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