessary to make an effort lest I should exaggerate the wickedness
of the great among whom I live, of whose society I am ashamed,
whose attitude towards their fellow-men I detest with my whole soul,
though I find it impossible to separate my lot from theirs.
But I must also avoid the error of those democrats and others who,
in defending the oppressed and the enslaved, do not see their
failings and mistakes, and who do not make sufficient allowance
for the difficulties created, the mistakes inherited from the past,
which in a degree lessens the responsibility of the upper classes.
Free from desire for self-vindication, free from fear
of an emancipated people, free from that envy and hatred
which the oppressed feel for their oppressors, I am in
the best possible position to see the truth and to tell it.
Perhaps that is why Providence placed me in such a position.
I will do my best to turn it to account.
Alexander Ivanovich Volgin, a bachelor and a clerk in a Moscow
bank at a salary of eight thousand roubles a year, a man much
respected in his own set, was staying in a country-house. His host
was a wealthy landowner, owning some twenty-five hundred acres,
and had married his guest's cousin. Volgin, tired after an
evening spent in playing vint* for small stakes with [* A game
of cards similar to auction bridge.] members of the family,
went to his room and placed his watch, silver cigarette-case,
pocket-book, big leather purse, and pocket-brush and comb
on a small table covered with a white cloth, and then,
taking off his coat, waistcoat, shirt, trousers, and underclothes,
his silk socks and English boots, put on his nightshirt
and dressing-gown. His watch pointed to midnight.
Volgin smoked a cigarette, lay on his face for about five
minutes reviewing the day's impressions; then, blowing out
his candle, he turned over on his side and fell asleep
about one o'clock, in spite of a good deal of restlessness.
Awaking next morning at eight he put on his slippers and
dressing-gown, and rang the bell.
The old butler, Stephen, the father of a
family and the grandfather of six grandchildren, who had served
in that house for thirty years, entered the room hurriedly,
with bent legs, carrying in the newly blackened boots which Volgin had
taken off the night before, a well-brushed suit, and a clean shirt.
The guest thanked him, and then asked what the weather was like
(the blinds were drawn so that the sun should not prevent
any one from sleeping till eleven o'clock if he were so
inclined), and whether his hosts had slept well. He glanced
at his watch--it was still early--and began to wash and dress.
His water was ready, and everything on the washing-stand
and dressing-table was ready for use and properly laid out--
his soap, his tooth and hair brushes, his nail scissors and files.
He washed his hands and face in a leisurely fashion,
cleaned and manicured his nails, pushed back the skin with
the towel, and sponged his stout white body from head to foot.
Then he began to brush his hair. Standing in front of the mirror,
he first brushed his curly beard, which was beginning to turn grey,
with two English brushes, parting it down the middle.
Then he combed his hair, which was already showing signs
of getting thin, with a large tortoise-shell comb.
Putting on his underlinen, his socks, his boots, his trousers--
which were held up by elegant braces--and his waistcoat,
he sat down coatless in an easy chair to rest after dressing,
lit a cigarette, and began to think where he should go for a walk
that morning--to the park or to Littleports (what a funny
name for a wood!). He thought he would go to Littleports.
Then he must answer Simon Nicholaevich's letter; but there was
time enough for that. Getting up with an air of resolution,
he took out his watch. It was already five minutes to nine.
He put his watch into his waistcoat pocket, and his purse--
with all that was left of the hundred and eighty roubles
he had taken for his journey, and for the incidental expenses
of his fortnight's stay with his cousin--and then he placed
into his trouser pocket his cigarette-case and electric
cigarette-lighter, and two clean handkerchiefs into his
coat pockets, and went out of the room, leaving as usual
the mess and confusion which he had made to be cleared up
by Stephen, an old man of over fifty. Stephen expected Volgin
to "remunerate" him, as he said, being so accustomed to the work
that he did not feel the slightest repugnance for it.
Glancing at a mirror, and feeling satisfied with his appearance,
Volgin went into the dining-room.
There, thanks to the efforts of the housekeeper, the footman,
and under-butler--the latter had risen at dawn in order to run
home to sharpen his son's scythe--breakfast was ready.
On a spotless white cloth stood a boiling, shiny, silver samovar
(at least it looked like silver), a coffee-pot, hot milk,
cream, butter, and all sorts of fancy white bread and biscuits.
The only persons at table were the second son of the house,
his tutor (a student), and the secretary. The host,
who was an active member of the Zemstvo and a great farmer,
had already left the house, having gone at eight o'clock
to attend to his work. Volgin, while drinking his coffee,
talked to the student and the secretary about the weather,
and yesterday's vint, and discussed Theodorite's peculiar
behaviour the night before, as he had been very rude to his
father without the slightest cause. Theodorite was the grown-up
son of the house, and a ne'er-do-well. His name was Theodore,
but some one had once called him Theodorite either as a joke
or to tease him; and, as it seemed funny, the name stuck to him,
although his doings were no longer in the least amusing.
So it was now. He had been to the university, but left it in his
second year, and joined a regiment of horse guards; but he gave
that up also, and was now living in the country, doing nothing,
finding fault, and feeling discontented with everything.
Theodorite was still in bed: so were the other members
of the household--Anna Mikhailovna, its mistress; her sister,
the widow of a general; and a landscape painter who lived
with the family.
Volgin took his panama hat from the hall table (it had cost
twenty roubles) and his cane with its carved ivory handle,
and went out. Crossing the veranda, gay with flowers,
he walked through the flower garden, in the centre of which was
a raised round bed, with rings of red, white, and blue flowers,
and the initials of the mistress of the house done in carpet
bedding in the centre. Leaving the flower garden Volgin entered
the avenue of lime trees, hundreds of years old, which peasant
girls were tidying and sweeping with spades and brooms.
The gardener was busy measuring, and a boy was bringing
something in a cart. Passing these Volgin went into the park
of at least a hundred and twenty-five acres, filled with fine
old trees, and intersected by a network of well-kept walks.
Smoking as he strolled Volgin took his favourite path past
the summer-house into the fields beyond. It was pleasant
in the park, but it was still nicer in the fields.
On the right some women who were digging potatoes formed
a mass of bright red and white colour; on the left were
wheat fields, meadows, and grazing cattle; and in the foreground,
slightly to the right, were the dark, dark oaks of Littleports.
Volgin took a deep breath, and felt glad that he was alive,
especially here in his cousin's home, where he was so thoroughly
enjoying the rest from his work at the bank.
"Lucky people to live in the country," he thought. "True,
his farming and his Zemstvo, the owner of the estate has very little
peace even in the country, but that is his own lookout." Volgin
shook his head, lit another cigarette, and, stepping out firmly
with his powerful feet clad in his thick English boots, began to think
of the heavy winter's work in the bank that was in front of him.
"I shall be there every day from ten to two, sometimes even till five.
And the board meetings . . . And private interviews with clients.
. . . Then the Duma. Whereas here. . . . It is delightful.
It may be a little dull, but it is not for long." He smiled.
After a stroll in Littleports he turned back, going straight across
a fallow field which was being ploughed. A herd of cows, calves, sheep,
and pigs, which belonged to the village community, was grazing there.
The shortest way to the park was to pass through the herd.
He frightened the sheep, which ran away one after another, and were
followed by the pigs, of which two little ones stared solemnly at him.
The shepherd boy called to the sheep and cracked his whip.
"How far behind Europe we are," thought Volgin, recalling his
holidays abroad. "You would not find a single cow like that anywhere
in Europe." Then, wanting to find out where the path which branched
off from the one he was on led to and who was the owner of the herd,
he called to the boy.
"Whose herd is it?"
The boy was so filled with wonder, verging on terror,
when he gazed at the hat, the well-brushed beard, and above all
the gold-rimmed eyeglasses, that he could not reply at once.
When Volgin repeated his question the boy pulled himself together,
and said, "Ours." "But whose is 'ours'?" said Volgin,
shaking his head and smiling. The boy was wearing shoes
of plaited birch bark, bands of linen round his legs, a dirty,
unbleached shirt ragged at the shoulder, and a cap the peak
of which had been torn.
"Whose is 'ours'?"
"The Pirogov village herd."
"How old are you?
"I don't know."
"Can you read?"
"No, I can't."
"Didn't you go to school?"
"Yes, I did."
"Couldn't you learn to read?"
"Where does that path lead?"
The boy told him, and Volgin went on towards the house, thinking how he
chaff Nicholas Petrovich about the deplorable condition of the village schools
in spite of all his efforts.
On approaching the house Volgin looked at his watch, and saw that it
was already past eleven. He remembered that Nicholas Petrovich was
going to drive to the nearest town, and that he had meant to give
him a letter to post to Moscow; but the letter was not written.
The letter was a very important one to a friend, asking him to bid
for him for a picture of the Madonna which was to be offered
for sale at an auction. As he reached the house he saw at the door
four big, well-fed, well-groomed, thoroughbred horses harnessed
to a carriage, the black lacquer of which glistened in the sun.
The coachman was seated on the box in a kaftan, with a silver belt,
and the horses were jingling their silver bells from time to time.
A bare-headed, barefooted peasant in a ragged kaftan stood at the front
He bowed. Volgin asked what he wanted.
"I have come to see Nicholas Petrovich."
"Because I am in distress--my horse has died."
Volgin began to question him. The peasant told him how he was situated.
He had five children, and this had been his only horse.
Now it was gone. He wept.
"What are you going to do?"
"To beg." And he knelt down, and remained kneeling in spite
of Volgin's expostulations.
"What is your name?"
"Mitri Sudarikov," answered the peasant, still kneeling.
Volgin took three roubles from his purse and gave them to the peasant,
who showed his gratitude by touching the ground with his forehead,
and then went into the house. His host was standing in the hall.
"Where is your letter?" he asked, approaching Volgin;
"I am just off."
"I'm awfully sorry, I'll write it this minute, if you will let me.
I forgot all about it. It's so pleasant here that one can forget anything."
"All right, but do be quick. The horses have already been standing
a quarter of an hour, and the flies are biting viciously.
Can you wait, Arsenty?" he asked the coachman.
"Why not?" said the coachman, thinking to himself, "why do
the horses when they aren't ready? The rush the grooms and I had--
just to stand here and feed the flies."
"Directly, directly," Volgin went towards his room, but turned
back to ask
Nicholas Petrovich about the begging peasant.
"Did you see him?--He's a drunkard, but still he is to be pitied.
Do be quick!"
Volgin got out his case, with all the requisites for writing,
wrote the letter, made out a cheque for a hundred and eighty roubles,
and, sealing down the envelope, took it to Nicholas Petrovich.
Volgin read the newspapers till luncheon. He only read the Liberal papers:
The Russian Gazette, Speech, sometimes The Russian Word--but he would not
touch The New Times, to which his host subscribed.
While he was scanning at his ease the political news, the Tsar's doings,
the doings of President, and ministers and decisions in the Duma, and was
about to pass on to the general news, theatres, science, murders and cholera,
he heard the luncheon bell ring.
Thanks to the efforts of upwards of ten human beings--
counting laundresses, gardeners, cooks, kitchen-maids, butlers
and footmen--the table was sumptuously laid for eight,
with silver waterjugs, decanters, kvass, wine, mineral waters,
cut glass, and fine table linen, while two men-servants were
continually hurrying to and fro, bringing in and serving,
and then clearing away the hors d'oeuvre and the various hot
and cold courses.
The hostess talked incessantly about everything that she had
been doing, thinking, and saying; and she evidently considered
that everything that she thought, said, or did was perfect,
and that it would please every one except those who were fools.
Volgin felt and knew that everything she said was stupid,
but it would never do to let it be seen, and so he kept
up the conversation. Theodorite was glum and silent;
the student occasionally exchanged a few words with the widow.
Now and again there was a pause in the conversation, and then
Theodorite interposed, and every one became miserably depressed.
At such moments the hostess ordered some dish that had not
been served, and the footman hurried off to the kitchen,
or to the housekeeper, and hurried back again. Nobody felt
inclined either to talk or to eat. But they all forced
themselves to eat and to talk, and so luncheon went on.
The peasant who had been begging because his horse had
died was named Mitri Sudarikov. He had spent the whole
day before he went to the squire over his dead horse.
First of all he went to the knacker, Sanin, who lived in a
village near. The knacker was out, but he waited for him,
and it was dinner-time when he had finished bargaining
over the price of the skin. Then he borrowed a neighbour's
horse to take his own to a field to be buried, as it is
forbidden to bury dead animals near a village. Adrian would
not lend his horse because he was getting in his potatoes,
but Stephen took pity on Mitri and gave way to his persuasion.
He even lent a hand in lifting the dead horse into the cart.
Mitri tore off the shoes from the forelegs and gave them
to his wife. One was broken, but the other one was whole.
While he was digging the grave with a spade which was
very blunt, the knacker appeared and took off the skin;
and the carcass was then thrown into the hole and covered up.
Mitri felt tired, and went into Matrena's hut, where he drank
half a bottle of vodka with Sanin to console himself.
Then he went home, quarrelled with his wife, and lay down to sleep
on the hay. He did not undress, but slept just as he was,
with a ragged coat for a coverlet. His wife was in the hut
with the girls--there were four of them, and the youngest
was only five weeks old. Mitri woke up before dawn as usual.
He groaned as the memory of the day before broke in upon him--
how the horse had struggled and struggled, and then fallen down.
Now there was no horse, and all he had was the price of the skin,
four roubles and eighty kopeks. Getting up he arranged the linen
bands on his legs, and went through the yard into the hut.
His wife was putting straw into the stove with one hand,
with the other she was holding a baby girl to her breast,
which was hanging out of her dirty chemise.
Mitri crossed himself three times, turning towards the corner in
which the ikons hung, and repeated some utterly meaningless words,
which he called prayers, to the Trinity and the Virgin, the Creed
and our Father.
"Isn't there any water?"
"The girl's gone for it. I've got some tea. Will you go up
to the squire?"
"Yes, I'd better." The smoke from the stove made him cough.
He took a rag off the wooden bench and went into the porch.
The girl had just come back with the water. Mitri filled his mouth
with water from the pail and squirted it out on his hands, took some
more in his mouth to wash his face, dried himself with the rag,
then parted and smoothed his curly hair with his fingers and went out.
A little girl of about ten, with nothing on but a dirty shirt,
came towards him. "Good-morning, Uncle Mitri," she said;
"you are to come and thrash." "All right, I'll come,"
He understood that he was expected to return the help given
the week before by Kumushkir, a man as poor as he was himself,
when he was thrashing his own corn with a horse-driven machine.
"Tell them I'll come--I'll come at lunch time. I've got to go
to Ugrumi." Mitri went back to the hut, and changing his
birch-bark shoes and the linen bands on his legs, started off
to see the squire. After he had got three roubles from Volgin,
and the same sum from Nicholas Petrovich, he returned to his house,
gave the money to his wife, and went to his neighbour's. The
thrashing machine was humming, and the driver was shouting.
The lean horses were going slowly round him, straining at
their traces. The driver was shouting to them in a monotone,
"Now, there, my dears." Some women were unbinding sheaves,
others were raking up the scattered straw and ears, and others
again were gathering great armfuls of corn and handing them
to the men to feed the machine. The work was in full swing.
In the kitchen garden, which Mitri had to pass, a girl,
clad only in a long shirt, was digging potatoes which she put
into a basket.
"Where's your grandfather?" asked Mitri. "He's in the barn
"Mitri went to the barn and set to work at once.
The old man of eighty knew of Mitri's trouble. After greeting him,
he gave him his place to feed the machine.
Mitri took off his ragged coat, laid it out of the way near
the fence, and then began to work vigorously, raking the corn
together and throwing it into the machine. The work went on
without interruption until the dinner-hour. The cocks had crowed
two or three times, but no one paid any attention to them;
not because the workers did not believe them, but because they were
scarcely heard for the noise of the work and the talk about it.
At last the whistle of the squire's steam thrasher sounded
three miles away, and then the owner came into the barn.
He was a straight old man of eighty. "It's time to stop," he said;
"it's dinner-time." Those at work seemed to redouble their efforts.
In a moment the straw was cleared away; the grain that had
been thrashed was separated from the chaff and brought in,
and then the workers went into the hut.
The hut was smoke-begrimed, as its stove had no chimney,
but it had been tidied up, and benches stood round the table,
making room for all those who had been working, of whom there
were nine, not counting the owners. Bread, soup, boiled potatoes,
and kvass were placed on the table.
An old one-armed beggar, with a bag slung over his shoulder,
came in with a crutch during the meal.
"Peace be to this house. A good appetite to you.
For Christ's sake give me something."
"God will give it to you," said the mistress, already an old woman,
and the daughter-in-law of the master. "Don't be angry with us."
An old man,
who was still standing near the door, said, "Give him some bread, Martha.
How can you?"
"I am only wondering whether we shall have enough."
"Oh, it is wrong, Martha. God tells us to help the poor.
Cut him a slice."
Martha obeyed. The beggar went away. The man in charge
of the thrashing-machine got up, said grace, thanked his hosts,
and went away to rest.
Mitri did not lie down, but ran to the shop to buy some tobacco.
He was longing for a smoke. While he smoked he chatted
to a man from Demensk, asking the price of cattle, as he saw
that he would not be able to manage without selling a cow.
When he returned to the others, they were already back at work again;
and so it went on till the evening.
Among these downtrodden, duped, and defrauded men, who are becoming
demoralised by overwork, and being gradually done to death by underfeeding,
there are men living who consider themselves Christians; and others
so enlightened that they feel no further need for Christianity
or for any religion, so superior do they appear in their own esteem.
And yet their hideous, lazy lives are supported by the degrading,
excessive labour of these slaves, not to mention the labour of
millions of other slaves, toiling in factories to produce samovars,
silver, carriages, machines, and the like for their use.
They live among these horrors, seeing them and yet not seeing them,
although often kind at heart--old men and women, young men and maidens,
mothers and children--poor children who are being vitiated and trained
into moral blindness.
Here is a bachelor grown old, the owner of thousands of acres,
who has lived a life of idleness, greed, and over-indulgence,
who reads The New Times, and is astonished that the government
can be so unwise as to permit Jews to enter the university.
There is his guest, formerly the governor of a province, now a senator
with a big salary, who reads with satisfaction that a congress
of lawyers has passed a resolution in favor of capital punishment.
Their political enemy, N. P., reads a liberal paper, and cannot
understand the blindness of the government in allowing the union
of Russian men to exist.
Here is a kind, gentle mother of a little girl reading
a story to her about Fox, a dog that lamed some rabbits.
And here is this little girl. During her walks she sees
other children, barefooted, hungry, hunting for green apples
that have fallen from the trees; and, so accustomed is she
to the sight, that these children do not seem to her to be
children such as she is, but only part of the usual surroundings--
the familiar landscape.
Why is this?