Life Is Worth Living and Other Stories

Front matter

Life Is Worth Living

AND

OTHER STORIES

Preface

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.

In compiling this second volume of our translation of Count Tolstoï's works we have endeavored to select only such stories as have a direct bearing upon the great problems of life and death, religion and morality, time and eternity. While it is not assumed that the author's religious views, in their entirety, are to be found between the covers of this little book, yet herein those fundamental doctrines of Christianity upon which we all agree are given an application that is unique. These stories are based upon the simple teachings of Christ—not one of them containing a line that is calculated to infringe upon the sensitive distinctions of sectarianism, or to controvert in the slightest degree the principles of any Christian denomination. This volume is peculiarly adapted, therefore, to the use of Sabbath-schools, both Protestant and Catholic—though it may be read with equal profit by adults in all walks of life: by those who believe in the reality of a Divine Providence; that if a man die he shall live again; and that, aside from all theological controversy, the saving of our souls in this present world is but a simple matter after all.

The story, "Life Is Worth Living," is an allegory. It describes the experiences of a poor cobbler and his wife who "entertained an angel unawares." Through the presence of their celestial visitor they learned the three great truths which constitute the basis of man's existence—of what we are made, and what is essential and what is non-essential to our human life. During the course of this very strange narrative Count Tolstoï gives incidentally some excellent pictures of Russian life and of the hardships endured by the peasantry in winter.

"Two Old Men" is a most entertaining and instructive tale of a couple of aged comrades who undertook a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Their object in taking the long journey was to pay their devotions to God in that Mecca for pilgrims, and was the outcome of a long-standing agreement between them. The old men were bosom friends, though they differed materially from each other in manner and tem- perament. It is interesting to follow the differences also in their respective methods of putting their Christian principles into practice, while much information concerning the sights to be seen in the ancient city gives an added value to the story. The author's description of a terrible famine in Little Russia is especially interesting in view of the present starving condition of the peasantry throughout the Czar's empire.

Translated literally, the title of the third tale might be rendered thus: "Where Love Is There God Is Also;" but I have condensed it into "God Is Love" to meet the requirements of English usage. It tells of a poor shoemaker who, in his humble way, found many opportunities for doing good to others, and illustrates the certainty of the heavenly reward that awaits those who, according to their means, give effective expression to the Golden Rule.

"The Candle," the concluding story of the volume, is one of those pathetic little touches of nature which we find among Tolstoï's earlier writings. It illustrates the superstitious awe with which the lighted candle is regarded by every devout adherent of the Greek Church, and tells with deep pathos of that perversity of humankind indicated in the adage of "the beggar on horseback." A man having arisen from the level of a serf to the dignity of superintendent of a noble's estate becomes even more cruel and tyrannical in his treatment of the unfortunate slaves than those masters who had experienced no other condition than that of being born into the Russian nobility. The alleged efficacy of the burning candle in exorcising evil spirits is shown in the conquest of this man's wickedness by the religious act of a humble peasant.

It is hoped that this little book will do much toward dissipating the many aspersions which, by some writers, have been cast against the alleged religious convictions of Count Tolstoï, for it shows that the author is a man whose interpretation of the Gospel is based upon common sense and human experience—rather than upon any spiritual revelation or the ritualism of ecclesiastics.

For the charming literary flavor that pervades these stories thanks are due to my accomplished wife, whose bright editorial skill in the revision of the manuscripts has been of invaluable service.

Adolphus Norraikow.

Life Is Worth Living

LIFE IS WORTH LIVING.

LIFE IS WORTH LIVING.

I. JOHN iii., 14, 17, 18; iv., 7, 8, 12, 20.

CHAPTER I.

A shoemaker and his family lived as tenants in the house of a brother peasant. He owned no land and had no home of his own. His name was Simeon, and he supported his wife and children by hard work at his trade. The cost of living was dear, while wages were low, and the shoemaker's earnings were barely sufficient to buy the necessary food. He had only one fur coat for himself and wife. As this garment contained many holes and was nearly worn out, he had been trying for more than a year to save enough money for the purchase of a new sheep-skin coat. By the autumn he had accumulated a little money—three rubles were lying in his wife’s trunk, and five rubles were due him from peasants in the neighborhood.

One morning Simeon went to the village to buy the long-coveted coat, wearing his wife's jacket (which was lined with raw cotton) and over it a woollen kaftan (peasant's outer garment). Cutting a walking-stick from the limb of a tree, and putting a crisp green bill representing three rubles in his pocket, he started on his journey immediately after his breakfast. He thought to himself: "I will receive five rubles from the moujiks [peasants], and, adding my three, I will be able to purchase enough sheepskins to make a coat."

At length the shoemaker arrived at the village, and, calling at the house of one peasant, was informed that he was not in, his wife promising in a week to send the money with her husband. Greatly disappointed, the poor man then visited another house; but the peasant declared that he had no money, though he gave him twenty kopecks for mending his shoes.

Failing to secure a sufficient number of rubles with which to purchase the sheepskins, the shoemaker decided to obtain them on credit, but could not find a dealer who was willing to trust him. Each merchant to whom he applied said: "Bring the money in hard cash, and you can take your choice of the sheepskins in my store; but otherwise you cannot have them, as we know from experience what a difficult matter it is to collect debts."

Poor Simeon was unable to succeed in his undertaking, for he received only the twenty kopecks for repairing the shoes, and got from another peasant a pair of old felt ones to cover with leather. He worried a great deal and went into a tavern to drink, where he spent the entire twenty kopecks, returning to his home without the sheepskins for his coat. The morning was cold, but after drinking so much vodki (whiskey) he felt quite warm. He then turned his steps homeward, having in one hand the cane, with which he struck the frozen objects he en- countered on the road, and in the other hand he carried the old felt shoes he had taken to cover. As he walked along he conversed in cheerful tones with himself.

"I feel quite warm enough," he said, "without the fur overcoat. That glass of vodki which I drank sends the blood like fire coursing through my veins, and it is not necessary to fasten my sheepskin coat. I am returning home after having banished all my sorrow. See what kind of a man I am! What matters anything to me now? I can live without a coat. What care I if I have to do without a coat for all eternity? Only one thing worries me, and that is my poor wife. She will be dreadfully grieved. Yes, it is very annoying. You work for a man and he refuses to pay you. Very well; if he does not soon bring me the money I will take his hat. I call upon God to be my witness that I will do so. How strange it all seems! He pays me only twenty kopecks at a time. Well, what can I do with twenty kopecks? It is only enough to pay for a drink. 'What need have you of money?' he says. He needs money, but asks of what use it is to me! He owns a house and cattle and has everything he wants. But what have I? Nothing but the clothes which I have on. He makes his own bread, but I have to buy mine. It costs me three rubles every week. When I get home all the bread will be gone, and I will have to pay out a ruble and a half for more. Let him return me what he owes me."

Thus talking to himself, Simeon reached a turn in the road, near which stood a chapel. As he glanced toward the rear of the building he thought he saw some white object moving. Owing to the darkness he was unable to distinguish what it was. What could it be? He had passed that way many times before, but he could not remember having seen a tombstone there. Then he thought that perhaps it was a cow which had gone in there to graze. But still, on looking again, he decided that it could not be. It looked more like a human form, but he was sorely puzzled to account for its being all in white, and then he wondered what a man would be doing there. As he approached nearer he could see more distinctly, and lo! he beheld the figure of a man. It was in a sitting posture, motionless, and leaning toward the chapel; but whether it was dead or alive he was unable to perceive. The shoemaker was almost paralyzed with fear as he thought: "Perhaps this man has been murdered by some one, robbed of his clothes, and left here to perish. If I should go near him I may get myself into trouble."

So Simeon passed him by, and when he reached the rear of the chapel he could no longer see him. Going further, however, he looked around and saw that the apparition had moved a short distance from the chapel and appeared to be gazing about. This made the shoemaker still more frightened, and he hesitated as to whether it were better to go to him or to continue on his way and leave him to his fate. To approach him, thought Simeon, might be dangerous, for who knows what manner of man he might be? He said to himself: "There must be something wrong with him or he would not be there. If I should go near him he may want to fight me—perhaps spring upon me and choke me to death before I could escape. What should I do when I meet a naked man?" said the shoemaker, finally, in despair. "Shall I take off my last cloak and give it to him? Oh, God! let this thing pass from me."

The shoemaker quickened his steps, leaving the chapel behind him; but his conscience was smitten with remorse, and he stood still on the road.

"What are you doing, Simeon?" he exclaimed, clutching at his hair. "The man is in distress and may be dying, and you, mean coward, intend to pass him by! Or have you suddenly become rich, that you are in fear of being robbed? Oh, Sim [diminutive of Simeon], it is disgraceful!"

CHAPTER II.

Simeon returned to the man, and on investigation found him to be young and powerful. While there were no bruises on his body, he was trembling and seemed stunned, as if from fear. He was sitting near the wall of the chapel, and appeared too feeble even to raise his eyes to look at the stranger who approached him. As Simeon came near the man suddenly awoke, and, turning his head, gazed earnestly upon him. The expression of his face pleased Simeon very much, and, throwing the old felt shoes on the ground, he unbuttoned his coat, and, taking it off, he handed it to the man, saying: "This is no time for talking. Put on the kaftan at once!"

The shoemaker then took the man by the arm and tried to lift him up. He succeeded after an effort in getting him on his feet, when he saw that he had a white, slender body, that his hands and feet were not injured, and that the expression of his face was very pleasant. Simeon placed the kaftan about the man's shoulders, and, finding that he was unable to help himself, he put it on for him, buttoned it, and adjusted the girdle round his waist. The shoemaker took off his hat also to give to the man, but, feeling the cold wind blowing on his bald pate, he thought: "I have no hair, while his head is covered with long ringlets." So Simeon replaced his hat on his head, remarking, "I had better put the old felt shoes on him."

The shoemaker asked the stranger to be seated while he adjusted the shoes on his feet, and after dressing him he said:

"Well, my brother, let us first make ourselves warm. As to the misfortune which has over-taken you, we shall discuss that afterward. Are you able to move?"

The man stood looking affectionately at Simeon, but seemed unable to utter a word.

"Why don't you speak?" asked Simeon. "If we stay here any longer we shall freeze. We must try to reach a place of shelter at once. Here, take my walking-stick if you are weak, and come along as quickly as you can."

The man obeyed, stepping lightly after the shoemaker. As they walked along the road, Simeon inquired of his companion:

"Who are you?"

"I am a stranger and do not belong here," was the reply.

"I thought I knew all my neighbors," said Simeon; "but how does it happen that I found you, a stranger, near the chapel?"

"It is impossible for me to tell you."

"Perhaps somebody has abused you?"

"Oh, no! No man has hurt me. I am being punished by God."

"Well, all things are done by God; but you must have had an object in coming here. What is your destination? Where I go it matters not to me."

As Simeon talked with the mysterious stranger his surprise continued to increase. He thought to himself: "This does not look like a man bent on mischief. Although he speaks very pleasantly, he refuses to say anything concerning himself. Yet many strange things are happening every day in this wicked world." Then turning to the man he said:

"Well, I will take you to my house, where you can warm yourself and have a good rest."

At length Simeon reached his home, with the stranger at his side. The wind was blowing cold, and the shoemaker felt that the effect of the vodki was passing off, for he began to tremble like a leaf. Buttoning his wife's jacket more securely around him, he thought to himself: "This is the fur coat you were going after, and you are returning home without even a kaftan. You are bringing instead a naked man. I do not think my wife, Matreona, will give me much praise."

This fear of his wife's displeasure worried Simeon very much. But, glancing again at his companion, he remembered the pleasant and kindly looks which he gave him as he stood by the chapel. The recollection filled his heart with happiness and great joy.

CHAPTER III.

Simeon's wife had got through with her household duties early in the day. She had chopped the wood, brought in the water, and fed the children and herself. Matreona was now lost in thought, for she was meditating as to whether she would prepare the bread that day or the next. She had yet left one good-sized loaf, and thought to herself: "If Simeon shall have had his dinner, and will not eat much supper, we will have enough for to-morrow." Matreona examined the loaf and continued her reverie: "I guess I need not prepare fresh bread to-day. There is left sufficient flour for only one more batch of bread, and we can manage till Friday with what we have."

Putting aside the loaf, she seated herself at the table to mend her husband's shirt. While Matreona was thus engaged, her thoughts wandered toward Simeon and his purchase of the sheepskins for the coat, when she murmured to herself:

"Perhaps he has been cheated by the sheepskin dealer, as he is not sharp enough for such people. He never cheats any one, and a little child could get the best of him. Eight rubles is a great deal of money. A very fine coat could be purchased for that amount. During last winter we had a hard time to get along without a furcoat. It was impossible to do my washing in the river, or to go anywhere else in the intensely cold weather. He has my jacket on him now, and I am left without anything to wear. He should have returned by this time. Perhaps my angel has gone on the spree."

At this point her meditation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the porch. Some one had entered the house, and, putting her needle aside, she went into the hall. She saw that two persons had come in—Simeon and some strange man, the latter without a hat and wearing felt shoes.

Approaching her husband, Matreona instantly detected the smell of vodki. "Well," she thought, "it is just as I expected. He has been drinking on the way home." Her surprise increased when she noticed that his kaftan had disappeared, and that only her jacket was visible, while no parcels were to be seen in his arms. This fact, coupled with his silent and confused manner of entering the house, aroused the gravest fears within her breast. Matreona's heart misgave her, and she broke down completely. She believed that Simeon had lost his money drinking with some bad man, and had afterward brought the creature to his home. Matreona followed them into the room, and she saw that the man was a stranger in those parts, and that he was young and very thin. She saw also that he was dressed in their kaftan, but that no shirt was visible under it, and that the man was without a hat. As he entered the room, he stood motionless, not even raising his eyes.

As Simeon's wife looked at him, she thought: "What a bad man he must be! He is afraid to look up, and keeps his eyes constantly on the floor." Matreona, now thoroughly angry, went over to the oven and waited to see what they were going to do.

Simeon took off his hat and seated himself on the bench, as if nothing unusual had occurred. Presently he said to his wife:

"Well, Matreona, are you going to give us some supper?"

But Matreona, without replying, stood by the oven and looked from one to the other of the men. She finally shook her head in a despondent way, but did not offer to produce any food.

Simeon saw that his wife was annoyed, but he did not appear to notice it; and taking the stranger by the arm he said: "Be seated, brother, and we shall have some supper."

The stranger took the seat indicated on the bench.

"Well," at last asked Simeon of his wife, "have you prepared anything to eat?"

At this question Matreona became very angry.

"Yes," she replied, "I prepared supper; but not for you. I see that yow have been drinking away your senses. You went to purchase a fur coat, and you return without even your kaftan. Instead, you have brought home with you a naked tramp. No; I have no supper for drunkards."

"Enough, Matreona," said Simeon; "you chatter without sense. Before you heap such abuse upon us would it not be better to ask who the stranger is that I have brought with me?"

The now thoroughly irate woman said, in angry tones: "You must tell me what you did with the money!"

For reply, Simeon put his hand in the pocket of his kaftan and drew forth a bill, which he showed to her, saying: "Here is some money; but Trifonoff did not pay me. He promised to do so to-morrow."

Matreona on hearing this became still more angry because her husband had not bought the fur coat, and the only kaftan they owned he had given to the strange man whom he had brought home with him.

Simeon's wife snatched the bill from the table and carried it to a place of safety, muttering as she went: "I have no supper for you. I cannot feed all the naked tramps you choose to pick up and bring here with you."

"Oh, Matreona," said he, "do hold your tongue! Listen to what we have to say before you condemn us."

But the shoemaker's wife retorted: “I will not become much wiser by listening to the chatter of drunken fools. I had good reasons for not wishing to marry you, you drunkard, for you have drunk up all the linen which my mother gave me on my wedding-day. You got money to buy a fur coat and you drank that too!"

Simeon tried to explain to his wife that he had spent only twenty kopecks in vodki, and also about his finding the man; but Matreona would not give him a chance to say a word.

She spoke at such a rapid rate that she managed to get in two words to his one. In her anger she reminded him of things which had occurred ten years before, and during her excitement she sprang at Simeon and caught him by the sleeve of his coat.

"Give me back my jacket at once!" she shouted. "It is the only one I own, and you have appropriated it to your own use! Give it to me instantly, you dog; and may perdition be your lot!"

Simeon started to take off the jacket, but when he freed himself of one sleeve his wife took hold of the garment, and pulled at it with such force that she nearly tore it to pieces. She snatched the jacket away, and, throwing a shawl over her head, went to the door.

It was Matreona's intention to leave the room, but she paused on the doorstep. While she was terribly excited, and was filled with a desire to punish her husband for his supposed misconduct, yet she was very curious to find out the identity of that mysterious stranger.

CHAPTER IV.

Simeon's wife, standing by the door, said to her husband: "If he were a decent man he would not be naked, for he is without even a shirt. If you were a good and proper husband you would tell me where you found such a specimen of humanity."

"Yes," said Simeon, at last getting a chance to speak; "I am about to tell you how, in passing the chapel, I found him sitting naked and frozen almost to death. You see, it is not summer, when one can go without clothing (if forced to do so) and not suffer. God must have sent me to him, for otherwise he would have perished. However, when I first saw him, I was in doubt as to what I should do with him. But, considering the many strange things which happen to men nowadays, I took him and brought him home with me. Suppress your anger, Matreona, for it is a sin. We all have to die."

Matreona seemed still anxious to quarrel, but catching the stranger's eye she became silent. The man was sitting motionless on the edge of the bench, resting his hands on his knees. His head had dropped on his breast and his eyes were closed, while he knit his brows as if in despair.

Taking further advantage of his wife's silence, Simeon continued:

"Matreona, have you Christ in your heart or have you not?"

On hearing this the shoemaker's wife glanced toward the stranger, and instantly her angry and quarrelsome spirit left her. She went to a corner near the stove and began to prepare supper. Placing cups on the table, she poured quass into them. She also brought out their last loaf of bread, and finally she produced some knives and spoons. Turning to the men, she said: "Come; you are welcome to what I have."

Simeon hereupon led the stranger to the table, saying, "Come here, my good man." He next proceeded to cut the loaf into slices, which they broke into their cups and started to eat.

Matreona was seated at one corner of the table, and, with her head resting on her hands, she gazed intently at the stranger. A feeling of pity took possession of her heart, and she felt that she liked him. Suddenly the man ceased to knit his brows, his face brightened, and, raising his eyes, he smiled upon Matreona.

At the conclusion of the meal, Simeon's wife proceeded to put everything away, and while doing so she said to the stranger:

"Who are you, anyway?"

"I am a stranger," he replied.

"But how did it happen that you found yourself alone on the road?"

"I cannot tell you."

"By whom were you robbed?"

"I have been punished by God."

"But you were lying naked, my husband says?"

"Yes; I was lying naked and slowly freezing. Simeon saw me and had pity upon me. He took off his kaftan and helped me to put it on, and afterward brought me here. And you also have pitied me, giving me food and drink. The Lord will reward you."

Arising from her seat, Matreona took from the window-sill the old shirt which she had been mending, and finding also a cast-off pair of her husband's trousers, she gave both to the man, saying:

"Take these; I see you have no clothing. Dress yourself, my good friend, and lie down to rest. You may select the stove, or any part of the bench which suits you."

Removing the kaftan, the stranger put on the garments which the woman had given him and lay down on the bench to rest.

Taking the kaftan in her hand, Matreona extinguished the light, and joining her husband she retired for the night. Although she covered herself with a portion of the coat, she was unable to sleep. Her thoughts constantly wandered to their strange guest. The fact also forced itself upon her that they had eaten their last loaf of bread, and that nothing remained for the morrow. She reflected, too, upon the humble gifts which she had bestowed upon the man, and her heart was filled with sadness. Yet, when she recalled how pleasantly he smiled, her regrets were changed to gladness.

For a long time sleep refused to come to Matreona's eyes, and, noticing Simeon's efforts to cover himself with the kaftan, discovered that he also was unable to sleep. Finally she called:

"Simeon!"

"Eh?" was her husband's only reply.

"The last of the bread has been eaten," she said; "and I have not set any more to raise. I do not know how we are to manage for to-morrow—unless my godmother, Malanya, can spare us some."

"If we are alive," Simeon replied, "the Lord will see that we are fed."

This unexpected reply silenced the shoemaker's wife for a few moments, when Simeon continued:

"He seems to be a good fellow, though a little strange. He would not say anything about himself. It may be that he is unable to do so."

"Sim!"

"Eh?" repeated the shoemaker.

"We give to others," said Matreona, "and why is it that no one gives us anything?"

To this question Simeon could make no reply, but after remaining silent for a few moments he said: "Well, I think we have talked enough for to-night;" and, turning over, he went sound asleep.

CHAPTER V.

Simeon awoke early the next morning and missed his wife from his side. He supposed she had gone to the neighbors to see if she could borrow some bread. The children still slept.

Getting up and dressing himself, Simeon went to look for the stranger he had brought home the previous day. He found him seated on the bench, attired in the clothes which the shoemaker's wife had given him. His eyes were turned heavenward, and the expression of his face was much brighter than Simeon had yet seen it.

Addressing him, the shoemaker said: "Well, my dear friend, the body needs food and raiment. You will have to do something to procure both for yourself. What can you do?"

"I do not know how to do any kind of work," the stranger replied.

On hearing this, Simeon was very much surprised, and he said: "If only you are willing, you can learn to do everything. People who are in good health should always work. I have to work very hard." Then, after a pause, he asked, "What is your name?"

"Michael," replied the man.

"Well, Michael," the shoemaker said, "you do not appear to care to say much about yourself. But that is your own business. What we have to consider is how you are to be fed. If you will follow my directions I will see that you get what you need."

"God bless you!" replied Michael. "I am only too willing to learn. Show me what to do and I will do it."