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On The Significance Of Science A=
nd
Art
By
Leo Tolstoy
Contents
ON
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF SCIENCE AND ART.
ON
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF SCIENCE AND ART--FROM "WHAT TO DO?"
ON
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF SCIENCE AND ART.
. . . {169} The justification of all
persons who have freed themselves from toil is now founded on experimental,
positive science. The scienti=
fic
theory is as follows:--
"For the stu=
dy
of the laws of life of human societies, there exists but one indubitable
method,--the positive, experimental, critical method
"Only sociol=
ogy,
founded on biology, founded on all the positive sciences, can give us the l=
aws
of humanity. Humanity, or hum=
an communities,
are the organisms already prepared, or still in process of formation, and w=
hich
are subservient to all the laws of the evolution of organisms.
"One of the
chief of these laws is the variation of destination among the portions of t=
he
organs. Some people command, =
others
obey. If some have in superab=
undance,
and others in want, this arises not from the will of God, not because the
empire is a form of manifestation of personality, but because in societies,=
as
in organisms, division of labor becomes indispensable for life as a whole.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Some people perform the muscular l=
abor
in societies; others, the mental labor."
Upon this doctrin=
e is
founded the prevailing justification of our time.
Not long ago, the=
ir
reigned in the learned, cultivated world, a moral philosophy, according to
which it appeared that every thing which exists is reasonable; that there i=
s no
such thing as evil or good; and that it is unnecessary for man to war again=
st
evil, but that it is only necessary for him to display intelligence,--one m=
an
in the military service, another in the judicial, another on the violin.
When I began my
career, Hegelianism was the foundation of every thing. It was floating in the air; it was
expressed in newspaper and periodical articles, in historical and judicial
lectures, in novels, in treatises, in art, in sermons, in conversation. The man who was not acquainted wit=
h Hegal
had no right to speak. Any on=
e who
desired to understand the truth studied Hegel. Every thing rested on him. And all at once the forties passed=
, and
there was nothing left of him.
There was not even a hint of him, any more than if he had never
existed. And the most amazing=
thing
of all was, that Hegelianism did not fall because some one overthrew it or
destroyed it. No! It was the same then as now, but a=
ll at
once it appeared that it was of no use whatever to the learned and cultivat=
ed world.
There was a time =
when
the Hegelian wise men triumphantly instructed the masses; and the crowd,
understanding nothing, blindly believed in every thing, finding confirmatio=
n in
the fact that it was on hand; and they believed that what seemed to them mu=
ddy
and contradictory there on the heights of philosophy was all as clear as the
day. But that time has gone
by. That theory is worn out: =
a new
theory has presented itself in its stead.&=
nbsp;
The old one has become useless; and the crowd has looked into the se=
cret
sanctuaries of the high priests, and has seen that there is nothing there, =
and
that there has been nothing there, save very obscure and senseless words. This has taken place within my mem=
ory.
"But this
arises," people of the present science will say, "from the fact t=
hat
all that was the raving of the theological and metaphysical period; but now
there exists positive, critical science, which does not deceive, since it is
all founded on induction and experiment.&n=
bsp;
Now our erections are not shaky, as they formerly were, and only in =
our
path lies the solution of all the problems of humanity."
But the old teach=
ers
said precisely the same, and they were no fools; and we know that there were
people of great intelligence among them.&n=
bsp;
And precisely thus, within my memory, and with no less confidence, w=
ith
no less recognition on the part of the crowd of so-called cultivated people=
, spoke
the Hegelians. And neither we=
re our
Herzens, our Stankevitches, or our Byelinskys fools. But whence arose that marvellous
manifestation, that sensible people should preach with the greatest assuran=
ce,
and that the crowd should accept with devotion, such unfounded and
unsupportable teachings? Ther=
e is
but one reason,--that the teachings thus inculcated justified people in the=
ir
evil life.
A very poor Engli=
sh
writer, whose works are all forgotten, and recognized as the most insignifi=
cant
of the insignificant, writes a treatise on population, in which he devises a
fictitious law concerning the increase of population disproportionate to the
means of subsistence. This fi=
ctitious
law, this writer encompasses with mathematical formulae founded on nothing
whatever; and then he launches it on the world. From the frivolity and the stupidit=
y of
this hypothesis, one would suppose that it would not attract the attention =
of
any one, and that it would sink into oblivion, like all the works of the sa=
me
author which followed it; but it turned out quite otherwise. The hack-writer who penned this tr=
eatise
instantly becomes a scientific authority, and maintains himself upon that
height for nearly half a century.
Malthus! The Malthusia=
n theory,--the
law of the increase of the population in geometrical, and of the means of
subsistence in arithmetical proportion, and the wise and natural means of
restricting the population,--all these have become scientific, indubitable
truths, which have not been confirmed, but which have been employed as axio=
ms,
for the erection of false theories.
In this manner have learned and cultivated people proceeded; and amo=
ng
the herd of idle persons, there sprung up a pious trust in the great laws e=
xpounded
by Malthus. How did this come=
to
pass? It would seem as though=
they
were scientific deductions, which had nothing in common with the instincts =
of
the masses. But this can only
appear so for the man who believes that science, like the Church, is someth=
ing
self-contained, liable to no errors, and not simply the imaginings of weak =
and
erring folk, who merely substitute the imposing word "science," in
place of the thoughts and words of the people, for the sake of impressivene=
ss.
All that was
necessary was to make practical deductions from the theory of Malthus, in o=
rder
to perceive that this theory was of the most human sort, with the best defi=
ned
of objects. The deductions di=
rectly
arising from this theory were the following: The wretched condition of the =
laboring
classes was such in accordance with an unalterable law, which does not depe=
nd
upon men; and, if any one is to blame in this matter, it is the hungry labo=
ring
classes themselves. Why are t=
hey
such fools as to give birth to children, when they know that there will be
nothing for the children to eat?
And so this deduction, which is valuable for the herd of idle people,
has had this result: that all learned men overlooked the incorrectness, the
utter arbitrariness of these deductions, and their insusceptibility to proo=
f;
and the throng of cultivated, i.e., of idle people, knowing instinctively to
what these deductions lead, saluted this theory with enthusiasm, conferred =
upon
it the stamp of truth, i.e., of science, and dragged it about with them for
half a century.
Is not this same
thing the cause of the confidence of men in positive critical-experimental
science, and of the devout attitude of the crowd towards that which it
preaches? At first it seems
strange, that the theory of evolution can in any manner justify people in t=
heir
evil ways; and it seems as though the scientific theory of evolution has to
deal only with facts, and that it does nothing else but observe facts.
But this only app=
ears
to be the case.
Exactly the same
thing appeared to be the case with the Hegelian doctrine, in a greater degr=
ee,
and also in the special instance of the Malthusian doctrine. Hegelianism was, apparently, occup=
ied
only with its logical constructions, and bore no relation to the life of
mankind. Precisely this seemed to be the case with the Malthusian theory. It appeared to be busy itself only=
with
statistical data. But this wa=
s only
in appearance.
Contemporary scie=
nce
is also occupied with facts alone: it investigates facts. But what facts? Why precisely these facts, and no
others?
The men of
contemporary science are very fond of saying, triumphantly and confidently,
"We investigate only facts," imagining that these words contain s=
ome
meaning. It is impossible to
investigate facts alone, because the facts which are subject to our
investigation are innumerable (in the definite sense of that
word),--innumerable. Before we
proceed to investigate facts, we must have a theory on the foundation of wh=
ich
these or those facts can be inquired into, i.e., selected from the incalcul=
able
quantity.
And this theory
exists, and is even very definitely expressed, although many of the workers=
in
contemporary science do not know it, or often pretend that they do not know
it. Exactly thus has it alway=
s been
with all prevailing and guiding doctrines.=
The foundations of every doctrine are always stated in a theory, and=
the
so-called learned men merely invent further deductions from the foundations
once stated. Thus contemporary
science is selecting its facts on the foundation of a very definite theory,
which it sometimes knows, sometimes refuses to know, and sometimes really d=
oes
not know; but the theory exists.
The theory is as
follows: All mankind is an undying organism; men are the particles of that
organism, and each one of them has his own special task for the service of
others. In the same manner, t=
he
cells united in an organism share among them the labor of fight for existen=
ce
of the whole organism; they magnify the power of one capacity, and weaken
another, and unite in one organ, in order the better to supply the requirem=
ents
of the whole organism. And ex=
actly
in the same manner as with gregarious animals,--ants or bees,--the separate
individuals divide the labor among them.&n=
bsp;
The queen lays the egg, the drone fructifies it; the bee works his w=
hole
life long. And precisely this=
thing
takes place in mankind and in human societies. And therefore, in order to find th=
e law
of life for man, it is necessary to study the laws of the life and the
development of organisms.
In the life and
development of organisms, we find the following laws: the law of differenti=
ation
and integration, the law that every phenomenon is accompanied not by direct
consequences alone, another law regarding the instability of type, and so
on. All this seems very innoc=
ent;
but it is only necessary to draw the deductions from all these laws, in ord=
er
to immediately perceive that these laws incline in the same direction as th=
e law
of Malthus. These laws all po=
int to
one thing; namely, to the recognition of that division of labor which exist=
s in
human communities, as organic, that is to say, as indispensable. And therefore, the unjust position=
in
which we, the people who have freed ourselves from labor, find ourselves, m=
ust
be regarded not from the point of view of common- sense and justice, but me=
rely
as an undoubted fact, confirming the universal law.
Moral philosophy =
also
justified every sort of cruelty and harshness; but this resulted in a
philosophical manner, and therefore wrongly. But with science, all this results
scientifically, and therefore in a manner not to be doubted.
How can we fail to
accept so very beautiful a theory?
It is merely necessary to look upon human society as an object of
contemplation; and I can console myself with the thought that my activity,
whatever may be its nature, is a functional activity of the organism of
humanity, and that therefore there cannot arise any question as to whether =
it
is just that I, in employing the labor of others, am doing only that which =
is agreeable
to me, as there can arise no question as to the division of labor between t=
he
brain cells and the muscular cells.
How is it possible not to admit so very beautiful a theory, in order
that one may be able, ever after, to pocket one's conscience, and have a
perfectly unbridled animal existence, feeling beneath one's self that suppo=
rt
of science which is not to be shaken nowadays!
And it is on this=
new
doctrine that the justification for men's idleness and cruelty is now found=
ed.
This doctrine had its rise not so v=
ery
long--fifty years--ago. Its p=
rincipal
founder was the French savant Comte.
There occurred to Comte,--a systematist, and a religious man to
boot,--under the influence of the then novel physiological investigations of
Biche, the old idea already set forth by Menenius Agrippa,--the idea that h=
uman
society, all humanity even, might be regarded as one whole, as an organism;=
and
men as living parts of the separate organs, having each his own definite ap=
pointment
to serve the entire organism.
This idea so plea=
sed
Comte, that upon it he began to erect a philosophical theory; and this theo=
ry
so carried him away, that he utterly forgot that the point of departure for=
his
theory was nothing more than a very pretty comparison, which was suitable f=
or a
fable, but which could by no means serve as the foundation for science. He, as frequently happens, mistook=
his
pet hypothesis for an axiom, and imagined that his whole theory was erected=
on
the very firmest of foundations. According to his theory, it seemed that si=
nce
humanity is an organism, the knowledge of what man is, and of what should be
his relations to the world, was possible only through a knowledge of the
features of this organism. Fo=
r the
knowledge of these qualities, man is enabled to take observations on other =
and
lower organisms, and to draw conclusions from their life. Therefore, in the fist place, the =
true
and only method, according to Comte, is the inductive, and all science is o=
nly
such when it has experiment as its basis; in the second place, the goal and
crown of sciences is formed by that new science dealing with the imaginary =
organism
of humanity, or the super-organic being,--humanity,--and this newly devised
science is sociology.
And from this vie=
w of
science it appears, that all previous knowledge was deceitful, and that the
whole story of humanity, in the sense of self- knowledge, has been divided =
into
three, actually into two, periods: the theological and metaphysical period,
extending from the beginning of the world to Comte, and the present
period,--that of the only true science, positive science,--beginning with
Comte.
All this was very
well. There was but one error=
, and
that was this,--that the whole edifice was erected on the sand, on the
arbitrary and false assertion that humanity is an organism. This assertion was arbitrary, beca=
use we
have just as much right to admit the existence of a human organism, not sub=
ject
to observation, as we have to admit the existence of any other invisible,
fantastic being. This asserti=
on was
erroneous, because for the understanding of humanity, i.e., of men, the
definition of an organism was incorrectly constructed, while in humanity it=
self
all actual signs of organism,--the centre of feeling or consciousness, are =
lacking.
{178}
But, in spite of =
the
arbitrariness and incorrectness of the fundamental assumption of positive
philosophy, it was accepted by the so-called cultivated world with the grea=
test
sympathy. In this connection,=
one thing
is worthy of note: that out of the works of Comte, consisting of two parts,=
of
positive philosophy and of positive politics, only the first was adopted by=
the
learned world,--that part which justifieth, on new promises, the existent e=
vil
of human societies; but the second part, treating of the moral obligations =
of
altruism, arising from the recognition of mankind as an organism, was regar=
ded
as not only of no importance, but as trivial and unscientific. It was a repetition of the same th=
ing
that had happened in the case of Kant's works. The "Critique of Pure Reason&=
quot;
was adopted by the scientific crowd; but the "Critique of Applied
Reason," that part which contains the gist of moral doctrine, was repu=
diated. In Kant's doctrine, that was accep=
ted as
scientific which subserved the existent evil. But the positive philosophy, which=
was accepted
by the crowd, was founded on an arbitrary and erroneous basis, was in itself
too unfounded, and therefore unsteady, and could not support itself alone.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And so, amid all the multitude of =
the
idle plays of thought of the men professing the so-called science, there
presents itself an assertion equally devoid of novelty, and equally arbitra=
ry
and erroneous, to the effect that living beings, i.e., organisms, have had =
their
rise in each other,--not only one organism from another, but one from many;
i.e., that in a very long interval of time (in a million of years, for
instance), not only could a duck and a fish proceed from one ancestor, but =
that
one animal might result from a whole hive of bees. And this arbitrary and erroneous
assumption was accepted by the learned world with still greater and more
universal sympathy. This assu=
mption
was arbitrary, because no one has ever seen how one organism is made from a=
nother,
and therefore the hypothesis as to the origin of species will always remain=
an
hypothesis, and not an experimental fact.&=
nbsp;
And this hypothesis wa=
s also
erroneous, because the decision of the question as to the origin of
species--that they have originated, in consequence of the law of heredity a=
nd
fitness, in the course of an interminably long time--is no solution at all,=
but
merely a re-statement of the problem in a new form.
According to Mose=
s'
solution of the question (in the dispute with whom the entire significance =
of
this theory lies), it appears that the diversity of the species of living
creatures proceeded according to the will of God, and according to His almi=
ghty
power; but according to the theory of evolution, it appears that the differ=
ence
between living creatures arose by chance, and on account of varying conditi=
ons
of heredity and surroundings, through an endless period of time. The theory of evolution, to speak =
in
simple language, merely asserts, that by chance, in an incalculably long pe=
riod
of time, out of any thing you like, any thing else that you like may develo=
p.
This is no answer=
to
the problem. And the same pro=
blem
is differently expressed: instead of will, chance is offered, and the
co-efficient of the eternal is transposed from the power to the time. But this fresh assertion strengthe=
ned
Comte's assertion. And, moreo=
ver,
according to the ingenuous confession of the founder of Darwin's theory
himself, his idea was aroused in him by the law of Malthus; and he therefor=
e propounded
the theory of the struggle of living creatures and people for existence, as=
the
fundamental law of every living thing.&nbs=
p;
And lo! only this was needed by the throng of idle people for their
justification.
Two insecure
theories, incapable of sustaining themselves on their feet, upheld each oth=
er,
and acquired the semblance of stability.&n=
bsp;
Both theories bore with them that idea which is precious to the crow=
d,
that in the existent evil of human societies, men are not to blame, and that
the existing order of things is that which should prevail; and the new theo=
ry was
adopted by the throng with entire faith and unheard-of enthusiasm. And beho=
ld,
on the strength of these two arbitrary and erroneous hypotheses, accepted as
dogmas of belief, the new scientific doctrine was ratified.
Spencer, for exam=
ple,
in one of his first works, expresses this doctrine thus:--
"Societies a=
nd
organisms," he says, "are alike in the following points:--
"1. In that, beginning as tiny aggrega=
tes,
they imperceptibly grow in mass, so that some of them attain to the size of=
ten
thousand times their original bulk.
"2. In that while they were, in the be=
ginning,
of such simple structure, that they can be regarded as destitute of all
structure, they acquire during the period of their growth a constantly
increasing complication of structure.
"3. In that although in their early,
undeveloped period, there exists between them hardly any interdependence of
parts, their parts gradually acquire an interdependence, which eventually
becomes so strong, that the life and activity of each part becomes possible
only on condition of the life and activity of the remaining parts.
"4. In that life and the development of
society are independent, and more protracted than the life and development =
of
any one of the units constituting it, which are born, grow, act, reproduce
themselves, and die separately; while the political body formed from them,
continues to live generation after generation, developing in mass in perfec=
tion
and functional activity."
The points of
difference between organisms and society go farther; and it is proved that
these differences are merely apparent, but that organisms and societies are
absolutely similar.
For the uninitiat=
ed
man the question immediately presents itself: "What are you talking
about? Why is mankind an orga=
nism,
or similar to an organism?"
You say that
societies resemble organisms in these four features; but it is nothing of t=
he
sort. You only take a few fea=
tures
of the organism, and beneath them you range human communities. You bring forward four features of
resemblance, then you take four features of dissimilarity, which are, howev=
er,
only apparent (according to you); and you thence conclude that human societ=
ies
can be regarded as organisms. But
surely, this is an empty game of dialectics, and nothing more. On the same foundation, under the
features of an organism, you may range whatever you please. I will take the fist thing that co=
mes
into my head. Let us suppose =
it to
be a forest,--the manner in which it sows itself in the plain, and spreads
abroad. 1. Beginning with a s=
mall
aggregate, it increases imperceptibly in mass, and so forth. Exactly the same thing takes place=
in
the fields, when they gradually seed themselves down, and bring forth a
forest. 2. In the beginning t=
he
structure is simple: afterwards it increases in complication, and so
forth. Exactly the same thing=
happens
with the forest,--in the first place, there were only bitch- trees, then ca=
me
brush-wood and hazel-bushes; at first all grow erect, then they interlace t=
heir
branches. 3. The interdepende=
nce of
the parts is so augmented, that the life of each part depends on the life a=
nd activity
of the remaining parts. It is
precisely so with the forest,--the hazel-bush warms the tree-boles (cut it
down, and the other trees will freeze), the hazel-bush protects from the wi=
nd,
the seed-bearing trees carry on reproduction, the tall and leafy trees affo=
rd
shade, and the life of one tree depends on the life of another. 4. The separate parts may die, but=
the
whole lives. Exactly the case=
with
the forest. The forest does n=
ot
mourn one tree.
Having proved tha=
t,
in accordance with this theory, you may regard the forest as an organism, y=
ou
fancy that you have proved to the disciples of the organic doctrine the err=
or
of their definition. Nothing =
of the
sort. The definition which they give to the organism is so inaccurate and s=
o elastic
that under this definition they may include what they will. "Yes,"
they say; "and the forest may also be regarded as an organism. The forest is mutual re-action of
individuals, which do not annihilate each other,--an aggregate; its parts m=
ay also
enter into a more intimate union, as the hive of bees constitutes itself an
organism." Then you will=
say,
"If that is so, then the birds and the insects and the grass of this
forest, which re-act upon each other, and do not destroy each other, may al=
so
be regarded as one organism, in company with the trees." And to this also they will agree.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Every collection of living individ=
uals,
which re-act upon each other, and do not destroy each other, may be regarde=
d as
organisms, according to their theory.
You may affirm a connection and interaction between whatever you cho=
ose,
and, according to evolution, you may affirm, that, out of whatever you plea=
se,
any other thing that you please may proceed, in a very long period of time.=
And the most
remarkable thing of all is, that this same identical positive science
recognizes the scientific method as the sign of true knowledge, and has its=
elf
defined what it designates as the scientific method.
By the scientific
method it means common-sense.
And common-sense =
convicts
it at every step. As soon as =
the
Popes felt that nothing holy remained in them, they called themselves most
holy.
As soon as science
felt that no common-sense was left in her she called herself sensible, that=
is
to say, scientific science.
Division of labor is the law of all
existing things, and, therefore, it should be present in human societies. It is very possible that this is s=
o; but
still the question remains, Of what nature is that division of labor which I
behold in my human society? is it that division of labor which should
exist? And if people regard a
certain division of labor as unreasonable and unjust, then no science whate=
ver
can convince men that that should exist which they regard as unreasonable a=
nd
unjust.
Division of labor=
is
the condition of existence of organisms, and of human societies; but what, =
in
these human societies, is to be regarded as an organic division of labor? And, to whatever extent science ma=
y have
investigated the division of labor in the cells of worms, all these observa=
tions
do not compel a man to acknowledge that division of labor to be correct whi=
ch
his own sense and conscience do not recognize as correct. No matter how convincing may be the
proofs of the division of labor of the cells in the organisms studied, man,=
if
he has not parted with his judgment, will say, nevertheless, that a man sho=
uld
not weave calico all his life, and that this is not division of labor, but =
persecution
of the people. Spencer and ot=
hers
say that there is a whole community of weavers, and that the profession of
weaving is an organic division of labor.&n=
bsp;
There are weavers; so, of course, there is such a division of
labor. It would be well enoug=
h to
speak thus if the colony of weavers had arisen by the free will of its
member's; but we know that it is not thus formed of their initiative, but t=
hat
we make it. Hence it is neces=
sary
to find out whether we have made these weavers in accordance with an organic
law, or with some other.
Men live. They support themselves by agricul=
ture,
as is natural to all men. One=
man
has set up a blacksmith's forge, and repaired his plough; his neighbor come=
s to
him, and asks him to mend his also, and promises him in return either work =
or
money. A third comes, and a f=
ourth;
and in the community formed by these men, there arises the following divisi=
on
of labor,--a blacksmith is created.
Another man has instructed his children well; his neighbor brings his
children to him, and requests him to teach them also, and a teacher is
created. But both blacksmith =
and
teacher have been created, and continue to be such, merely because they have
been asked; and they remain such as long as they are requested to be blacks=
mith
and teacher. If it should com=
e to
pass that many blacksmiths and teachers should set themselves up, or that t=
heir
work is not requited, they will immediately, as common-sense demands and as
always happens when there is no occasion for disturbing the regular course =
of division
of labor,--they will immediately abandon their trade, and betake themselves
once more to agriculture.
Men who behave th=
us
are guided by their sense, their conscience; and hence we, the men endowed =
with
sense and conscience, all assert that such a division of labor is right.
That which
constitutes the cause of the economical poverty of our age is what the Engl=
ish
call over-production (which means that a mass of things are made which are =
of
no use to anybody, and with which nothing can be done).
It would be odd to
see a shoemaker, who should consider that people were bound to feed him bec=
ause
he incessantly made boots which had been of no use to any one for a long ti=
me;
but what shall we say of those men who make nothing,--who not only produce
nothing that is visible, but nothing that is of use for people at large,--f=
or
whose wares there are no customers, and who yet demand, with the same boldn=
ess,
on the ground of division of labor, that they shall be supplied with fine f=
ood
and drink, and that they shall be dressed well? There may be, and there are, sorce=
rers
for whose services a demand makes itself felt, and for this purpose there a=
re
brought to them pancakes and flasks; but it is difficult to imagine the
existence of sorcerers whose spells are useless to every one, and who boldly
demand that they shall be luxuriously supported because they exercise
sorcery. And it is the same i=
n our world. And all this comes about on the ba=
sis of
that false conception of the division of labor, which is defined not by rea=
son
and conscience, but by observation, which men of science avow with such
unanimity.
Division of labor
has, in reality, always existed, and still exists; but it is right only when
man decides with his reason and his conscience that it should be so, and not
when he merely investigates it. And
reason and conscience decide the question for all men very simply, unanimou=
sly,
and in a manner not to be doubted.
They always decide it thus: that division of labor is right only whe=
n a
special branch of man's activity is so needful to men, that they, entreating
him to serve them, voluntarily propose to support him in requital for that
which he shall do for them. But, when a man can live from infancy to the ag=
e of
thirty years on the necks of others, promising to do, when he shall have be=
en
taught, something extremely useful, for which no one asks him; and when, fr=
om
the age of thirty until his death, he can live in the same manner, still me=
rely
on the promise to do something, for which there has been no request, this w=
ill
not be division of labor (and, as a matter of fact, there is no such thing =
in
our society), but it will be what it already is,--merely the appropriation,=
by
force, of the toil of others; that same appropriation by force of the toil =
of
others which the philosophers formerly designated by various names,--for
instance, as indispensable forms of life,--but which scientific science now
calls the organic division of labor.
The whole
significance of scientific science lies in this alone. It has now become a distributer of
diplomas for idleness; for it alone, in its sanctuaries, selects and determ=
ines
what is parasitical, and what is organic activity, in the social organism.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Just as though every man could not=
find
this out for himself much more accurately and more speedily, by taking coun=
sel
of his reason and his conscience.
It seems to men of scientific science, that there can be no doubt of
this, and that their activity is also indubitably organic; they, the scient=
ific
and artistic workers, are the brain cells, and the most precious cells in t=
he
whole organism.
Ever since
men--reasoning beings--have existed, they have distinguished good from evil=
, and
have profited by the fact that men have made this distinction before them; =
they
have warred against evil, and have sought the good, and have slowly but
uninterruptedly advanced in that path.&nbs=
p;
And divers delusions have always stood before men, hemming in this p=
ath,
and having for their object to demonstrate to them, that it was not necessa=
ry to
do this, and that it was not necessary to live as they were living. With
fearful conflict and difficulty, men have freed themselves from many delusi=
ons. And behold, a new and a still more=
evil
delusion has sprung up in the path of mankind,--the scientific delusion.
This new delusion=
is
precisely the same in nature as the old ones; its gist lies in secretly lea=
ding
astray the activity of our reason and conscience, and of those who have liv=
ed
before us, by something external. In scientific science, this external thing
is--investigation.
The cunning of th=
is
science consists in this,--that, after pointing out to men the coarsest fal=
se
interpretations of the activity of the reason and conscience of man, it
destroys in them faith in their own reason and conscience, and assures them
that every thing which their reason and conscience say to them, that all th=
at
these have said to the loftiest representatives of man heretofore, ever sin=
ce
the world has existed,--that all this is conventional and subjective. "All this must be abandoned,&=
quot; they
say; "it is impossible to understand the truth by the reason, for we m=
ay
be mistaken. But there exists
another unerring and almost mechanical path: it is necessary to investigate
facts."
But facts must be
investigated on the foundation of scientific science, i.e., of the two
hypotheses of positivism and evolution, which are not borne out by any thin=
g,
and which give themselves out as undoubted truths. And the reigning science announces=
, with
delusive solemnity, that the solution of all problems of life is possible o=
nly
through the study of facts, of nature, and, in particular, of organisms.
But the farther t=
he
disciples proceed in this study, the farther and farther does not only the
possibility, but even the very idea, of the solution of the problems of life
withdraw from them, and the more and more do they become accustomed, not so
much to investigate, as to believe in the assertions of other investigators=
(to
believe in cells, in protoplasm, in the fourth condition of bodies, and so
forth); the more and more does the form veil the contents from them; the mo=
re
and more do they lose the consciousness of good and evil, and the capacity =
of understanding
those expressions and definitions of good and evil which have been elaborat=
ed
through the whole foregoing life of mankind; and the more and more do they
appropriate to themselves the special scientific jargon of conventional
expressions, which possesses no universally human significance; and the dee=
per
and deeper do they plunge into the debris of utterly unilluminated
investigations; the more and more do they lose the power, not only of
independent thought, but even of understanding the fresh human thought of
others, which lies beyond the bounds of their Talmud. But the principal thing is, that t=
hey
pass their best years in getting disused to life; they grow accustomed to
consider their position as justifiable; and they convert themselves physica=
lly
into utterly useless parasites, and mentally they dislocate their brains and
become mental eunuchs. And in
precisely the same manner, according to the measure of their folly, do they
acquire self-conceit, which deprives them forever of all possibility of ret=
urn
to a simple life of toil, to a simple, clear, and universally human train of
reasoning.
Division of labor
always has existed in human communities, and will probably always exist; but
the question for us lies not in the fact that it has existed, and that it w=
ill
exist, but in this,--how are we to govern ourselves so that this division s=
hall
be right? But if we take inve=
stigation
as our rule of action, we by this very act repudiate all rule; then in that
case we shall regard as right every division of labor which we shall descry
among men, and which appears to us to be right--to which conclusion the
prevailing scientific science also leads.
Division of labor=
!
Some are busied in
mental or moral, others in muscular or physical, labor. With what confidence people enunci=
ate
this! They wish to think so, =
and it
seems to them that, in point of fact, a perfectly regular exchange of servi=
ces
does take place.
But we, in our bl=
indness,
have so completely lost sight of the responsibility which we have assumed, =
that
we have even forgotten in whose name our labor is prosecuted; and the very
people whom we have undertaken to serve have become the objects of our
scientific and artistic activity.
We study and depict them for our amusement and diversion. We have totally forgotten that wha=
t we
need to do is not to study and depict them, but to serve them. To such a degree have we lost sigh=
t of
this duty which we have taken upon us, that we have not even noticed that w=
hat
we have undertaken to perform in the realm of science and art has been
accomplished not by us, but by others, and that our place has turned out to=
be
occupied.
It proves that wh=
ile
we have been disputing, one about the spontaneous origin of organisms, anot=
her
as to what else there is in protoplasm, and so on, the common people have b=
een
in need of spiritual food; and the unsuccessful and rejected of art and
science, in obedience to the mandate of adventurers who have in view the so=
le
aim of profit, have begun to furnish the people with this spiritual food, a=
nd
still so furnish them. For the last forty years in Europe, and for the last=
ten
years with us here in Russia, millions of books and pictures and song-books
have been distributed, and stalls have been opened, and the people gaze and
sing and receive spiritual nourishment, but not from us who have undertaken=
to provide
it; while we, justifying our idleness by that spiritual food which we are
supposed to furnish, sit by and wink at it.
But it is impossi=
ble
for us to wink at it, for our last justification is slipping from beneath o=
ur
feet. We have become
specialized. We have our part=
icular
functional activity. We are t=
he
brains of the people. They su=
pport
us, and we have undertaken to teach them.&=
nbsp;
It is only under this pretence that we have excused ourselves from
work. But what have we taught=
them,
and what are we now teaching them?
They have waited for years--for tens, for hundreds of years. And we keep on diverting our minds=
with
chatter, and we instruct each other, and we console ourselves, and we have
utterly forgotten them. We ha=
ve so
entirely forgotten them, that others have undertaken to instruct them, and =
we
have not even perceived it. W=
e have
spoken of the division of labor with such lack of seriousness, that it is
obvious that what we have said about the benefits which we have conferred on
the people was simply a shameless evasion.
Science and art have arrogated to
themselves the right of idleness, and of the enjoyment of the labor of othe=
rs,
and have betrayed their calling. And their errors have arisen merely because
their servants, having set forth a falsely conceived principle of the divis=
ion
of labor, have recognized their own right to make use of the labor of other=
s,
and have lost the significance of their vocation; having taken for their ai=
m,
not the profit of the people, but the mysterious profit of science and art,=
and
delivered themselves over to idleness and vice--not so much of the senses a=
s of
the mind.
They say,
"Science and art have bestowed a great deal on mankind."
Science and art h=
ave
bestowed a great deal on mankind, not because the men of art and science, u=
nder
the pretext of a division of labor, live on other people, but in spite of t=
his.
The Roman Republic
was powerful, not because her citizens had the power to live a vicious life,
but because among their number there were heroic citizens. It is the same with art and
science. Art and science have=
bestowed
much on mankind, but not because their followers formerly possessed on rare
occasions (and now possess on every occasion) the possibility of getting ri=
d of
labor; but because there have been men of genius, who, without making use of
these rights, have led mankind forward.
The class of lear=
ned
men and artists, which has advanced, on the fictitious basis of a division =
of
labor, its demands to the right of using the labors of others, cannot
co-operate in the success of true science and true art, because a lie canno=
t bring
forth the truth.
We have become so
accustomed to these, our tenderly reared or weakened representatives of men=
tal
labor, that it seems to us horrible that a man of science or an artist shou=
ld
plough or cart manure. It see=
ms to
us that every thing would go to destruction, and that all his wisdom would =
be
rattled out of him in the cart, and that all those grand picturesque images
which he bears about in his breast would be soiled in the manure; but we ha=
ve
become so inured to this, that it does not strike us as strange that our
servitor of science--that is to say, the servant and teacher of the truth--=
by
making other people do for him that which he might do for himself, passes h=
alf
his time in dainty eating, in smoking, in talking, in free and easy gossip,=
in
reading the newspapers and romances, and in visiting the theatres. It is not strange to us to see our
philosopher in the tavern, in the theatre, and at the ball. It is not strange in our eyes to l=
earn
that those artists who sweeten and ennoble our souls have passed their live=
s in
drunkenness, cards, and women, if not in something worse.
Art and science a=
re
very beautiful things; but just because they are so beautiful they should n=
ot
be spoiled by the compulsory combination with them of vice: that is to say,=
a
man should not get rid of his obligation to serve his own life and that of
other people by his own labor. Art
and science have caused mankind to progress. Yes; but not because men of art and
science, under the guise of division of labor, have rid themselves of the v=
ery
first and most indisputable of human obligations,--to labor with their hand=
s in
the universal struggle of mankind with nature.
"But only the
division of labor, the freedom of men of science and of art from the necess=
ity
of earning them living, has rendered possible that remarkable success of
science which we behold in our day," is the answer to this. "If all were forced to till t=
he
soil, those vast results would not have been attained which have been attai=
ned
in our day; there would have been none of those striking successes which ha=
ve
so greatly augmented man's power over nature, were it not for these
astronomical discoveries which are so astounding to the mind of man, and wh=
ich
have added to the security of navigation; there would be no steamers, no ra=
ilways,
none of those wonderful bridges, tunnels, steam-engines and telegraphs,
photography, telephones, sewing-machines, phonographs, electricity, telesco=
pes,
spectroscopes, microscopes, chloroform, Lister's bandages, and carbolic
acid."
I will not enumer=
ate
every thing on which our age thus prides itself. This enumeration and pride=
of
enthusiasm over ourselves and our exploits can be found in almost any newsp=
aper
and popular pamphlet. This en=
thusiasm
over ourselves is often repeated to such a degree that none of us can
sufficiently rejoice over ourselves, that we are seriously convinced that a=
rt
and science have never made such progress as in our own time. And, as we are indebted for all th=
is
marvellous progress to the division of labor, why not acknowledge it?
Let us admit that=
the
progress made in our day is noteworthy, marvellous, unusual; let us admit t=
hat
we are fortunate mortals to live in such a remarkable epoch: but let us
endeavor to appraise this progress, not on the basis of our self-satisfacti=
on,
but of that principle which defends itself with this progress,--the divisio=
n of
labor. All this progress is v=
ery
amazing; but by a peculiarly unlucky chance, admitted even by the men of
science, this progress has not so far improved, but it has rather rendered
worse, the position of the majority, that is to say, of the workingman.
If the workingman=
can
travel on the railway, instead of walking, still that same railway has burn=
ed
down his forest, has carried off his grain under his very nose, and has bro=
ught
his condition very near to slavery--to the capitalist. If, thanks to steam-engines and
machines, the workingman can purchase inferior calico at a cheap rate, on t=
he
other hand these engines and machines have deprived him of work at home, an=
d have
brought him into a state of abject slavery to the manufacturer. If there are telephones and telesc=
opes,
poems, romances, theatres, ballets, symphonies, operas, picture-galleries, =
and
so forth, on the other hand the life of the workingman has not been bettere=
d by
all this; for all of them, by the same unlucky chance, are inaccessible to =
him.
So that, on the w=
hole
(and even men of science admit this), up to the present time, all these
remarkable discoveries and products of science and art have certainly not
ameliorated the condition of the workingman, if, indeed, they have not made=
it
worse. So that, if we set aga=
inst
the question as to the reality of the progress attained by the arts and sci=
ences,
not our own rapture, but that standard upon the basis of which the division=
of
labor is defended,--the good of the laboring man,--we shall see that we hav=
e no
firm foundations for that self-satisfaction in which we are so fond of
indulging.
The peasant trave=
ls
on the railway, the woman buys calico, in the isba (cottage) there will be a
lamp instead of a pine-knot, and the peasant will light his pipe with a
match,--this is convenient; but what right have I to say that the railway a=
nd
the factory have proved advantageous to the people?
If the peasant ri=
des
on the railway, and buys calico, a lamp, and matches, it is only because it=
is
impossible to forbid the peasant's buying them; but surely we are all aware
that the construction of railways and factories has never been carried out =
for
the benefit of the lower classes: so why should a casual convenience which =
the
workingman enjoys lead to a proof of the utility of all these institutions =
for
the people?
There is something
useful in every injurious thing.
After a conflagration, one can warm one's self, and light one's pipe
with a firebrand; but why declare that the conflagration is beneficial?
Men of art and
science might say that their pursuits are beneficial to the people, only wh=
en
men of art and science have assigned to themselves the object of serving the
people, as they now assign themselves the object of serving the authorities=
and
the capitalists. We might say=
this if
men of art and science had taken as their aim the needs of the people; but
there are none such. All scie=
ntists
are busy with their priestly avocations, out of which proceed investigations
into protoplasm, the spectral analyses of stars, and so on. But science has never once thought=
of
what axe or what hatchet is the most profitable to chop with, what saw is t=
he
most handy, what is the best way to mix bread, from what flour, how to set =
it,
how to build and heat an oven, what food and drink, and what utensils, are =
the
most convenient and advantageous under certain conditions, what mushrooms m=
ay
be eaten, how to propagate them, and how to prepare them in the most suitab=
le
manner. And yet all this is t=
he province
of science.
I am aware, that,
according to its own definition, science ought to be useless, i.e., science=
for
the sake of science; but surely this is an obvious evasion. The province of science is to serv=
e the
people. We have invented
telegraphs, telephones, phonographs; but what advances have we effected in =
the
life, in the labor, of the people?
We have reckoned up two millions of beetles! And we have not tamed a single ani=
mal
since biblical times, when all our animals were already domesticated; but t=
he reindeer,
the stag, the partridge, the heath-cock, all remain wild.
Our botanists have
discovered the cell, and in the cell protoplasm, and in that protoplasm sti=
ll
something more, and in that atom yet another thing. It is evident that these occupatio=
ns
will not end for a long time to come, because it is obvious that there can =
be
no end to them, and therefore the scientist has no time to devote to those
things which are necessary to the people.&=
nbsp;
And therefore, again, from the time of Egyptian and Hebrew antiquity,
when wheat and lentils had already been cultivated, down to our own times, =
not
a single plant has been added to the food of the people, with the exception=
of
the potato, and that was not obtained by science.
Torpedoes have be=
en
invented, and apparatus for taxation, and so forth. But the spinning-whined,
the woman's weaving-loom, the plough, the hatchet, the chain, the rake, the
bucket, the well-sweep, are exactly the same as they were in the days of Ru=
rik;
and if there has been any change, then that change has not been effected by
scientific people.
And it is the same
with the arts. We have elevat=
ed a
lot of people to the rank of great writers; we have picked these writers to
pieces, and have written mountains of criticism, and criticism on the criti=
cs,
and criticism on the critics of the critics. And we have collected picture- gal=
leries,
and have studied different schools of art in detail; and we have so many
symphonies and orchestras and operas, that it is becoming difficult even fo=
r us
to listen to them. But what h=
ave we
added to the popular bylini [the epic songs], legends, tales, songs? What music, what pictures, have we=
given
to the people?
On the Nikolskaya
books are manufactured for the people, and harmonicas in Tula; and in neith=
er
have we taken any part. The f=
alsity
of the whole direction of our arts and sciences is more striking and more
apparent in precisely those very branches, which, it would seem, should, fr=
om
their very nature, be of use to the people, and which, in consequence of th=
eir false
attitude, seem rather injurious than useful. The technologist, the physician, t=
he
teacher, the artist, the author, should, in virtue of their very callings, =
it
would seem, serve the people. And,
what then? Under the present regime, they can do nothing but harm to the
people.
The technologist =
or
the mechanic has to work with capital.&nbs=
p;
Without capital he is good for nothing. All his acquirements are such that=
for their
display he requires capital, and the exploitation of the laboring- man on t=
he
largest scale; and--not to mention that he is trained to live, at the lowes=
t,
on from fifteen hundred to two thousand a year, and that, therefore, he can=
not
go to the country, where no one can give him such wages,--he is, by virtue =
of
his very occupation, unfitted for serving the people. He knows how to calculate the high=
est
mathematical arch of a bridge, how to calculate the force and transfer of t=
he
motive power, and so on; but he is confounded by the simplest questions of a
peasant: how to improve a plough or a cart, or how to make irrigating
canals. All this in the condi=
tions
of life in which the laboring man finds himself. Of this, he neither knows =
nor
understands any thing,--less, indeed, than the very stupidest peasant. Give him workshops, all sorts of w=
orkmen
at his desire, an order for a machine from abroad, and he will get along. B=
ut
how to devise means of lightening toil, under the conditions of labor of
millions of men,--this is what he does not and can not know; and because of=
his
knowledge, his habits, and his demands on life, he is unfitted for this
business.
In a still worse
predicament is the physician. His
fancied science is all so arranged, that he only knows how to heal those
persons who do nothing. He re=
quires
an incalculable quantity of expensive preparations, instruments, drugs, and
hygienic apparatus.
He has studied wi=
th
celebrities in the capitals, who only retain patients who can be cured in t=
he
hospital, or who, in the course of their cure, can purchase the appliances
requisite for healing, and even go at once from the North to the South, to =
some
baths or other. Science is of=
such a
nature, that every rural physic-man laments because there are no means of
curing working-men, because he is so poor that he has not the means to place
the sick man in the proper hygienic conditions; and at the same time this
physician complains that there are no hospitals, and that he cannot get thr=
ough
with his work, that he needs assistants, more doctors and practitioners.
What is the
inference? This: that the peo=
ple's
principal lack, from which diseases arise, and spread abroad, and refuse to=
be
healed, is the lack of means of subsistence. And here Science, under the banner=
of
the division of labor, summons her warriors to the aid of the people. Science is entirely arranged for t=
he
wealthy classes, and it has adopted for its task the healing of the people =
who
can obtain every thing for themselves; and it attempts to heal those who
possess no superfluity, by the same means.
But there are no
means, and therefore it is necessary to take them from the people who are
ailing, and pest-stricken, and who cannot recover for lack of means. And now the defenders of medicine =
for
the people say that this matter has been, as yet, but little developed. Evidently it has been but little
developed, because if (which God forbid!) it had been developed, and that
through oppressing the people,--instead of two doctors, midwives, and
practitioners in a district, twenty would have settled down, since they des=
ire
this, and half the people would have died through the difficulty of support=
ing
this medical staff, and soon there would be no one to heal.
Scientific co-ope=
ration
with the people, of which the defenders of science talk, must be something
quite different. And this
co-operation which should exist has not yet begun. It will begin when the man of scie=
nce,
technologist or physician, will not consider it legal to take from people--I
will not say a hundred thousand, but even a modest ten thousand, or five
hundred rubles for assisting them; but when he will live among the toiling
people, under the same conditions, and exactly as they do, then he will be =
able
to apply his knowledge to the questions of mechanics, technics, hygiene, and
the healing of the laboring people.
But now science, supporting itself at the expense of the working-peo=
ple,
has entirely forgotten the conditions of life among these people, ignores (=
as it
puts it) these conditions, and takes very grave offence because its fancied
knowledge finds no adherents among the people.
The domain of
medicine, like the domain of technical science, still lies untouched. All questions as to how the time of
labor is best divided, what is the best method of nourishment, with what, in
what shape, and when it is best to clothe one's self, to shoe one's self, to
counteract dampness and cold, how best to wash one's self, to feed the
children, to swaddle them, and so on, in just those conditions in which the
working- people find themselves,--all these questions have not yet been pro=
pounded.
The same is the c=
ase
with the activity of the teachers of science,--pedagogical teachers. Exactly in the same manner science=
has so
arranged this matter, that only wealthy people are able to study science, a=
nd
teachers, like technologists and physicians, cling to money.
And this cannot be
otherwise, because a school built on a model plan (as a general rule, the m=
ore
scientifically built the school, the more costly it is), with pivot chains,=
and
globes, and maps, and library, and petty text-books for teachers and schola=
rs
and pedagogues, is a sort of thing for which it would be necessary to double
the taxes in every village. This science demands. The people need money for their wo=
rk;
and the more there is needed, the poorer they are.
Defenders of scie=
nce
say: "Pedagogy is even now proving of advantage to the people, but giv=
e it
a chance to develop, and then it will do still better." Yes, if it does develop, and inste=
ad of
twenty schools in a district there are a hundred, and all scientific, and if
the people support these schools, they will grow poorer than ever, and they
will more than ever need work for their children's sake. "What is to be done?" th=
ey say
to this. The government will =
build
the schools, and will make education obligatory, as it is in Europe; but ag=
ain,
surely, the money is taken from the people just the same, and it will be ha=
rder
to work, and they will have less leisure for work, and there will be no edu=
cation
even by compulsion. Again the=
sole
salvation is this: that the teacher should live under the conditions of the
working-men, and should teach for that compensation which they give him fre=
ely
and voluntarily.
Such is the false
course of science, which deprives it of the power of fulfilling its obligat=
ion,
which is, to serve the people.
But in nothing is
this false course of science so obviously apparent, as in the vocation of a=
rt,
which, from its very significance, ought to be accessible to the people.
The painter, for =
the
production of his great works, must have a studio of at least such dimensio=
ns
that a whole association of carpenters (forty in number) or shoemakers, now
sickening or stifling in lairs, would be able to work in it. But this is not all; he must have a
model, costumes, travels. Mil=
lions
are expended on the encouragement of art, and the products of this art are =
both
incomprehensible and useless to the people. Musicians, in order to express
their grand ideas, must assemble two hundred men in white neckties, or in
costumes, and spend hundreds of thousands of rubles for the equipment of an
opera. And the products of th=
is art
cannot evoke from the people--even if the latter could at any time enjoy
it--any thing except amazement and ennui.
Writers--authors-=
-it
appears, do not require surroundings, studios, models, orchestras, and acto=
rs;
but it then appears that the author needs (not to mention comfort in his
quarters) all the dainties of life for the preparation of his great works,
travels, palaces, cabinets, libraries, the pleasures of art, visits to
theatres, concerts, the baths, and so on. If he does not earn a fortune for
himself, he is granted a pension, in order that he may compose the better.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And again, these compositions, so =
prized
by us, remain useless lumber for the people, and utterly unserviceable to t=
hem.
And if still more=
of
these dealers in spiritual nourishment are developed further, as men of sci=
ence
desire, and a studio is erected in every village; if an orchestra is set up,
and authors are supported in those conditions which artistic people regard =
as
indispensable for themselves,--I imagine that the working-classes will soon=
er
take an oath never to look at any pictures, never to listen to a symphony,
never to read poetry or novels, than to feed all these persons.
And why, apparent=
ly,
should art not be of service to the people? In every cottage there are images =
and
pictures; every peasant man and woman sings; many own harmonicas; and all
recite stories and verses, and many read.&=
nbsp;
It is as if those two things which are made for each other--the lock=
and
the key--had parted company; they have sprung so far apart, that not even t=
he
possibility of uniting them presents itself. Tell the artist that he should pai=
nt
without a studio, model, or costumes, and that he should paint five-kopek
pictures, and he will say that that is tantamount to abandoning his art, as=
he
understands it. Tell the musi=
cian
that he should play on the harmonica, and teach the women to sing songs; sa=
y to
the poet, to the author, that he ought to cast aside his poems and romances,
and compose song-books, tales, and stories, comprehensible to the uneducated
people,--they will say that you are mad.
The service of the
people by science and art will only be performed when people, dwelling in t=
he
midst of the common folk, and, like the common folk, putting forward no
demands, claiming no rights, shall offer to the common folk their scientific
and artistic services; the acceptance or rejection of which shall depend wh=
olly
on the will of the common folk.
It is said that t=
he
activity of science and art has aided in the forward march of mankind,--mea=
ning
by this activity, that which is now called by that name; which is the same =
as
saying that an unskilled banging of oars on a vessel that is floating with =
the
tide, which merely hinders the progress of the vessel, is assisting the
movement of the ship. It only=
retards
it. The so-called division of
labor, which has become in our day the condition of activity of men of scie=
nce
and art, was, and has remained, the chief cause of the tardy forward moveme=
nt
of mankind.
The proofs of this
lie in that confession of all men of science, that the gains of science and=
art
are inaccessible to the laboring masses, in consequence of the faulty distr=
ibution
of riches. The irregularity o=
f this
distribution does not decrease in proportion to the progress of science and
art, but only increases. Men =
of art
and science assume an air of deep pity for this unfortunate circumstance wh=
ich
does not depend upon them. Bu=
t this
unfortunate circumstance is produced by themselves; for this irregular
distribution of wealth flows solely from the theory of the division of labo=
r.
Science maintains=
the
division of labor as a unalterable law; it sees that the distribution of
wealth, founded on the division of labor, is wrong and ruinous; and it affi=
rms
that its activity, which recognizes the division of labor, will lead people=
to
bliss. The result is, that so=
me people
make use of the labor of others; but that, if they shall make use of the la=
bor
of others for a very long period of time, and in still larger measure, then
this wrongful distribution of wealth, i.e., the use of the labor of others,
will come to an end.
Men stand beside a
constantly swelling spring of water, and are occupied with the problem of
diverting it to one side, away from the thirsty people, and they assert that
they are producing this water, and that soon enough will be collected for
all. But this water which has
flowed, and which still flows unceasingly, and nourishes all mankind, not o=
nly
is not the result of the activity of the men who, standing at its source, t=
urn it
aside, but this water flows and gushes out, in spite of the efforts of these
men to obstruct its flow.
There have always
existed a true science, and a true art; but true science and art are not su=
ch
because they called themselves by that name. It always seems to those who c=
laim
at any given period to be the representatives of science and art, that they
have performed, and are performing, and--most of all--that they will presen=
tly
perform, the most amazing marvels, and that beside them there never has been
and there is not any science or any art.&n=
bsp;
Thus it seemed to the sophists, the scholastics, the alchemists, the
cabalists, the talmudists; and thus it seems to our own scientific science,=
and
to our art for the sake of art.
"But art,--science! You repudiate art and science; tha=
t is,
you repudiate that by which mankind lives!" People are constantly making this-=
-it is
not a reply--to me, and they employ this mode of reception in order to reje=
ct
my deductions without examining into them.=
"He repudiates science and art, he wants to send people back ag=
ain
into a savage state; so what is the use of listening to him and of talking =
to him?" But this is unjust. I not only do not repudiate art and
science, but, in the name of that which is true art and true science, I say
that which I do say; merely in order that mankind may emerge from that sava=
ge state
into which it will speedily fall, thanks to the erroneous teaching of our
time,--only for this purpose do I say that which I say.
Art and science a=
re
as indispensable as food and drink and clothing,--more indispensable even; =
but
they become so, not because we decide that what we designate as art and sci=
ence
are indispensable, but simply because they really are indispensable to peop=
le.
Surely, if hay is
prepared for the bodily nourishment of men, the fact that we are convinced =
that
hay is the proper food for man will not make hay the food of man. Surely I cannot say, "Why do =
not
you eat hay, when it is the indispensable food?" Food is indispensable, but it may =
happen
that that which I offer is not food at all. This same thing has occurred with =
our
art and science. It seems to =
us,
that if we add to a Greek word the word "logy," and call that a
science, it will be a science; and, if we call any abominable thing--like t=
he
dancing of nude females--by a Greek word, choreography, that that is art, a=
nd
that it will be art. But no m=
atter
how much we may say this, the business with which we occupy ourselves when =
we
count beetles, and investigate the chemical constituents of the stars in the
Milky Way, when we paint nymphs and compose novels and symphonies,--our
business will not become either art or science until such time as it is
accepted by those people for whom it is wrought.
If it were decided
that only certain people should produce food, and if all the rest were
forbidden to do this, or if they were rendered incapable of producing food,=
I
suppose that the quality of food would be lowered. If the people who enjoyed the mono=
poly
of producing food were Russian peasants, there would be no other food than
black bread and cabbage-soup, and so on, and kvas,--nothing except what the=
y like,
and what is agreeable to them. The
same thing would happen in the case of that loftiest human pursuit, of arts=
and
sciences, if one caste were to arrogate to itself a monopoly of them: but w=
ith
this sole difference, that, in the matter of bodily food, there can be no g=
reat
departure from nature, and bread and cabbage-soup, although not very savory
viands, are fit for consumption; but in spiritual food, there may exist the
very greatest departures from nature, and some people may feed themselves f=
or a
long time on poisonous spiritual nourishment, which is directly unsuitable =
for,
or injurious to, them; they may slowly kill themselves with spiritual opium=
or
liquors, and they may offer this same food to the masses.
It is this very t= hing that is going on among us. An= d it has come about because the position of men of science and art is a privileg= ed one, because art and science (in our day), in our world, are not at all a r= ational occupation of all mankind without exception, exerting their best powers for= the service of art and science, but an occupation of a restricted circle of peo= ple holding a monopoly of these industries, and entitling themselves men of art= and science, and who have, therefore, perverted the very idea of art and scienc= e, and have lost all the meaning of their vocation, and who are only concerned= in amusing and rescuing from crushing ennui their tiny circle of idle mouths.<= o:p>
Ever since men ha=
ve
existed, they have always had science and art in the simplest and broadest
sense of the term. Science, i=
n the
sense of the whole of knowledge acquired by mankind, exists and always has
existed, and life without it is not conceivable; and there is no possibilit=
y of
either attacking or defending science, taken in this sense.
But the point lies
here,--that the scope of the knowledge of all mankind as a whole is so
multifarious, ranging from the knowledge of how to extract iron to the
knowledge of the movements of the planets, that man loses himself in this
multitude of existing knowledge,--knowledge capable of endless possibilitie=
s,
if he have no guiding thread, by the aid of which he can classify this
knowledge, and arrange the branches according to the degrees of their
significance and importance.
Before a man
undertakes to learn any thing whatever, he must make up his mind that that
branch of knowledge is of weight to him, and of more weight and importance =
than
the countless other objects of study with which he is surrounded. Before undertaking the study of any
thing, a man decides for what purpose he is studying this subject, and not =
the
others. But to study every thing, as the men of scientific science in our d=
ay preach,
without any idea of what is to come out of such study, is downright impossi=
ble,
because the number of subjects of study is endless; and hence, no matter how
many branches we may acquire, their acquisition can possess no significance=
or
reason. And, therefore, in an=
cient
times, down to even a very recent date, until the appearance of scientific
science, man's highest wisdom consisted in finding that guiding thread,
according to which the knowledge of men should be classified as being of
primary or of secondary importance.
And this knowledge, which forms the guide to all other branches of
knowledge, men have always called science in the strictest acceptation of t=
he
word. And such science there =
has
always been, even down to our own day, in all human communities which have
emerged from their primal state of savagery.
Ever since mankind
has existed, teachers have always arisen among peoples, who have enunciated
science in this restricted sense,--the science of what it is most useful for
man to know. This science has=
always
had for its object the knowledge of what is the true ground of the well-bei=
ng
of each individual man, and of all men, and why. Such was the science of Confucius,=
of
Buddha, of Socrates, of Mahomet, and of others; such is this science as they
understood it, and as all men--with the exception of our little circle of
so-called cultured people--understand it.&=
nbsp;
This science has not only always occupied the highest place, but has=
been
the only and sole science, from which the standing of the rest has been
determined. And this was the =
case,
not in the least because, as the so-called scientific people of our day thi=
nk,
cunning priestly teachers of this science attributed to it such significanc=
e,
but because in reality, as every one knows, both by personal experience and=
by reflection,
there can be no science except the science of that in which the destiny and
welfare of man consist. For t=
he
objects of science are incalculable in number,--I undermine the word
"incalculable" in the exact sense in which I understand it,--and
without the knowledge of that in which the destiny and welfare of all men
consist, there is no possibility of making a choice amid this interminable
multitude of subjects; and therefore, without this knowledge, all other arts
and branches of learning will become, as they have become among us, an idle=
and
hurtful diversion.
Mankind has exist=
ed
and existed, and never has it existed without the science of that in which =
the
destiny and the welfare of men consist.&nb=
sp;
It is true that the science of the welfare of men appears different =
on superficial
observation, among the Buddhists, the Brahmins, the Hebrews, the Confucians,
the Tauists; but nevertheless, wherever we hear of men who have emerged fro=
m a
state of savagery, we find this science.&n=
bsp;
And all of a sudden it appears that the men of our day have decided =
that
this same science, which has hitherto served as the guiding thread of all h=
uman
knowledge, is the very thing which hinders every thing. Men erect buildings; and one archi=
tect
has made one estimate of cost, a second has made another, and a third yet
another. The estimates differ
somewhat; but they are correct, so that any one can see, that, if the whole=
is carried
out in accordance with the calculations, the building will be erected. Along come people, and assert that=
the
chief point lies in having no estimates, and that it should be built thus--=
by
the eye. And this "thus,=
"
men call the most accurate of scientific science. Men repudiate every science, the v=
ery
substance of science,--the definition of the destiny and the welfare of
men,--and this repudiation they designate as science.
Ever since men ha=
ve existed,
great minds have been born into their midst, which, in the conflict with re=
ason
and conscience, have put to themselves questions as to "what constitut=
es
welfare,--the destiny and welfare, not of myself alone, but of every
man?" What does that pow=
er
which has created and which leads me, demand of me and of every man? And what is it necessary for me to=
do,
in order to comply with the requirements imposed upon me by the demands of
individual and universal welfare?
They have asked themselves: "I am a whole, and also a part of
something infinite, eternal; what, then, are my relations to other parts
similar to myself, to men and to the whole--to the world?"
And from the voic=
es
of conscience and of reason, and from a comparison of what their contempora=
ries
and men who had lived before them, and who had propounded to themselves the
same questions, had said, these great teachers have deduced their doctrines,
which were simple, clear, intelligible to all men, and always such as were
susceptible of fulfilment. Su=
ch men
have existed of the first, second, third, and lowest ranks. The world is full of such men. Every living man propounds the que=
stion
to himself, how to reconcile the demands of welfare, and of his personal
existence, with conscience and reason; and from this universal labor, slowly
but uninterruptedly, new forms of life, which are more in accord with the
requirements of reason and of conscience, are worked out.
All at once, a new
caste of people makes its appearance, and they say, "All this is nonse=
nse;
all this must be abandoned."
This is the deductive method of ratiocination (wherein lies the
difference between the deductive and the inductive method, no one can
understand); these are the dogmas of the technological and metaphysical
period. Every thing that thes=
e men
discover by inward experience, and which they communicate to one another,
concerning their knowledge of the law of their existence (of their function=
al
activity, according to their own jargon), every thing that the grandest min=
ds
of mankind have accomplished in this direction, since the beginning of the
world,--all this is nonsense, and has no weight whatever. According to this new doctrine, it
appears that you are cells: and that you, as a cell, have a very definite
functional activity, which you not only fulfil, but which you infallibly fe=
el
within you; and that you are a thinking, talking, understanding cell, and t=
hat you,
for this reason, can ask another similar talking cell whether it is just the
same, and in this way verify your own experience; that you can take advanta=
ge
of the fact that speaking cells, which have lived before you, have written =
on
the same subject, and that you have millions of cells which confirm your
observations by their agreement with the cells which have written down their
thoughts,--all this signifies nothing; all this is an evil and an erroneous
method.
The true scientif=
ic
method is this: If you wish to know in what the destiny and the welfare of =
all
mankind and of all the world consists, you must, first of all, cease to lis=
ten
to the voices of your conscience and of your reason, which present themselv=
es
in you and in others like you; you must cease to believe all that the great
teachers of mankind have said with regard to your conscience and reason, and
you must consider all this as nonsense, and begin all over again. And, in order to understand every =
thing
from the beginning, you must look through microscopes at the movements of
amoebae, and cells in worms, or, with still greater composure, believe in e=
very
thing that men with a diploma of infallibility shall say to you about
them. And as you gaze at the =
movements
of these cells, or read about what others have seen, you must attribute to
these cells your own human sensations and calculations as to what they desi=
re,
whither they are directing themselves, how they compare and discuss, and to
what they have become accustomed; and from these observations (in which the=
re
is not a word about an error of thought or of expression) you must deduce a
conclusion by analogy as to what you are, what is your destiny, wherein lies
the welfare of yourself and of other cells like you. In order to understand yourself, y=
ou
must study not only the worms which you see, but microscopic creatures which
you can barely see, and transformations from one set of creatures into othe=
rs, which
no one has ever beheld, and which you, most assuredly, will never behold. And the same with art. Where there has been true science,=
art has
always been its exponent.
Ever since men ha=
ve
been in existence, they have been in the habit of deducing, from all pursui=
ts,
the expressions of various branches of learning concerning the destiny and =
the
welfare of man, and the expression of this knowledge has been art in the st=
rict
sense of the word.
Ever since men ha=
ve
existed, there have been those who were peculiarly sensitive and responsive=
to
the doctrine regarding the destiny and welfare of man; who have given
expression to their own and the popular conflict, to the delusions which le=
ad
them astray from their destinies, their sufferings in this conflict, their
hopes in the triumph of good, them despair over the triumph of evil, and th=
eir
raptures in the consciousness of the approaching bliss of man, on viol and
tabret, in images and words.
Always, down to the most recent times, art has served science and
life,--only then was it what has been so highly esteemed of men. But art, in its capacity of an imp=
ortant
human activity, disappeared simultaneously with the substitution for the
genuine science of destiny and welfare, of the science of any thing you cho=
ose
to fancy. Art has existed among all peoples, and will exist until that which
among us is scornfully called religion has come to be considered the only s=
cience.
In our European
world, so long as there existed a Church, as the doctrine of destiny and
welfare, and so long as the Church was regarded as the only true science, a=
rt
served the Church, and remained true art: but as soon as art abandoned the
Church, and began to serve science, while science served whatever came to h=
and,
art lost its significance. An=
d notwithstanding
the rights claimed on the score of ancient memories, and of the clumsy
assertion which only proves its loss of its calling, that art serves art, it
has become a trade, providing men with something agreeable; and as such, it
inevitably comes into the category of choreographic, culinary, hair-dressin=
g,
and cosmetic arts, whose practitioners designate themselves as artists, with
the same right as the poets, printers, and musicians of our day.
Glance backward i=
nto
the past, and you will see that in the course of thousands of years, out of
milliards of people, only half a score of Confucius', Buddhas, Solomons,
Socrates, Solons, and Homers have been produced. Evidently, they are rarely met with
among men, in spite of the fact that these men have not been selected from a
single caste, but from mankind at large.&n=
bsp;
Evidently, these true teachers and artists and learned men, the
purveyors of spiritual nourishment, are rare. And it is not without reason that
mankind has valued and still values them so highly.
But it now appear=
s,
that all these great factors in the science and art of the past are no long=
er
of use to us. Nowadays, scien=
tific
and artistic authorities can, in accordance with the law of division of lab=
or,
be turned out by factory methods; and, in one decade, more great men have b=
een
manufactured in art and science, than have ever been born of such among all
nations, since the foundation of the world. Nowadays there is a guild of learn=
ed men
and artists, and they prepare, by perfected methods, all that spiritual food
which man requires. And they =
have
prepared so much of it, that it is no longer necessary to refer to the elder
authorities, who have preceded them,--not only to the ancients, but to those
much nearer to us. All that w=
as the
activity of the theological and metaphysical period,--all that must be wiped
out: but the true, the rational activity began, say, fifty years ago, and in
the course of those fifty years we have made so many great men, that there =
are
about ten great men to every branch of science. And there have come to be so many
sciences, that, fortunately, it is easy to make them. All that is required is to add the=
Greek
word "logy" to the name, and force them to conform to a set rubri=
c,
and the science is all complete.
They have created so many sciences, that not only can no one man know
them all, but not a single individual can remember all the titles of all th=
e existing
sciences; the titles alone form a thick lexicon, and new sciences are
manufactured every day. They =
have
been manufactured on the pattern of that Finnish teacher who taught the lan=
ded
proprietor's children Finnish instead of French. Every thing has been excellently i=
nculcated;
but there is one objection,--that no one except ourselves can understand any
thing of it, and all this is reckoned as utterly useless nonsense. However, there is an explanation e=
ven
for this. People do not appre=
ciate
the full value of scientific science, because they are under the influence =
of
the theological period, that profound period when all the people, both among
the Hebrews, and the Chinese, and the Indians, and the Greeks, understood e=
very
thing that their great teachers said to them.
But, from whatever
cause this has come about, the fact remains, that sciences and arts have al=
ways
existed among mankind, and, when they really did exist, they were useful and
intelligible to all the people. But we practise something which we call sci=
ence
and art, but it appears that what we do is unnecessary and unintelligible to
man. And hence, however beaut=
iful
may be the things that we accomplish, we have no right to call them arts and
sciences.
"But you only furnish a differ=
ent
definition of arts and sciences, which is stricter, and is incompatible with
science," I shall be told in answer to this; "nevertheless,
scientific and artistic activity does still exist. There are the Galileos, Brunos, Ho=
mers,
Michael Angelos, Beethovens, and all the lesser learned men and artists, who
have consecrated their entire lives to the service of science and art, and =
who were,
and will remain, the benefactors of mankind."
Generally this is
what people say, striving to forget that new principle of the division of
labor, on the basis of which science and art now occupy their privileged
position, and on whose basis we are now enabled to decide without grounds, =
but
by a given standard: Is there, or is there not, any foundation for that
activity which calls itself science and art, to so magnify itself?
When the Egyptian=
or
the Grecian priests produced their mysteries, which were unintelligible to =
any
one, and stated concerning these mysteries that all science and all art were
contained in them, I could not verify the reality of their science on the b=
asis
of the benefit procured by them to the people, because science, according to
their assertions, was supernatural.
But now we all possess a very simple and clear definition of the
activity of art and science, which excludes every thing supernatural: scien=
ce
and art promise to carry out the mental activity of mankind, for the welfar=
e of
society, or of all the human race.
The definition of
scientific science and art is entirely correct; but, unfortunately, the
activity of the present arts and sciences does not come under this head.
And it can be
understood why the makers of the present arts and sciences have not fulfill=
ed,
and cannot fulfil, their vocation.
They do not fulfil it, because out of their obligations they have
erected a right.
Scientific and
artistic activity, in its real sense, is only fruitful when it knows no rig=
hts,
but recognizes only obligations.
Only because it is its property to be always thus, does mankind so
highly prize this activity. I=
f men
really were called to the service of others through artistic work, they wou=
ld
see in that work only obligation, and they would fulfil it with toil, with
privations, and with self-abnegation.
The thinker or the
artist will never sit calmly on Olympian heights, as we have become accusto=
med
to represent them to ourselves. The
thinker or the artist should suffer in company with the people, in order th=
at
he may find salvation or consolation.
Besides this, he will suffer because he is always and eternally in
turmoil and agitation: he might decide and say that that which would confer
welfare on men, would free them from suffering, would afford them consolati=
on;
but he has not said so, and has not presented it as he should have done; he=
has
not decided, and he has not spoken; and to-morrow, possibly, it will be too
late,--he will die. And therefore suffering and self-sacrifice will always =
be
the lot of the thinker and the artist.
Not of this description will be the thinker and artist who is reared in an establishment where, apparently, they manufacture the learned man or the artist (but in p= oint of fact, they manufacture destroyers of science and of art), who receives a diploma and a certificate, who would be glad not to think and not to express that which is imposed on his soul, but who cannot avoid doing that to which= two irresistible forces draw him,--an inward prompting, and the demand of men.<= o:p>
There will be no
sleek, plump, self-satisfied thinkers and artists. Spiritual activity, and =
its
expression, which are actually necessary to others, are the most burdensome=
of
all man's avocations; a cross, as the Gospels phrase it. And the sole indubitable sign of t=
he
presence of a vocation is self-devotion, the sacrifice of self for the
manifestation of the power that is imposed upon man for the benefit of othe=
rs.
It is possible to
study out how many beetles there are in the world, to view the spots on the
sun, to write romances and operas, without suffering; but it is impossible,
without self-sacrifice, to instruct people in their true happiness, which
consists solely in renunciation of self and the service of others, and to g=
ive
strong expression to this doctrine, without self-sacrifice.
Christ did not di=
e on
the cross in vain; not in vain does the sacrifice of suffering conquer all
things.
But our art and
science are provided with certificates and diplomas; and the only anxiety of
all men is, how to still better guarantee them, i.e., how to render the ser=
vice
of the people impracticable for them.
True art and true
science possess two unmistakable marks: the first, an inward mark, which is
this, that the servitor of art and science will fulfil his vocation, not for
profit but with self-sacrifice; and the second, an external sign,--his
productions will be intelligible to all the people whose welfare he has in
view.
No matter what pe=
ople
have fixed upon as their vocation and their welfare, science will be the
doctrine of this vocation and welfare, and art will be the expression of th=
at
doctrine. That which is calle=
d science
and art, among us, is the product of idle minds and feelings, which have for
their object to tickle similar idle minds and feelings. Our arts and scienc=
es
are incomprehensible, and say nothing to the people, for they have not the
welfare of the common people in view.
Ever since the li=
fe
of men has been known to us, we find, always and everywhere, the reigning
doctrine falsely designating itself as science, not manifesting itself to t=
he
common people, but obscuring for them the meaning of life. Thus it was among the Greeks the
sophists, then among the Christians the mystics, gnostics, scholastics, amo=
ng
the Hebrews the Talmudists and Cabalists, and so on everywhere, down to our=
own
times.
How fortunate it =
is
for us that we live in so peculiar an age, when that mental activity which
calls itself science, not only does not err, but finds itself, as we are
assured, in a remarkably flourishing condition! Does not this peculiar good
fortune arise from the fact that man can not and will not see his own
hideousness? Why is there not=
hing
left of those sciences, and sophists, and Cabalists, and Talmudists, but wo=
rds,
while we are so exceptionally happy?
Surely the signs are identical.&nbs=
p;
There is the same self-satisfaction and blind confidence that we,
precisely we, and only we, are on the right path, and that the real thing is
only beginning with us. There=
is
the same expectation that we shall discover something remarkable; and that
chief sign which leads us astray convicts us of our error: all our wisdom
remains with us, and the common people do not understand, and do not accept,
and do not need it.
Our position is a
very difficult one, but why not look at it squarely?
It is time to rec=
over
our senses, and to scrutinize ourselves.&n=
bsp;
Surely we are nothing else than the scribes and Pharisees, who sit in
Moses' seat, and who have taken the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and will
neither go in ourselves, nor permit others to go in. Surely we, the high priests of sci=
ence
and art, are ourselves worthless deceivers, possessing much less right to o=
ur
position than the most crafty and depraved priests. Surely we have no justification fo=
r our
privileged position. The prie=
sts
had a right to their position: they declared that they taught the people li=
fe and
salvation. But we have taken =
their
place, and we do not instruct the people in life,--we even admit that such
instruction is unnecessary,--but we educate our children in the same
Talmudic-Greek and Latin grammar, in order that they may be able to pursue =
the
same life of parasites which we lead ourselves. We say, "There used to be cas=
tes,
but there are none among us."
But what does it mean, that some people and their children toil, whi=
le
other people and their children do not toil?
Bring hither an
Indian ignorant of our language, and show him European life, and our life, =
for
several generations, and he will recognize the same leading, well-defined
castes--of laborers and non-laborers--as there are in his own country. And as in his land, so in ours, the
right of refusing to labor is conferred by a peculiar consecration, which we
call science and art, or, in general terms, culture. It is this culture, and all the
distortions of sense connected with it, which have brought us to that
marvellous madness, in consequence of which we do not see that which is so
clear and indubitable.
Then, what is to be done? What are we to do?
This question, wh=
ich
includes within itself both an admission that our life is evil and wrong, a=
nd
in connection with this,--as though it were an exercise for it,--that it is
impossible, nevertheless, to change it, this question I have heard, and I
continue to hear, on all sides. I
have described my own sufferings, my own gropings, and my own solution of t=
his question. I am the same kind of a man as eve=
rybody
else; and if I am in any wise distinguished from the average man of our cir=
cle,
it is chiefly in this respect, that I, more than the average man, have serv=
ed
and winked at the false doctrine of our world; I have received more approba=
tion
from men professing the prevailing doctrine: and therefore, more than other=
s, have
I become depraved, and wandered from the path. And therefore I think that the sol=
ution
of the problem, which I have found in my own case, will be applicable to all
sincere people who are propounding the same question to themselves.
First of all, in =
answer
to the question, "What is to be done?" I told myself: "I must
lie neither to other people nor to myself.=
I must not fear the truth, whithersoever it may lead me."
We all know what = it means to lie to other people, but we are not afraid to lie to ourselves; yet the very worst downright lie, to other people, is not to be compared in its consequences with the lie to ourselves, upon which we base our whole life.<= o:p>
This is the lie of
which we must not be guilty if we are to be in a position to answer the que=
stion:
"What is to be done?"
And, in fact, how am I to answer the question, "What is to be
done?" when every thing that I do, when my whole life, is founded on a
lie, and when I carefully parade this lie as the truth before others and be=
fore
myself? Not to lie, in this s=
ense,
means not to fear the truth, not to devise subterfuges, and not to accept t=
he
subterfuges devised by others for the purpose of hiding from myself the
deductions of my reason and my conscience; not to fear to part company with=
all
those who surround me, and to remain alone in company with reason and
conscience; not to fear that position to which the truth shall lead me, bei=
ng
firmly convinced that that position to which truth and conscience shall con=
duct
me, however singular it may be, cannot be worse than the one which is found=
ed on
a lie. Not to lie, in our pos=
ition
of privileged persons of mental labor, means, not to be afraid to reckon on=
e's
self up wrongly. It is possib=
le
that you are already so deeply indebted that you cannot take stock of yours=
elf;
but to whatever extent this may be the case, however long may be the accoun=
t,
however far you have strayed from the path, it is still better than to cont=
inue
therein. A lie to other peopl=
e is
not alone unprofitable; every matter is settled more directly and more spee=
dily
by the truth than by a lie. A=
lie
to others only entangles matters, and delays the settlement; but a lie to o=
ne's
self, set forth as the truth, ruins a man's whole life. If a man, having entered on the wr=
ong
path, assumes that it is the true one, then every step that he takes on that
path removes him farther from his goal.&nb=
sp;
If a man who has long been travelling on this false path divines for
himself, or is informed by some one, that his course is a mistaken one, but
grows alarmed at the idea that he has wandered very far astray and tries to=
convince
himself that he may, possibly, still strike into the right road, then he ne=
ver
will get into it. If a man qu=
ails
before the truth, and, on perceiving it, does not accept it, but does accep=
t a
lie for the truth, then he never will learn what he ought to do. We, the not only wealthy, but priv=
ileged
and so-called cultivated persons, have advanced so far on the wrong road, t=
hat
a great deal of determination, or a very great deal of suffering on the wro=
ng
road, is required, in order to bring us to our senses and to the acknowledg=
ment
of the lie in which we are living.
I have perceived the lie of our lives, thanks to the sufferings which
the false path entailed upon me, and, having recognized the falseness of th=
is
path on which I stood, I have had the boldness to go at first in thought
only--whither reason and conscience led me, without reflecting where they w=
ould
bring me out. And I have been
rewarded for this boldness.
All the complicat=
ed,
broken, tangled, and incoherent phenomena of life surrounding me, have sudd=
enly
become clear; and my position in the midst of these phenomena, which was
formerly strange and burdensome, has become, all at once, natural, and easy=
to
bear.
In this new posit=
ion,
my activity was defined with perfect accuracy; not at all as it had previou=
sly
presented itself to me, but as a new and much more peaceful, loving, and jo=
yous
activity. The very thing whic=
h had formerly
terrified me, now began to attract me.&nbs=
p;
Hence I think, that the man who will honestly put to himself the
question, "What is to be done?" and, replying to this query, will=
not
lie to himself, but will go whither his reason leads, has already solved the
problem.
There is only one
thing that can hinder him in his search for an issue,--an erroneously lofty
idea of himself and of his position.
This was the case with me; and then another, arising from the first
answer to the question: "What is to be done?" consisted for me in
this, that it was necessary for me to repent, in the full sense of that
word,--i.e., to entirely alter my conception of my position and my activity=
; to
confess the hurtfulness and emptiness of my activity, instead of its utility
and gravity; to confess my own ignorance instead of culture; to confess my =
immorality
and harshness in the place of my kindness and morality; instead of my
elevation, to acknowledge my lowliness.&nb=
sp;
I say, that in addition to not lying to myself, I had to repent,
because, although the one flows from the other, a false conception of my lo=
fty
importance had so grown up with me, that, until I sincerely repented and cut
myself free from that false estimate which I had formed of myself, I did not
perceive the greater part of the lie of which I had been guilty to myself.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Only when I had repented, that is =
to
say, when I had ceased to look upon myself as a regular man, and had begun =
to
regard myself as a man exactly like every one else,--only then did my path
become clear before me. Before that time I had not been able to answer the
question: "What is to be done?" because I had stated the question
itself wrongly.
As long as I did =
not
repent, I put the question thus: "What sphere of activity should I cho=
ose,
I, the man who has received the education and the talents which have fallen=
to
my shame? How, in this fashio=
n,
make recompense with that education and those talents, for what I have take=
n, and
for what I still take, from the people?" This question was wrong, because it
contained a false representation, to the effect that I was not a man just l=
ike
them, but a peculiar man called to serve the people with those talents and =
with
that education which I had won by the efforts of forty years.
I propounded the
query to myself; but, in reality, I had answered it in advance, in that I h=
ad
in advance defined the sort of activity which was agreeable to me, and by w=
hich
I was called upon to serve the people.&nbs=
p;
I had, in fact, asked myself: "In what manner could I, so very =
fine
a writer, who had acquired so much learning and talents, make use of them f=
or
the benefit of the people?"
But the question
should have been put as it would have stood for a learned rabbi who had gone
through the course of the Talmud, and had learned by heart the number of
letters in all the holy books, and all the fine points of his art. The question for me, as for the ra=
bbi,
should stand thus: "What am I, who have spent, owing to the misfortune=
of
my surroundings, the year's best fitted for study in the acquisition of gra=
mmar,
geography, judicial science, poetry, novels and romances, the French langua=
ge,
pianoforte playing, philosophical theories, and military exercises, instead=
of
inuring myself to labor; what am I, who have passed the best years of my li=
fe
in idle occupations which are corrupting to the soul,--what am I to do in
defiance of these unfortunate conditions of the past, in order that I may
requite those people who during the whole time have fed and clothed, yes, a=
nd
who even now continue to feed and clothe me?" Had the question then stood as it =
stands
before me now, after I have repented,--"What am I, so corrupt a man, to
do?" the answer would have been easy: "To strive, first of all, to
support myself honestly; that is, to learn not to live upon others; and whi=
le I
am learning, and when I have learned this, to render aid on all possible
occasions to the people, with my hands, and my feet, and my brain, and my
heart, and with every thing to which the people should present a claim.&quo=
t;
And therefore I s=
ay,
that for the man of our circle, in addition to not lying to himself or to
others, repentance is also necessary, and that he should scrape from himself
that pride which has sprung up in us, in our culture, in our refinements, in
our talents; and that he should confess that he is not a benefactor of the
people and a distinguished man, who does not refuse to share with the people
his useful acquirements, but that he should confess himself to be a thoroug=
hly
guilty, corrupt, and good-for-nothing man, who desires to reform himself and
not to behave benevolently towards the people, but simply to cease wounding=
and
insulting them.
I often hear the
questions of good young men who sympathize with the renunciatory part of my
writings, and who ask, "Well, and what then shall I do? What am I to do, now that I have
finished my course in the university, or in some other institution, in order
that I may be of use?" Young men ask this, and in the depths of their =
soul
it is already decided that the education which they have received constitut=
es
their privilege and that they desire to serve the people precisely by means=
of
thus superiority. And hence, =
one
thing which they will in no wise do, is to bear themselves honestly and
critically towards that which they call their culture, and ask themselves, =
are
those qualities which they call their culture good or bad? If they will do this, they will
infallibly be led to see the necessity of renouncing their culture, and the
necessity of beginning to learn all over again; and this is the one
indispensable thing. They can=
in no
wise solve the problem, "What to do?" because this question does =
not
stand before them as it should stand.
The question must stand thus: "In what manner am I, a helpless,
useless man, who, owing to the misfortune of my conditions, have wasted my =
best
years of study in conning the scientific Talmud which corrupts soul and bod=
y,
to correct this mistake, and learn to serve the people?" But it presents itself to them thu=
s:
"How am I, a man who has acquired so much very fine learning, to turn =
this
very fine learning to the use of the people?" And such a man will never answer t=
he
question, "What is to be done?" until he repents. And repentance is not terrible, ju=
st as
truth is not terrible, and it is equally joyful and fruitful. It is only necessary to accept the=
truth
wholly, and to repent wholly, in order to understand that no one possesses =
any
rights, privileges, or peculiarities in the matter of this life of ours, but
that there are no ends or bounds to obligation, and that a man's first and =
most
indubitable duty is to take part in the struggle with nature for his own li=
fe
and for the lives of others.
And this confessi=
on
of a man's obligation constitutes the gist of the third answer to the quest=
ion,
"What is to be done?"
I tried not to li=
e to
myself: I tried to cast out from myself the remains of my false conceptions=
of
the importance of my education and talents, and to repent; but on the way t=
o a
decision of the question, "What to do?" a fresh difficulty
arose. There are so many diff=
erent
occupations, that an indication was necessary as to the precise one which w=
as
to be adopted. And the answer=
to
this question was furnished me by sincere repentance for the evil in which I
had lived.
"What to
do? Precisely what to do?&quo=
t; all
ask, and that is what I also asked so long as, under the influence of my
exalted idea of any own importance, I did not perceive that my first and
unquestionable duty was to feed myself, to clothe myself, to furnish my own
fuel, to do my own building, and, by so doing, to serve others, because, ev=
er
since the would has existed, the first and indubitable duty of every man ha=
s consisted
and does consist in this.
In fact, no matter
what a man may have assumed to be his vocation,--whether it be to govern
people, to defend his fellow-countrymen, to divine service, to instruct oth=
ers,
to invent means to heighten the pleasures of life, to discover the laws of =
the
world, to incorporate eternal truths in artistic representations,--the duty=
of
a reasonable man is to take part in the struggle with nature, for the suste=
nance
of his own life and of that of others.&nbs=
p;
This obligation is the first of all, because what people need most of
all is their life; and therefore, in order to defend and instruct the peopl=
e,
and render their lives more agreeable, it is requisite to preserve that life
itself, while my refusal to share in the struggle, my monopoly of the labor=
s of
others, is equivalent to annihilation of the lives of others. And, therefore, it is not rational=
to
serve the lives of men by annihilating the lives of men; and it is impossib=
le
to say that I am serving men, when, by my life, I am obviously injuring the=
m.
A man's obligatio=
n to
struggle with nature for the acquisition of the means of livelihood will al=
ways
be the first and most unquestionable of all obligations, because this
obligation is a law of life, departure from which entails the inevitable
punishment of either bodily or mental annihilation of the life of man. If a man living alone excuses hims=
elf from
the obligation of struggling with nature, he is immediately punished, in th=
at
his body perishes. But if a m=
an
excuses himself from this obligation by making other people fulfil it for h=
im,
then also he is immediately punished by the annihilation of his mental life;
that is to say, of the life which possesses rational thought.
In this one act, =
man
receives--if the two things are to be separated--full satisfaction of the
bodily and spiritual demands of his nature. The feeding, clothing, and taking =
care
of himself and his family, constitute the satisfaction of the bodily demands
and requirements; and doing the same for other people, constitutes the
satisfaction of his spiritual requirements. Every other employment of man is o=
nly
legal when it is directed to the satisfaction of this very first duty of ma=
n;
for the fulfilment of this duty constitutes the whole life of man.
I had been so tur=
ned
about by my previous life, this first and indubitable law of God or of natu=
re
is so concealed in our sphere of society, that the fulfilment of this law
seemed to me strange, terrible, even shameful; as though the fulfilment of =
an
eternal, unquestionable law, and not the departure from it, can be terrible,
strange, and shameful.
At first it seeme=
d to
me that the fulfilment of this matter required some preparation, arrangemen=
t or
community of men, holding similar views,--the consent of one's family, life=
in
the country; it seemed to me disgraceful to make a show of myself before
people, to undertake a thing so improper in our conditions of existence, as
bodily toil, and I did not know how to set about it. But it was only necessary for me to
understand that this is no exclusive occupation which requires to be invent=
ed
and arranged for, but that this employment was merely a return from the fal=
se
position in which I found myself, to a natural one; was only a rectificatio=
n of
that lie in which I was living. I
had only to recognize this fact, and all these difficulties vanished. It was not in the least necessary =
to make
preparations and arrangements, and to await the consent of others, for, no
matter in what position I had found myself, there had always been people who
had fed, clothed and warmed me, in addition to themselves; and everywhere,
under all conditions, I could do the same for myself and for them, if I had=
the
time and the strength. Neither
could I experience false shame in an unwonted occupation, no matter how
surprising it might be to people, because, through not doing it, I had alre=
ady
experienced not false but real shame.
And when I had
reached this confession and the practical deduction from it, I was fully
rewarded for not having quailed before the deductions of reason, and for
following whither they led me. On
arriving at this practical deduction, I was amazed at the ease and simplici=
ty
with which all the problems which had previously seemed to me so difficult =
and
so complicated, were solved.
To the question,
"What is it necessary to do?" the most indubitable answer present=
ed
itself: first of all, that which it was necessary for me to do was, to atte=
nd
to my own samovar, my own stove, my own water, my own clothing; to every th=
ing
that I could do for myself. T=
o the question,
"Will it not seem strange to people if you do this?" it appeared =
that
this strangeness lasted only a week, and after the lapse of that week, it w=
ould
have seemed strange had I returned to my former conditions of life. With regard to the question, "=
;Is it
necessary to organize this physical labor, to institute an association in t=
he
country, on my land?" it appeared that nothing of the sort was necessa=
ry;
that labor, if it does not aim at the acquisition of all possible leisure, =
and the
enjoyment of the labor of others,--like the labor of people bent on accumul=
ating
money,--but if it have for its object the satisfaction of requirements, will
itself be drawn from the city to the country, to the land, where this labor=
is
the most fruitful and cheerful. But
it is not requisite to institute any association, because the man who labor=
s, naturally
and of himself, attaches himself to the existing association of laboring me=
n.
To the question,
whether this labor would not monopolize all my time, and deprive me of those
intellectual pursuits which I love, to which I am accustomed, and which, in=
my
moments of self-conceit, I regard as not useless to others? I received a mo=
st
unexpected reply. The energy =
of my intellectual
activity increased, and increased in exact proportion with bodily applicati=
on,
while freeing itself from every thing superfluous. It appeared that by dedicating to
physical toil eight hours, that half of the day which I had formerly passed=
in
the oppressive state of a struggle with ennui, eight hours remained to me, =
of
which only five of intellectual activity, according to my terms, were neces=
sary
to me. For it appeared, that =
if I,
a very voluminous writer, who had done nothing for nearly forty years except
write, and who had written three hundred printed sheets;--if I had worked
during all those forty years at ordinary labor with the working-people, the=
n,
not reckoning winter evenings and leisure days, if I had read and studied f=
or
five hours every day, and had written a couple of pages only on holidays (a=
nd I
have been in the habit of writing at the rate of one printed sheet a day), =
then
I should have written those three hundred sheets in fourteen years. The fact seemed startling: yet it =
is the
most simple arithmetical calculation, which can be made by a seven-year-old
boy, but which I had not been able to make up to this time. There are twenty-four hours in the=
day;
if we take away eight hours, sixteen remain. If any man engaged in intellectual=
occupations
devote five hours every day to his occupation, he will accomplish a fearful
amount. And what is to be don=
e with
the remaining eleven hours?
It proved that
physical labor not only does not exclude the possibility of mental activity,
but that it improves its quality, and encourages it.
In answer to the
question, whether this physical toil does not deprive me of many innocent
pleasures peculiar to man, such as the enjoyment of the arts, the acquisiti=
on
of learning, intercourse with people, and the delights of life in general, =
it
turned out exactly the reverse: the more intense the labor, the more nearly=
it
approached what is considered the coarsest agricultural toil, the more
enjoyment and knowledge did I gain, and the more did I come into close and
loving communion with men, and the more happiness did I derive from life.
In answer to the
question (which I have so often heard from persons not thoroughly sincere),=
as
to what result could flow from so insignificant a drop in the sea of sympat=
hy
as my individual physical labor in the sea of labor ingulfing me, I received
also the most satisfactory and unexpected of answers. It appeared that all I had to do w=
as to
make physical labor the habitual condition of my life, and the majority of =
my
false, but precious, habits and my demands, when physically idle, fell away
from me at once of their own accord, without the slightest exertion on my p=
art.
Not to mention the habit of turning day into night and vice versa, my habits
connected with my bed, with my clothing, with conventional cleanliness,--wh=
ich
are downright impossible and oppressive with physical labor,--and my demand=
s as
to the quality of my food, were entirely changed. In place of the dainty, rich, refi=
ned,
complicated, highly-spiced food, to which I had formerly inclined, the most
simple viands became needful and most pleasing of all to me,--cabbage-soup,=
porridge,
black bread, and tea v prikusku. {238}&nbs=
p;
So that, not to mention the influence upon me of the example of the
simple working-people, who are content with little, with whom I came in con=
tact
in the course of my bodily toil, my very requirements underwent a change in
consequence of my toilsome life; so that my drop of physical labor in the s=
ea
of universal labor became larger and larger, in proportion as I accustomed
myself to, and appropriated, the habits of the laboring classes; in proport=
ion,
also, to the success of my labor, my demands for labor from others grew less
and less, and my life naturally, without exertion or privations, approached
that simple existence of which I could not even dream without fulfilling the
law of labor.
It proved that my
dearest demands from life, namely, my demands for vanity, and diversion from
ennui, arose directly from my idle life. There was no place for vanity, in
connection with physical labor; and no diversions were needed, since my time
was pleasantly occupied, and, after my fatigue, simple rest at tea over a b=
ook,
or in conversation with my fellows, was incomparably more agreeable than
theatres, cards, conceits, or a large company,--all which things are needed=
in
physical idleness, and which cost a great deal.
In answer to the
question, Would not this unaccustomed toil ruin that health which is
indispensable in order to render service to the people possible? it appeare=
d,
in spite of the positive assertions of noted physicians, that physical
exertion, especially at my age, might have the most injurious consequences =
(but
that Swedish gymnastics, the massage treatment, and so on, and other expedi=
ents
intended to take the place of the natural conditions of man's life, were
better), that the more intense the toil, the stronger, more alert, more
cheerful, and more kindly did I feel.
Thus it undoubtedly appeared, that, just as all those cunning device=
s of
the human mind, newspapers, theatres, concerts, visits, balls, cards, journ=
als,
romances, are nothing else than expedients for maintaining the spiritual li=
fe
of man outside his natural conditions of labor for others,--just so all the
hygienic and medical devices of the human mind for the preparation of food,
drink, lodging, ventilation, heating, clothing, medicine, water, massage,
gymnastics, electric, and other means of healing,--all these clever devices=
are
merely an expedient to sustain the bodily life of man removed from its natu=
ral
conditions of labor. It turne=
d out
that all these devices of the human mind for the agreeable arrangement of t=
he
physical existence of idle persons are precisely analogous to those artful
contrivances which people might invent for the production in vessels
hermetically sealed, by means of mechanical arrangements, of evaporation, a=
nd
plants, of the air best fitted for breathing, when all that is needed is to
open the window. All the inve=
ntions
of medicine and hygiene for persons of our sphere are much the same as thou=
gh a
mechanic should hit upon the idea of heating a steam- boiler which was not
working, and should shut all the valves so that the boiler should not
burst. Only one thing is need=
ed,
instead of all these extremely complicated devices for pleasure, for comfor=
t,
and for medical and hygienic preparations, intended to save people from the=
ir
spiritual and bodily ailments, which swallow up so much labor,--to fulfil t=
he
law of life; to do that which is proper not only to man, but to the animal;=
to
fire off the charge of energy taken win in the shape of food, by muscular
exertion; to speak in plain language, to earn one's bread. Those who do not work should not e=
at, or
they should earn as much as they have eaten.
And when I clearly
comprehended all this, it struck me as ridiculous. Through a whole series of
doubts and searchings, I had arrived, by a long course of thought, at this
remarkable truth: if a man has eyes, it is that he may see with them; if he=
has
ears, that he may hear; and feet, that he may walk; and hands and back, tha=
t he
may labor; and that if a man will not employ those members for that purpose=
for
which they are intended, it will be the worse for him.
I came to this
conclusion, that, with us privileged people, the same thing has happened wh=
ich
happened with the horses of a friend of mine. His steward, who was not a lo=
ver
of horses, nor well versed in them, on receiving his master's orders to pla=
ce
the best horses in the stable, selected them from the stud, placed them in
stalls, and fed and watered them; but fearing for the valuable steeds, he c=
ould
not bring himself to trust them to any one, and he neither rode nor drove t=
hem,
nor did he even take them out. The
horses stood there until they were good for nothing. The same thing has happened with u=
s, but
with this difference: that it was impossible to deceive the horses in any w=
ay,
and they were kept in bonds to prevent their getting out; but we are kept i=
n an
unnatural position that is equally injurious to us, by deceits which have e=
ntangled
us, and which hold us like chains.
We have arranged =
for
ourselves a life that is repugnant both to the moral and the physical natur=
e of
man, and all the powers of our intelligence we concentrate upon assuring man
that this is the most natural life possible. Every thing which we call culture,=
--our
sciences, art, and the perfection of the pleasant thing's of life,--all the=
se
are attempts to deceive the moral requirements of man; every thing that is
called hygiene and medicine, is an attempt to deceive the natural physical
demands of human nature. But =
these
deceits have their bounds, and we advance to them. "If such be the real human li=
fe,
then it is better not to live at all," says the reigning and extremely
fashionable philosophy of Schopenhauer and Hartmann. If such is life, 'tis better for t=
he
coming generation not to live," say corrupt medical science and its ne=
wly devised
means to that end.
In the Bible, it =
is
laid down as the law of man: "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat
bread, and in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children;" but "nous
avons change tout ca," as Moliere's character says, when expressing
himself with regard to medicine, and asserting that the liver was on the le=
ft
side. We have changed all
that. Men need not work in or=
der to
eat, and women need not bear children.
A ragged peasant
roams the Krapivensky district.
During the war he was an agent for the purchase of grain, under an
official of the commissary department.&nbs=
p;
On being brought in contact with the official, and seeing his luxuri=
ous
life, the peasant lost his mind, and thought that he might get along without
work, like gentlemen, and receive proper support from the Emperor. This peasant now calls himself &qu=
ot;the
Most Serene Warrior, Prince Blokhin, purveyor of war supplies of all
descriptions." He says of
himself that he has "passed through all the ranks," and that when=
he shall
have served out his term in the army, he is to receive from the Emperor an
unlimited bank account, clothes, uniforms, horses, equipages, tea, pease and
servants, and all sorts of luxuries.
This man is ridiculous in the eyes of many, but to me the significan=
ce
of his madness is terrible. T=
o the
question, whether he does not wish to work, he always replies proudly: &quo=
t;I
am much obliged. The peasants=
will
attend to all that." Whe=
n you
tell him that the peasants do not wish to work, either, he answers: "I=
t is
not difficult for the peasant."
He generally talk=
s in
a high-flown style, and is fond of verbal substantives. "Now there is an invention of
machinery for the alleviation of the peasants," he says; "there i=
s no
difficulty for them in that."
When he is asked what he lives for, he replies, "To pass the ti=
me." I always look on this man as on a
mirror. I behold in him mysel=
f and
all my class. To pass through=
all
the ranks (tchini) in order to live for the purpose of passing the time, an=
d to
receive an unlimited bank account, while the peasants, for whom this is not
difficult, because of the invention of machinery, do the whole business,--t=
his
is the complete formula of the idiotic creed of the people of our sphere in=
society.
When we inquire precisely what we are to do, surely, we ask nothing, but merely assert--only not in such good faith as the Most Serene Prince Blokhin, who has been prom= oted through all ranks, and lost his mind--that we do not wish to do any thing.<= o:p>
He who will refle=
ct
for a moment cannot ask thus, because, on the one hand, every thing that he
uses has been made, and is made, by the hands of men; and, on the other sid=
e,
as soon as a healthy man has awakened and eaten, the necessity of working w=
ith
feet and hands and brain makes itself felt. In order to find work and to work,=
he
need only not hold back: only a person who thinks work disgraceful--like the
lady who requests her guest not to take the trouble to open the door, but to
wait until she can call a man for this purpose--can put to himself the ques=
tion,
what he is to do.
The point does not
lie in inventing work,--you can never get through all the work that is to be
done for yourself and for others,--but the point lies in weaning one's self
from that criminal view of life in accordance with which I eat and sleep fo=
r my
own pleasure; and in appropriating to myself that just and simple view with
which the laboring man grows up and lives,--that man is, first of all, a
machine, which loads itself with food in order to sustain itself, and that =
it
is therefore disgraceful, wrong, and impossible to eat and not to work; tha=
t to
eat and not to work is the most impious, unnatural, and, therefore, dangero=
us
position, in the nature of the sin of Sodom. Only let this acknowledgement be m=
ade, and
there will be work; and work will always be joyous and satisfying to both
spiritual and bodily requirements.
The matter presen=
ted
itself to me thus: The day is divided for every man, by food itself, into f=
our
parts, or four stints, as the peasants call it: (1) before breakfast; (2) f=
rom
breakfast until dinner; (3) from dinner until four o'clock; (4) from four
o'clock until evening.
A man's employmen=
t,
whatever it may be that he feels a need for in his own person, is also divi=
ded
into four categories: (1) the muscular employment of power, labor of the ha=
nds,
feet, shoulders, back,--hard labor, from which you sweat; (2) the employmen=
t of
the fingers and wrists, the employment of artisan skill; (3) the employment=
of
the mind and imagination; (4) the employment of intercourse with others.
The benefits which
man enjoys are also divided into four categories. Every man enjoys, in the
first place, the product of hard labor,--grain, cattle, buildings, wells,
ponds, and so forth; in the second place, the results of artisan toil,--clo=
thes,
boots, utensils, and so forth; in the third place, the products of mental
activity,--science, art; and, in the forth place, established intercourse
between people.
And it struck me,
that the best thing of all would be to arrange the occupations of the day in
such a manner as to exercise all four of man's capacities, and myself produ=
ce
all these four sorts of benefits which men make use of, so that one portion=
of
the day, the first, should be dedicated to hard labor; the second, to
intellectual labor; the third, to artisan labor; and the forth, to intercou=
rse
with people. It struck me, th=
at
only then would that false division of labor, which exists in our society, =
be
abrogated, and that just division of labor established, which does not dest=
roy
man's happiness.
I, for example, h=
ave
busied myself all my life with intellectual labor. I said to myself, that I had so di=
vided
labor, that writing, that is to say, intellectual labor, is my special
employment, and the other matters which were necessary to me I had left free
(or relegated, rather) to others.
But this, which would appear to have been the most advantageous arra=
ngement
for intellectual toil, was precisely the most disadvantageous to mental lab=
or,
not to mention its injustice.
All my life long,=
I
have regulated my whole life, food, sleep, diversion, in view of these hour=
s of
special labor, and I have done nothing except this work. The result of this has been, in the
first place, that I have contracted my sphere of observations and knowledge,
and have frequently had no means for the study even of problems which often
presented themselves in describing the life of the people (for the life of =
the common
people is the every-day problem of intellectual activity). I was conscious of my ignorance, a=
nd was
obliged to obtain instruction, to ask about things which are known by every=
man
not engaged in special labor. In the second place, the result was, that I h=
ad
been in the habit of sitting down to write when I had no inward impulse to
write, and when no one demanded from me writing, as writing, that is to say=
, my
thoughts, but when my name was merely wanted for journalistic speculation.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I tried to squeeze out of myself w=
hat I
could. Sometimes I could extr=
act nothing;
sometimes it was very wretched stuff, and I was dissatisfied and grieved. But now that I have learned the
indispensability of physical labor, both hard and artisan labor, the result=
is
entirely different. My time h=
as
been occupied, however modestly, at least usefully and cheerfully, and in a
manner instructive to me. And
therefore I have torn myself from that indubitably useful and cheerful
occupation for my special duties only when I felt an inward impulse, and wh=
en I
saw a demand made upon me directly for my literary work.
And these demands
called into play only good nature, and therefore the usefulness and the joy=
of
my special labor. Thus it tur=
ned
out, that employment in those physical labors which are indispensable to me=
, as
they are to every man, not only did not interfere with my special activity,=
but
was an indispensable condition of the usefulness, worth, and cheerfulness of
that activity.
The bird is so
constructed, that it is indispensable that it should fly, walk, peek, combi=
ne;
and when it does all this, it is satisfied and happy,--then it is a bird. Just so man, when he walks, turns,
raises, drags, works with his fingers, with his eyes, with his ears, with h=
is tongue,
with his brain,--only then is he satisfied, only then is he a man.
A man who
acknowledges his appointment to labor will naturally strive towards that
rotation of labor which is peculiar to him, for the satisfaction of his inw=
ard
requirements; and he can alter this labor in no other way than when he feels
within himself an irresistible summons to some exclusive form of labor, and
when the demands of other men for that labor are expressed.
The character of
labor is such, that the satisfaction of all a man's requirements demands th=
at
same succession of the sorts of work which renders work not a burden but a =
joy. Only a false creed, [Greek text wh=
ich
cannot be reproduced], to the effect that labor is a curse, could have led =
men
to rid themselves of certain kinds of work; i.e., to the appropriation of t=
he
work of others, demanding the forced occupation with special labor of other
people, which they call division of labor.
We have only grown
used to our false comprehension of the regulation of labor, because it seem=
s to
us that the shoemaker, the machinist, the writer, or the musician will be
better off if he gets rid of the labor peculiar to man. Where there is no force exercised =
over
the labor of others, or any false belief in the joy of idleness, not a sing=
le
man will get rid of physical labor, necessary for the satisfaction of his r=
equirements,
for the sake of special work; because special work is not a privilege, but a
sacrifice which man offers to inward pressure and to his brethren.
The shoemaker in =
the
country, who abandons his wonted labor in the field, which is so grateful to
him, and betakes himself to his trade, in order to repair or make boots for=
his
neighbors, always deprives himself of the pleasant toil of the field, simply
because he likes to make boots, because he knows that no one else can do it=
so
well as he, and that people will be grateful to him for it; but the desire
cannot occur to him, to deprive himself, for the whole period of his life, =
of
the cheering rotation of labor.
It is the same wi=
th
the starosta [village elder], the machinist, the writer, the learned man. To us, with our corrupt conception=
of
things, it seems, that if a steward has been relegated to the position of a=
peasant
by his master, or if a minister has been sent to the colonies, he has been
chastised, he has been ill-treated.
But in reality a benefit has been conferred on him; that is to say, =
his
special, hard labor has been changed into a cheerful rotation of labor. In a naturally constituted society=
, this
is quite otherwise. I know of=
one
community where the people supported themselves. One of the members of this society=
was
better educated than the rest; and they called upon him to read, so that he=
was
obliged to prepare himself during the day, in order that he might read in t=
he
evening. This he did gladly,
feeling that he was useful to others, and that he was performing a good
deed. But he grew weary of
exclusively intellectual work, and his health suffered from it. The members of the community took =
pity
on him, and requested him to go to work in the fields.
For men who regard
labor as the substance and the joy of life, the basis, the foundation of li=
fe
will always be the struggle with nature,--labor both agricultural and
mechanical, and intellectual, and the establishment of communion between
men. Departure from one or fr=
om
many of these varieties of labor, and the adoption of special labor, will t=
hen
only occur when the man possessed of a special branch, and loving this work=
, and
knowing that he can perform it better than others, sacrifices his own profit
for the satisfaction of the direct demands made upon him. Only on condition of such a view of
labor, and of the natural division of labor arising from it, is that curse
which is laid upon our idea of labor abrogated, and does every sort of work
becomes always a joy; because a man will either perform that labor which is
undoubtedly useful and joyous, and not dull, or he will possess the
consciousness of self-abnegation in the fulfilment of more difficult and
restricted toil, which he exercises for the good of others.
But the division =
of
labor is more profitable. More
profitable for whom? It is more profitable in making the greatest possible
quantity of calico, and boots in the shortest possible time. But who will make these boots and =
this
calico? There are people who,=
for
whole generations, make only the heads of pins. Then how can this be more profitab=
le for
men? If the point lies in
manufacturing as much calico and as many pins as possible, then this is
so. But the point concerns me=
n and
their welfare. And the welfar=
e of
men lies in life. And life is=
work. How, then, can the necessity for
burdensome, oppressive toil be more profitable for people? For all men, that
one thing is more profitable which I desire for myself,--the utmost well-be=
ing,
and the gratification of all those requirements, both bodily and spiritual,=
of
the conscience and of the reason, which are imposed upon me. And in my own case I have found, t=
hat for
my own welfare, and for the satisfaction of these needs of mine, all that I
require is to cure myself of that folly in which I had been living, in comp=
any
with the Krapivensky madman, and which consisted in presupposing that some
people need not work, and that certain other people should direct all this,=
and
that I should therefore do only that which is natural to man, i.e., labor f=
or the
satisfaction of their requirements; and, having discovered this, I convinced
myself that labor for the satisfaction of one's own needs falls of itself i=
nto
various kinds of labor, each one of which possesses its own charm, and which
not only do not constitute a burden, but which serve as a respite to one an=
other. I have made a rough division of th=
is
labor (not insisting on the justice of this arrangement), in accordance wit=
h my
own needs in life, into four parts, corresponding to the four stints of lab=
or
of which the day is composed; and I seek in this manner to satisfy my requi=
rements.
These, then, are =
the
answers which I have found for myself to the question, "What is to be
done?"
First, Not to lie=
to
myself, however far removed my path in life may be from the true path which=
my
reason discloses to me.
Second, To renoun=
ce
my consciousness of my own righteousness, my superiority especially over ot=
her
people; and to acknowledge my guilt.
Third, To comply =
with
that eternal and indubitable law of humanity,--the labor of my whole being,
feeling no shame at any sort of work; to contend with nature for the
maintenance of my own life and the lives of others.
{169} An omission by the censor, which I=
am
unable to supply. TRANS.
{178} We designate as organisms the elep=
hant
and the bacterian, only because we assume by analogy in those creatures the
same conjunction of feeling and consciousness that we know to exist in
ourselves. But in human socie=
ties
and in humanity, this actual sign is absent; and therefore, however many ot=
her
signs we may discover in humanity and in organism, without this substantial
token the recognition of humanity as an organism is incorrect.
{238} v prikusku, when a lump of sugar i=
s held
in the teeth instead or being put into the tea.