–8. Self-Renunciation / A Free Man
Samootrechenie / Svobodny chelovek
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I
Even for the most steadfast people there come hours of despondency. You see the good, you strive toward it, you want to realize it—and all your efforts seem futile, and you feel yourself abandoned by those for whose sake you sacrificed yourself. You endure hatred, slander, persecution. It is then that the cry breaks from your heart: “Father, deliver me from this hour…” This Christ experienced. Alone amidst a sick, blind, deaf world, among disciples who did not understand him, among a coarse and indifferent crowd, among merciless enemies, foreseeing the execution that was to be the first fruit of his work, Christ said: “Father, save me from this hour,” but immediately added, foreseeing both the torments and death on the cross: “But for this purpose I came to this hour.” Yes, precisely for this—to suffer and die and to conquer through suffering, to conquer through death.
An eternal example for those who wish to continue his work! He teaches them that it bears fruit only through self-sacrifice, that he who sows does not reap, that if he does not die he remains alone; but if he dies, he will develop like a seed thrown into the earth and bring forth much fruit.
You who feel your souls troubled because your word has been rejected, because you do not see its effect, and because the future that was to come from it will, as it seems to you, be cast together with you into the grave into which the sons of Satan would like to bury truth itself—believe, on the contrary, that it is precisely at this time that the work of life begins, that for this hour you have come.
Disciples of Christ, you are not greater than your teacher; you must follow him on the path he has cleared for you, fulfill duty for duty’s sake and, asking for nothing on this earth, expecting nothing more, say, as Didymus said: Let us also go and die with him. Sow and sow under the scorching sun, under the icy rain; sow everywhere, in courtrooms and in prisons, in the very places of execution; sow, the harvest will come in its time.
—Lamennais
II
In order truly, not just in words, to be able to love others, one must not love oneself—also not just in words, but in deed. Usually it happens like this: we think we love others, we assure ourselves and them of this, but we love them only in words, while we love ourselves in deed. We forget to feed others and put them to bed, but we never forget ourselves. And therefore, in order truly to love others in deed, one must learn to forget to feed oneself and put oneself to sleep, just as we forget to do this for others.
The greater the sacrifice, the greater the love, and the greater the love, the more fruitful the deeds, the greater the benefit to people.
There are two limits: one is to lay down one’s life for one’s friends; the other is to live without changing the conditions of one’s life. Between these two limits are found all people: some at the level of Christ’s disciples, who left everything and followed him; others at the level of the rich young man, who immediately turned away and departed when told about changing his life. Between these two limits are found various Zacchaeuses, only partly changing their lives. But even to be a Zacchaeus, one must never cease striving toward the first limit.
—L. N. Tolstoy
III. A Free Man
Nekhlyudov stood at the edge of the ferry, gazing at the broad, swift river. From the town came across the water the booming and bronze trembling of a large church bell. The driver standing near Nekhlyudov and all the carters one after another removed their caps and crossed themselves. But the short, shaggy old man standing nearest to the railing, whom Nekhlyudov had not noticed at first, did not cross himself but, raising his head, fixed his gaze on Nekhlyudov. The old man was dressed in a patched peasant coat, cloth trousers, and worn, patched bast shoes. Over his shoulder was a small bag, and on his head a tall, worn fur cap.
“Why don’t you pray, old man?” said Nekhlyudov’s driver, putting on his cap. “Are you unbaptized?”
“Who should I pray to?” said the shaggy old man, speaking decisively and rapidly, syllable after syllable.
“To God, of course,” the driver said ironically.
“And can you show me where he is? This God?”
There was something so serious and firm in the old man’s expression that the driver, sensing he was dealing with a strong man, was somewhat disconcerted, but did not show it and, trying not to fall silent and disgrace himself before the listening public, quickly replied:
“Where? In heaven, of course.”
“And have you been there?”
“Been or not been, everyone knows you must pray to God.”
“No man hath seen God at any time. The only begotten Son, which is in the bosom of the Father, he hath declared him,” the old man said sternly, frowning, in the same rapid patter.
“You must be some sort of non-Christian, a hole-worshipper. You pray to a hole,” said the driver, tucking his whip handle into his belt and adjusting the trace on the outrigger horse.
Someone laughed.
“And what faith are you, grandpa?” asked an older man with a cartload standing at the edge of the ferry.
“I have no faith. Because I believe no one, no one except myself,” the old man answered just as quickly and decisively.
“But how can you believe in yourself?” said Nekhlyudov, entering the conversation. “You might make a mistake.”
“Never in my life,” the old man replied, shaking his head decisively.
“Then why are there different faiths?” asked Nekhlyudov.
“There are different faiths because people believe others, not themselves. I too believed others and wandered as if in the taiga; I got so lost I didn’t expect to find my way out. Old Believers and New Believers, and Sabbatarians and Khlysty, and those with priests and those without, and Austrians, and Molokans, and Skoptsy. Every faith praises only itself. So they’ve all scattered like blind puppies. There are many faiths, but the spirit is one. In you, and in me, and in him. So let everyone believe his own spirit, and then all will be united. Let everyone be himself, and all will be as one.”
The old man spoke loudly and kept looking around, evidently wanting as many people as possible to hear him.
“Have you long professed this way?” asked Nekhlyudov.
“Me? A long time now. They’ve been persecuting me for twenty-three years.”
“How do they persecute you?”
“As they persecuted Christ, so they persecute me. They seize me and drag me through courts, through priests—through scribes and Pharisees—and take me places; they put me in a madhouse. But they can do nothing to me, because I am free. ‘What is your name?’ they ask. They think I’ll take some title upon myself. But I take no title. I’ve renounced everything: I have no name, no place, no fatherland—I have nothing. I am myself. ‘What are you called?’—A man.—‘How old are you?’—I don’t count, I say, and it’s impossible to count, because I always was and always will be.—‘Whose son are you, who is your father and mother?’ they ask.—I have no father or mother, I say, except God and the earth. God is my father, the earth is my mother.—‘Do you recognize the Tsar?’ they ask.—Why shouldn’t I recognize him? He is Tsar to himself, and I am Tsar to myself.—‘Well,’ they say, ‘it’s useless talking to you.’ I say: I didn’t ask you to talk to me. And so they torment me.”
“And where are you going now?” asked Nekhlyudov.
“Wherever God leads. I work, and if there’s no work, I beg,” the old man concluded, noticing that the ferry was approaching the other bank, and he looked around triumphantly at all who had been listening to him.
The ferry reached the other shore. Nekhlyudov took out his purse and offered the old man some money. The old man refused.
“I don’t take that. I take bread,” he said.
“Well, farewell.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. You haven’t offended me. And it’s impossible to offend me,” said the old man, and began putting the bag he had taken off back on his shoulder.
Meanwhile the cart had been rolled off and the horses harnessed.
“Really, master, why bother talking to him,” said the driver to Nekhlyudov when he, having given a tip to the ferrymen, climbed onto the cart. “Just a worthless tramp.”
—L. N. Tolstoy (From the novel “Resurrection”)
Translator’s Notes:
- The quotations “Father, save me from this hour” and “But for this purpose I came to this hour” are from John 12:27.
- “He who sows does not reap” and the seed imagery reference John 12:24.
- Didymus (Thomas) is quoted from John 11:16.
- The “rich young man” refers to Matthew 19:16-22; Zacchaeus appears in Luke 19:1-10.
- “No man hath seen God at any time” is from John 1:18 (KJV).
- “Hole-worshipper” (dyrnik) was a derogatory term for certain sectarians.
- The religious groups mentioned—Old Believers, Sabbatarians, Khlysty, Molokans, Skoptsy, Austrians—were various Russian sects outside mainstream Orthodoxy.
- The old man’s radical renunciation of all social identity represents Tolstoy’s ideal of inner spiritual freedom.