"What Men Live By"
a short story by Leo Tolstoy
1881
A shoemaker named Simon, who had neither house nor land of
his own, lived with his wife and children in a peasant’s
hut, and earned his living by his work. Work was cheap,
but bread was dear, and what he earned he spent for food.
The man and his wife had but one sheepskin coat between them
for winter wear, and even that was torn to tatters, and this
was the second year he had been wanting to buy sheep-skins
for a new coat. Before winter Simon saved up a little
money: a three-rouble note lay hidden in his wife’s box,
and five roubles and twenty kopeks were owed him by
customers in the village.
So one morning he prepared to go to the village to buy the
sheep-skins. He put on over his shirt his wife’s wadded
nankeen jacket, and over that he put his own cloth coat.
He took the three-rouble note in his pocket, cut himself a
stick to serve as a staff, and started off after
breakfast. “I’ll collect the five roubles that are due to
me,” thought he, “add the three I have got, and that will be
enough to buy sheep-skins for the winter coat.”
He came to the village and called at a peasant’s hut, but
the man was not at home. The peasant’s wife promised that
the money should be paid next week, but she would not pay it
herself. Then Simon called on another peasant, but this
one swore he had no money, and would only pay twenty kopeks
which he owed for a pair of boots Simon had mended. Simon
then tried to buy the sheep-skins on credit, but the dealer
would not trust him.
“Bring your money,” said he, “then you may have your pick of
the skins. We know what debt-collecting is like.” So
all the business the shoemaker did was to get the twenty
kopeks for boots he had mended, and to take a pair of felt
boots a peasant gave him to sole with leather.
Simon felt downhearted. He spent the twenty kopeks on
vodka, and started homewards without having bought any
skins. In the morning he had felt the frost; but now,
after drinking the vodka, he felt warm, even without a
sheep-skin coat. He trudged along, striking his stick on
the frozen earth with one hand, swinging the felt boots with
the other, and talking to himself.
I
“I’m quite warm,” said he, “though I have no sheep-skin
coat. I’ve had a drop, and it runs through all my veins.
I need no sheep-skins. I go along and don’t worry about
anything. That’s the sort of man I am! What do I care?
I can live without sheep-skins. I don’t need them. My
wife will fret, to be sure. And, true enough, it is a
shame; one works all day long, and then does not get
paid. Stop a bit! If you don’t bring that money along,
sure enough I’ll skin you, blessed if I don’t. How’s
that? He pays twenty kopeks at a time! What can I do
with twenty kopeks? Drink it-that’s all one can do! Hard
up, he says he is! So he may be—but what about me? You
have a house, and cattle, and everything; I’ve only what I
stand up in! You have corn of your own growing; I have
to buy every grain. Do what I will, I must spend three roubles every week for bread alone. I come home and find
the bread all used up, and I have to fork out another rouble
and a half. So just pay up what you owe, and no nonsense
about it!”
By this time he had nearly reached the shrine at the bend of
the road. Looking up, he saw something whitish behind the
shrine. The daylight was fading, and the shoemaker peered
at the thing without being able to make out what it was.
“There was no white stone here before. Can it be an
ox? It’s not like an ox. It has a head like a man,
but it’s too white; and what could a man be doing there?”
He came closer, so that it was clearly visible. To his
surprise it really was a man, alive or dead, sitting naked,
leaning motionless against the shrine. Terror seized the
shoemaker, and he thought, “Some one has killed him,
stripped him, and left him there. If I meddle I shall
surely get into trouble.”
So the shoemaker went on. He passed in front of the shrine
so that he could not see the man. When he had gone some
way, he looked back, and saw that the man was no longer
leaning against the shrine, but was moving as if looking
towards him. The shoemaker felt more frightened than
before, and thought, “Shall I go back to him, or shall I go
on? If I go near him something dreadful may happen. Who
knows who the fellow is? He has not come here for any
good. If I go near him he may jump up and throttle me, and
there will be no getting away. Or if not, he’d still be a
burden on one’s hands. What could I do with a naked man?
I couldn’t give him my last clothes. Heaven only help me
to get away!”
So the shoemaker hurried on, leaving the shrine behind
him-when suddenly his conscience smote him, and he stopped
in the road.
“What are you doing, Simon?” said he to himself. “The man
may be dying of want, and you slip past afraid. Have you
grown so rich as to be afraid of robbers? Ah, Simon, shame
on you!”
So he turned back and went up to the man.
II
Simon approached the stranger, looked at him, and saw that
he was a young man, fit, with no bruises on his body, only
evidently freezing and frightened, and he sat there leaning
back without looking up at Simon, as if too faint to lift
his eyes. Simon went close to him, and then the man seemed
to wake up. Turning his head, he opened his eyes and
looked into Simon’s face. That one look was enough to make
Simon fond of the man. He threw the felt boots on the
ground, undid his sash, laid it on the boots, and took off
his cloth coat.
“It’s not a time for talking,” said he. “Come, put this
coat on at once!” And Simon took the man by the elbows and
helped him to rise. As he stood there, Simon saw that his
body was clean and in good condition, his hands and feet
shapely, and his face good and kind. He threw his coat
over the man’s shoulders, but the latter could not find the
sleeves. Simon guided his arms into them, and drawing the
coat well on, wrapped it closely about him, tying the sash
round the man’s waist.
Simon even took off his torn cap to put it on the man’s
head, but then his own head felt cold, and he thought: “I’m
quite bald, while he has long curly hair.” So he put his
cap on his own head again. “It will be better to give him
something for his feet,” thought he; and he made the man
sit down, and helped him to put on the felt boots, saying,
“There, friend, now move about and warm yourself. Other
matters can be settled later on. Can you walk?”
The man stood up and looked kindly at Simon, but could not
say a word.
“Why don’t you speak?” said Simon. “It’s too cold to stay
here, we must be getting home. There now, take my stick,
and if you’re feeling weak, lean on that. Now step out!”
The man started walking, and moved easily, not lagging
behind.
As they went along, Simon asked him, “And where do you
belong to?” “I’m not from these parts.”
“I thought as much. I know the folks hereabouts. But,
how did you come to be there by the shrine ?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Has some one been ill-treating you?”
“No one has ill-treated me. God has punished me.”
“Of course God rules all. Still, you’ll have to find food
and shelter somewhere. Where do you want to go to?”
“It is all the same to me.”
Simon was amazed. The man did not look like a rogue, and
he spoke gently, but yet he gave no account of himself.
Still Simon thought, “Who knows what may have happened?” And
he said to the stranger: “Well then, come home with me, and
at least warm yourself awhile.”
So Simon walked towards his home, and the stranger kept up
with him, walking at his side. The wind had risen and
Simon felt it cold under his shirt. He was getting over
his tipsiness by now, and began to feel the frost. He went
along sniffling and wrapping his wife’s coat round him, and
he thought to himself: “There now—talk about sheep-skins!
I went out for sheep-skins and come home without even a coat
to my back, and what is more, I’m bringing a naked man along
with me. Matryona won’t be pleased!” And when he thought
of his wife he felt sad; but when he looked at the
stranger and remembered how he had looked up at him at the
shrine, his heart was glad.
III
Simon’s wife had everything ready early that day. She had
cut wood, brought water, fed the children, eaten her own
meal, and now she sat thinking. She wondered when she
ought to make bread: now or tomorrow? There was still a
large piece left.
“If Simon has had some dinner in town,” thought she, “and
does not eat much for supper, the bread will last out
another day.”
She weighed the piece of bread in her hand again and again,
and thought: “I won’t make any more today. We have only
enough flour left to bake one batch; We can manage to
make this last out till Friday.”
So Matryona put away the bread, and sat down at the table to
patch her husband’s shirt. While she worked she thought
how her husband was buying skins for a winter coat.
“If only the dealer does not cheat him. My good man is
much too simple; he cheats nobody, but any child can
take him in. Eight roubles is a lot of money—he should get
a good coat at that price. Not tanned skins, but still a
proper winter coat. How difficult it was last winter to
get on without a warm coat. I could neither get down to
the river, nor go out anywhere. When he went out he put on
all we had, and there was nothing left for me. He did not
start very early today, but still it’s time he was back. I
only hope he has not gone on the spree!”
Hardly had Matryona thought this, when steps were heard on
the threshold, and some one entered. Matryona stuck her
needle into her work and went out into the passage. There
she saw two men: Simon, and with him a man without a hat,
and wearing felt boots.
Matryona noticed at once that her husband smelt of
spirits. “There now, he has been drinking,” thought she.
And when she saw that he was coatless, had only her jacket
on, brought no parcel, stood there silent, and seemed
ashamed, her heart was ready to break with disappointment.
“He has drunk the money,” thought she, “and has been on the
spree with some good-for-nothing fellow whom he has brought
home with him.”
Matryona let them pass into the hut, followed them in, and
saw that the stranger was a young, slight man, wearing her
husband’s coat. There was no shirt to be seen under it,
and he had no hat. Having entered, he stood, neither
moving, nor raising his eyes, and Matryona thought: “He must
be a bad man—he’s afraid.”
Matryona frowned, and stood beside the oven looking to see
what they would do.
Simon took off his cap and sat down on the bench as if
things were all right.
“Come, Matryona; if supper is ready, let us have some.”
Matryona muttered something to herself and did not move, but
stayed where she was, by the oven. She looked first at the
one and then at the other of them, and only shook her
head. Simon saw that his wife was annoyed, but tried to
pass it off. Pretending not to notice anything, he took
the stranger by the arm.
“Sit down, friend,” said he, “and let us have some supper.”
The stranger sat down on the bench.
“Haven’t you cooked anything for us?” said Simon.
Matryona’s anger boiled over. “I’ve cooked, but not for
you. It seems to me you have drunk your wits away. You
went to buy a sheep-skin coat, but come home without so much
as the coat you had on, and bring a naked vagabond home with
you. I have no supper for drunkards like you.”
“That’s enough, Matryona. Don’t wag your tongue without
reason. You had better ask what sort of man—”
“And you tell me what you’ve done with the money?”
Simon found the pocket of the jacket, drew out the
three-rouble note, and unfolded it.
“Here is the money. Trifonof did not pay, but promises to
pay soon.”
Matryona got still more angry; he had bought no
sheep-skins, but had put his only coat on some naked fellow
and had even brought him to their house.
She snatched up the note from the table, took it to put away
in safety, and said: “I have no supper for you. We can’t
feed all the naked drunkards in the world.”
“There now, Matryona, hold your tongue a bit. First hear
what a man has to say-”
“Much wisdom I shall hear from a drunken fool. I was right
in not wanting to marry you-a drunkard. The linen my
mother gave me you drank; and now you’ve been to buy a
coat-and have drunk it, too!”
Simon tried to explain to his wife that he had only spent
twenty kopeks; tried to tell how he had found the
man—but Matryona would not let him get a word in. She
talked nineteen to the dozen, and dragged in things that had
happened ten years before.
Matryona talked and talked, and at last she flew at Simon
and seized him by the sleeve.
“Give me my jacket. It is the only one I have, and you
must needs take it from me and wear it yourself. Give it
here, you mangy dog, and may the devil take you.”
Simon began to pull off the jacket, and turned a sleeve of
it inside out; Matryona seized the jacket and it burst
its seams, She snatched it up, threw it over her head and
went to the door. She meant to go out, but stopped
undecided—she wanted to work off her anger, but she also
wanted to learn what sort of a man the stranger was.
IV
Matryona stopped and said: “If he were a good man he would
not be naked. Why, he hasn’t even a shirt on him. If he
were all right, you would say where you came across the
fellow.”
“That’s just what I am trying to tell you,” said Simon.
“As I came to the shrine I saw him sitting all naked and
frozen. It isn’t quite the weather to sit about naked!
God sent me to him, or he would have perished. What was I
to do? How do we know what may have happened to him? So
I took him, clothed him, and brought him along. Don’t be
so angry, Matryona. It is a sin. Remember, we all must
die one day.”
Angry words rose to Matryona’s lips, but she looked at the
stranger and was silent. He sat on the edge of the bench,
motionless, his hands folded on his knees, his head drooping
on his breast, his eyes closed, and his brows knit as if in
pain. Matryona was silent: and Simon said: “Matryona, have
you no love of God?”
Matryona heard these words, and as she looked at the
stranger, suddenly her heart softened towards him. She
came back from the door, and going to the oven she got out
the supper. Setting a cup on the table, she poured out
some kvas. Then she brought out the last piece of bread,
and set out a knife and spoons.
“Eat, if you want to,” said she.
Simon drew the stranger to the table.
“Take your place, young man,” said he.
Simon cut the bread, crumbled it into the broth, and they
began to eat. Matryona sat at the corner of the table
resting her head on her hand and looking at the stranger.
And Matryona was touched with pity for the stranger, and
began to feel fond of him. And at once the stranger’s face
lit up; his brows were no longer bent, he raised his
eyes and smiled at Matryona.
When they had finished supper, the woman cleared away the
things and began questioning the stranger. “Where are you
from?” said she.
“I am not from these parts.”
“But how did you come to be on the road?”
“I may not tell.”
“Did some one rob you?”
“God punished me.”
“And you were lying there naked?”
“Yes, naked and freezing. Simon saw me and had pity on
me. He took off his coat, put it on me and brought me
here. And you have fed me, given me drink, and shown pity
on me. God will reward you!”
Matryona rose, took from the window Simon’s old shirt she
had been patching, and gave it to the stranger. She also
brought out a pair of trousers for him.
“There,” said she, “I see you have no shirt. Put this on,
and lie down where you please, in the loft or on the oven .”
The stranger took off the coat, put on the shirt, and lay
down in the loft. Matryona put out the candle, took the
coat, and climbed to where her husband lay.
Matryona drew the skirts of the coat over her and lay down,
but could not sleep; she could not get the stranger out
of her mind.
When she remembered that he had eaten their last piece of
bread and that there was none for tomorrow, and thought of
the shirt and trousers she had given away, she felt
grieved; but when she remembered how he had smiled, her
heart was glad.
Long did Matryona lie awake, and she noticed that Simon also
was awake—he drew the coat towards him.
“Simon!”
“Well?”
“You have had the last of the bread, and I have not put any
to rise. I don’t know what we shall do tomorrow. Perhaps
I can borrow some of neighbor Martha.”
“If we’re alive we shall find something to eat.”
The woman lay still awhile, and then said, “He seems a good
man, but why does he not tell us who he is?”
“I suppose he has his reasons.”
“Simon!”
“Well?”
“We give; but why does nobody give us anything?”
Simon did not know what to say; so he only said, “Let us
stop talking,” and turned over and went to sleep.
V
In the morning Simon awoke. The children were still
asleep; his wife had gone to the neighbor’s to borrow
some bread. The stranger alone was sitting on the bench,
dressed in the old shirt and trousers, and looking
upwards. His face was brighter than it had been the day
before.
Simon said to him, “Well, friend; the belly wants bread,
and the naked body clothes. One has to work for a living
What work do you know?”
“I do not know any.”
This surprised Simon, but he said, “Men who want to learn
can learn anything.”
“Men work, and I will work also.”
“What is your name?”
“Michael.”
“Well, Michael, if you don’t wish to talk about yourself,
that is your own affair; but you’ll have to earn a
living for yourself. If you will work as I tell you, I
will give you food and shelter.”
“May God reward you! I will learn. Show me what to do.”
Simon took yarn, put it round his thumb and began to twist
it.
“It is easy enough—see!”
Michael watched him, put some yarn round his own thumb in
the same way, caught the knack, and twisted the yarn also.
Then Simon showed him how to wax the thread. This also
Michael mastered. Next Simon showed him how to twist the
bristle in, and how to sew, and this, too, Michael learned
at once.
Whatever Simon showed him he understood at once, and after
three days he worked as if he had sewn boots all his life.
He worked without stopping, and ate little. When work was
over he sat silently, looking upwards. He hardly went into
the street, spoke only when necessary, and neither joked nor
laughed. They never saw him smile, except that first
evening when Matryona gave them supper.
VI
Day by day and week by week the year went round. Michael
lived and worked with Simon. His fame spread till people
said that no one sewed boots so neatly and strongly as
Simon’s workman, Michael; and from all the district
round people came to Simon for their boots, and he began to
be well off.
One winter day, as Simon and Michael sat working, a carriage
on sledge-runners, with three horses and with bells, drove
up to the hut. They looked out of the window; the
carriage stopped at their door, a fine servant jumped down
from the box and opened the door. A gentleman in a fur
coat got out and walked up to Simon’s hut. Up jumped
Matryona and opened the door wide. The gentleman stooped
to enter the hut, and when he drew himself up again his head
nearly reached the ceiling, and he seemed quite to fill his
end of the room.
Simon rose, bowed, and looked at the gentleman with
astonishment. He had never seen any one like him. Simon
himself was lean, Michael was thin, and Matryona was dry as
a bone, but this man was like some one from another world: red-faced, burly, with a neck like a bull’s, and looking
altogether as if he were cast in iron.
The gentleman puffed, threw off his fur coat, sat down on
the bench, and said, “Which of you is the master bootmaker?”
“I am, your Excellency,” said Simon, coming forward.
Then the gentleman shouted to his lad, “Hey, Fedka, bring
the leather!”
The servant ran in, bringing a parcel. The gentleman took
the parcel and put it on the table.
“Untie it,” said he. The lad untied it.
The gentleman pointed to the leather.
“Look here, shoemaker,” said he, “do you see this leather?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“But do you know what sort of leather it is?”
Simon felt the leather and said, “It is good leather.”
“Good, indeed! Why, you fool, you never saw such leather
before in your life. It’s German, and cost twenty
roubles.”
Simon was frightened, and said, “Where should I ever see
leather like that?”
“Just so! Now, can you make it into boots for me?”
“Yes, your Excellency, I can.”
Then the gentleman shouted at him: “You can, can you?
Well, remember whom you are to make them for, and what the
leather is. You must make me boots that will wear for a
year, neither losing shape nor coming unsown. If you can
do it, take the leather and cut it up; but if you can’t,
say so. I warn you now if your boots become unsewn or lose
shape within a year, I will have you put in prison. If
they don’t burst or lose shape for a year I will pay you ten
roubles for your work.”
Simon was frightened, and did not know what to say. He
glanced at Michael and nudging him with his elbow,
whispered: “Shall I take the work?”
Michael nodded his head as if to say, “Yes, take it.”
Simon did as Michael advised, and undertook to make boots
that would not lose shape or split for a whole year.
Calling his servant, the gentleman told him to pull the boot
off his left leg, which he stretched out.
“Take my measure!” said he.
Simon stitched a paper measure seventeen inches long,
smoothed it out, knelt down, wiped his hand well on his
apron so as not to soil the gentleman’s sock, and began to
measure. He measured the sole, and round the instep, and
began to measure the calf of the leg, but the paper was too
short. The calf of the leg was as thick as a beam.
“Mind you don’t make it too tight in the leg.”
Simon stitched on another strip of paper. The gentleman
twitched his toes about in his sock, looking round at those
in the hut, and as he did so he noticed Michael.
“Whom have you there?” asked he.
“That is my workman. He will sew the boots.”
“Mind,” said the gentleman to Michael, “remember to make
them so that they will last me a year.”
Simon also looked at Michael, and saw that Michael was not
looking at the gentleman, but was gazing into the corner
behind the gentleman, as if he saw some one there. Michael
looked and looked, and suddenly he smiled, and his face
became brighter.
“What are you grinning at, you fool?” thundered the
gentleman. “You had better look to it that the boots are
ready in time.”
“They shall be ready in good time,” said Michael.
“Mind it is so,” said the gentleman, and he put on his boots
and his fur coat, wrapped the latter round him, and went to
the door. But he forgot to stoop, and struck his head
against the lintel.
He swore and rubbed his head. Then he took his seat in the
carriage and drove away.
When he had gone, Simon said: “There’s a figure of a man for
you! You could not kill him with a mallet. He almost
knocked out the lintel, but little harm it did him.”
And Matryona said: “Living as he does, how should he not
grow strong? Death itself can’t touch such a rock as
that.”
VII
Then Simon said to Michael: “Well, we have taken the work,
but we must see we don’t get into trouble over it. The
leather is dear, and the gentleman hot-tempered. We must
make no mistakes. Come, your eye is truer and your hands
have become nimbler than mine, so you take this measure and
cut out the boots. I will finish off the sewing of the
vamps.”
Michael did as he was told. He took the leather, spread it
out on the table, folded it in two, took a knife and began
to cut out.
Matryona came and watched him cutting, and was surprised to
see how he was doing it. Matryona was accustomed to seeing
boots made, and she looked and saw that Michael was not
cutting the leather for boots, but was cutting it round.
She wished to say something, but she thought to herself:
“Perhaps I do not understand how gentleman’s boots should be
made. I suppose Michael knows more about it—and I won’t
interfere.”
When Michael had cut up the leather, he took a thread and
began to sew not with two ends, as boots are sewn, but with
a single end, as for soft slippers.
Again Matryona wondered, but again she did not interfere.
Michael sewed on steadily till noon. Then Simon rose for
dinner, looked around, and saw that Michael had made
slippers out of the gentleman’s leather.
“Ah,” groaned Simon, and he thought, “How is it that
Michael, who has been with me a whole year and never made a
mistake before, should do such a dreadful thing? The
gentleman ordered high boots, welted, with whole fronts, and
Michael has made soft slippers with single soles, and has
wasted the leather. What am I to say to the gentleman? I
can never replace leather such as this.”
And he said to Michael, “What are you doing, friend? You
have ruined me! You know the gentleman ordered high boots,
but see what you have made!”
Hardly had he begun to rebuke Michael, when “rat-tat” went
the iron ring that hung at the door. Some one was
knocking. They looked out of the window; a man had
come on horseback, and was fastening his horse. They
opened the door, and the servant who had been with the
gentleman came in.
“Good day,” said he.
Good day,” replied Simon. “What can we do for you?”
“My mistress has sent me about the boots.”
“What about the boots?”
“Why, my master no longer needs them. He is dead.”
“Is it possible?”
“He did not live to get home after leaving you, but died in
the carriage. When we reached home and the servants came
to help him alight, he rolled over like a sack. He was
dead already, and so stiff that he could hardly be got out
of the carriage. My mistress sent me here, saying: ‘Tell
the bootmaker that the gentleman who ordered boots of him
and left the leather for them no longer needs the boots, but
that he must quickly make soft slippers for the corpse.
Wait till they are ready, and bring them back with you.’
That is why I have come.”
Michael gathered up the remnants of the leather; rolled
them up, took the soft slippers he had made, slapped them
together, wiped them down with his apron, and handed them
and the roll of leather to the servant, who took them and
said: “Good-bye, masters, and good day to you!”
VIII
Another year passed, and another, and Michael was now living
his sixth year with Simon. He lived as before. He went
nowhere, only spoke when necessary, and had only smiled
twice in all those years— once when Matryona gave him food,
and a second time when the gentleman was in their hut.
Simon was more than pleased with his workman. He never
now asked him where he came from, and only feared lest
Michael should go away.
They were all at home one day. Matryona was putting iron
pots in the oven; the children were running along the
benches and looking out of the window; Simon was sewing
at one window, and Michael was fastening on a heel at the
other.
One of the boys ran along the bench to Michael, leant on his
shoulder, and looked out of the window.
“Look, Uncle Michael! There is a lady with little girls!
She seems to be coming here. And one of the girls is
lame.”
When the boy said that, Michael dropped his work, turned to
the window, and looked out into the street.
Simon was surprised. Michael never used to look out into
the street, but now he pressed against the window, staring
at something. Simon also looked out, and saw that a
well-dressed woman was really coming to his hut, leading by
the hand two little girls in fur coats and woolen shawls.
The girls could hardly be told one from the other, except
that one of them was crippled in her left leg and walked
with a limp.
The woman stepped into the porch and entered the passage.
Feeling about for the entrance she found the latch, which
she lifted, and opened the door. She let the two girls go
in first, and followed them into the hut.
“Good day, good folk!”
“Pray come in,” said Simon. “What can we do for you?”
The woman sat down by the table. The two little girls
pressed close to her knees, afraid of the people in the hut.
“I want leather shoes made for these two little girls for
spring.”
“We can do that. We never have made such small shoes, but
we can make them; either welted or turnover shoes, linen
lined. My man, Michael, is a master at the work.”
Simon glanced at Michael and saw that he had left his work
and was sitting with his eyes fixed on the little girls.
Simon was surprised. It was true the girls were pretty,
with black eyes, plump, and rosy-cheeked, and they wore nice
kerchiefs and fur coats, but still Simon could not
understand why Michael should look at them like that—just as
if he had known them before. He was puzzled, but went on
talking with the woman, and arranging the price. Having
fixed it, he prepared the measure. The woman lifted the
lame girl on to her lap and said: “Take two measures from
this little girl. Make one shoe for the lame foot and
three for the sound one. They both have the same size
feet. They are twins.”
Simon took the measure and, speaking of the lame girl, said:
“How did it happen to her? She is such a pretty girl.
Was she born so?”
“No, her mother crushed her leg.”
Then Matryona joined in. She wondered who this woman was,
and whose the children were, so she said: “Are not you their
mother then?”
“No, my good woman; I am neither their mother nor any
relation to them. They were quite strangers to me, but I
adopted them.”
“They are not your children and yet you are so fond of
them?”
“How can I help being fond of them? I fed them both at my
own breasts. I had a child of my own, but God took him.
I was not so fond of him as I now am of them.”
“Then whose children are they?”
IX
The woman, having begun talking, told them the whole story.
“It is about six years since their parents died, both in one
week: their father was buried on the Tuesday, and their
mother died on the Friday. These orphans were born three
days after their father’s death, and their mother did not
live another day. My husband and I were then living as
peasants in the village. We were neighbors of theirs, our
yard being next to theirs. Their father was a lonely
man; a wood-cutter in the forest. When felling trees
one day, they let one fall on him. It fell across his body
and crushed his bowels out. They hardly got him home
before his soul went to God; and that same week his wife
gave birth to twins—these little girls. She was poor and
alone; she had no one, young or old, with her. Alone
she gave them birth, and alone she met her death.”
“The next morning I went to see her, but when I entered the
hut, she, poor thing, was already stark and cold. In dying
she had rolled on to this child and crushed her leg. The
village folk came to the hut, washed the body, laid her out,
made a coffin, and buried her. They were good folk. The
babies were left alone. What was to be done with them? I
was the only woman there who had a baby at the time. I was
nursing my first-born—eight weeks old. So I took them for
a time. The peasants came together, and thought and
thought what to do with them; and at last they said to
me: “For the present, Mary, you had better keep the girls,
and later on we will arrange what to do for them.” So I
nursed the sound one at my breast, but at first I did not
feed this crippled one. I did not suppose she would
live. But then I thought to myself, why should the poor
innocent suffer? I pitied her, and began to feed her.
And so I fed my own boy and these two—the three of them—at
my own breast. I was young and strong, and had good food,
and God gave me so much milk that at times it even
overflowed. I used sometimes to feed two at a time, while
the third was waiting. When one had enough I nursed the
third. And God so ordered it that these grew up, while my
own was buried before he was two years old. And I had no
more children, though we prospered. Now my husband is
working for the corn merchant at the mill. The pay is
good, and we are well off. But I have no children of my
own, and how lonely I should be without these little
girls! How can I help loving them! They are the joy of
my life!”
She pressed the lame little girl to her with one hand, while
with the other she wiped the tears from her cheeks.
And Matryona sighed, and said: “The proverb is true that
says, ‘One may live without father or mother, but one cannot
live without God.’”
So they talked together, when suddenly the whole hut was
lighted up as though by summer lightning from the corner
where Michael sat. They all looked towards him and saw him
sitting, his hands folded on his knees, gazing upwards and
smiling.
X
The woman went away with the girls. Michael rose from the
bench, put down his work, and took off his apron. Then,
bowing low to Simon and his wife, he said: “Farewell,
masters. God has forgiven me. I ask your forgiveness,
too, for anything done amiss.”
And they saw that a light shone from Michael. And Simon
rose, bowed down to Michael, and said: “I see, Michael, that
you are no common man, and I can neither keep you nor
question you. Only tell me this: how is it that when I
found you and brought you home, you were gloomy, and when my
wife gave you food you smiled at her and became brighter?
Then when the gentleman came to order the boots, you smiled
again and became brighter still? And now, when this woman
brought the little girls, you smiled a third time, and have
become as bright as day? Tell me, Michael, why does your
face shine so, and why did you smile those three times?”
And Michael answered: “Light shines from me because I have
been punished, but now God has pardoned me. And I smiled
three times, because God sent me to learn three truths, and
I have learnt them. One I learnt when your wife pitied me,
and that is why I smiled the first time. The second I
learnt when the rich man ordered the boots, and then I
smiled again. And now, when I saw those little girls, I
learn the third and last truth, and I smiled the third
time.”
And Simon said, “Tell me, Michael, what did God punish you
for? And what were the three truths? That I, too, may
know them.”
And Michael answered: “God punished me for disobeying Him.
I was an angel in heaven and disobeyed God. God sent me to
fetch a woman’s soul. I flew to earth, and saw a sick
woman lying alone, who had just given birth to twin girls.
They moved feebly at their mother’s side, but she could not
lift them to her breast. When she saw me, she understood
that God had sent me for her soul, and she wept and said:
‘Angel of God! My husband has just been buried, killed by
a falling tree. I have neither sister, nor aunt, nor
mother: no one to care for my orphans. Do not take my
soul! Let me nurse my babes, feed them, and set them on
their feet before I die. Children cannot live without
father or mother.’ And I hearkened to her. I placed one
child at her breast and gave the other into her arms, and
returned to the Lord in heaven. I flew to the Lord, and
said: ‘I could not take the soul of the mother. Her
husband was killed by a tree; the woman has twins, and
prays that her soul may not be taken. She says: “Let me
nurse and feed my children, and set them on their feet.
Children cannot live without father or mother.” I have
not taken her soul.’ And God said: ‘Go-take the mother’s
soul, and learn three truths: Learn What dwells in man, What
is not given to man, and What men live by. When thou has
learnt these things, thou shalt return to heaven.’ So I flew
again to earth and took the mother’s soul. The babes
dropped from her breasts. Her body rolled over on the bed
and crushed one babe, twisting its leg. I rose above the
village, wishing to take her soul to God; but a wind
seized me, and my wings drooped and dropped off. Her soul
rose alone to God, while I fell to earth by the roadside.”
XI
And Simon and Matryona understood who it was that had lived
with them, and whom they had clothed and fed. And they
wept with awe and with joy. And the angel said: “I was
alone in the field, naked. I had never known human needs,
cold and hunger, till I became a man. I was famished,
frozen, and did not know what to do. I saw, near the field
I was in, a shrine built for God, and I went to it hoping to
find shelter. But the shrine was locked, and I could not
enter. So I sat down behind the shrine to shelter myself
at least from the wind. Evening drew on. I was hungry,
frozen, and in pain. Suddenly I heard a man coming along
the road. He carried a pair of boots, and was talking to
himself. For the first time since I became a man I saw the
mortal face of a man, and his face seemed terrible to me and
I turned from it. And I heard the man talking to himself
of how to cover his body from the cold in winter, and how to
feed wife and children. And I thought: “I am perishing of
cold and hunger, and here is a man thinking only of how to
clothe himself and his wife, and how to get bread for
themselves. He cannot help me. When the man saw me he
frowned and became still more terrible, and passed me by on
the other side. I despaired; but suddenly I heard him
coming back. I looked up, and did not recognize the same
man; before, I had seen death in his face; but now
he was alive, and I recognized in him the presence of God.
He came up to me, clothed me, took me with him, and brought
me to his home. I entered the house; a woman came to
meet us and began to speak. The woman was still more
terrible than the man had been; the spirit of death came
from her mouth; I could not breathe for the stench of
death that spread around her. She wished to drive me out
into the cold, and I knew that if she did so she would
die. Suddenly her husband spoke to her of God, and the
woman changed at once. And when she brought me food and
looked at me, I glanced at her and saw that death no longer
dwelt in her; she had become alive, and in her, too, I
saw God.
“Then I remembered the first lesson God had set me: ‘Learn
what dwells in man.’ And I understood that in man dwells
Love! I was glad that God had already begun to show me
what He had promised, and I smiled for the first time. But
I had not yet learnt all. I did not yet know What is not
given to man, and What men live by.
“I lived with you, and a year passed. A man came to order
boots that should wear for a year without losing shape or
cracking. I looked at him, and suddenly, behind his
shoulder, I saw my comrade— the angel of death. None but
me saw that angel; but I knew him, and knew that before
the sun set he would take that rich man’s soul. And I
thought to myself, ‘The man is making preparations for a
year, and does not know that he will die before evening.’
And I remembered God’s second saying, ‘Learn what is not
given to man.’
“What dwells in man I already knew. Now I learnt what is
not given him. It is not given to man to know his own
needs. And I smiled for the second time. I was glad to
have seen my comrade angel— glad also that God had revealed
to me the second saying.
“But I still did not know all. I did not know What men
live by. And I lived on, waiting till God should reveal to
me the last lesson. In the sixth year came the girl-twins
with the woman; and I recognized the girls, and heard
how they had been kept alive. Having heard the story, I
thought, ‘Their mother besought me for the children’s sake,
and I believed her when she said that children cannot live
without father or mother; but a stranger has nursed
them, and has brought them up.’ And when the woman showed
her love for the children that were not her own, and wept
over them, I saw in her the living God and understood What
men live by. And I knew that God had revealed to me the
last lesson, and had forgiven my sin. And then I smiled
for the third time.”
XII
And the angel’s body was bared, and he was clothed in light
so that eye could not look on him; and his voice grew
louder, as though it came not from him but from heaven
above. And the angel said:
“I have learnt that all men live not by care for themselves
but by love.”
“It was not given to the mother to know what her children
needed for their life. Nor was it given to the rich man to
know what he himself needed. Nor is it given to any man to
know whether, when evening comes, he will need boots for his
body or slippers for his corpse.”
“I remained alive when I was a man, not by care of myself,
but because love was present in a passer-by, and because he
and his wife pitied and loved me. The orphans remained
alive not because of their mother’s care, but because there
was love in the heart of a woman, a stranger to them, who
pitied and loved them. And all men live not by the thought
they spend on their own welfare, but because love exists in
man.”
“I knew before that God gave life to men and desires that
they should live; now I understood more than that.”
“I understood that God does not wish men to live apart, and
therefore he does not reveal to them what each one needs for
himself; but he wishes them to live united, and
therefore reveals to each of them what is necessary for
all.”
“I have now understood that though it seems to men that they
live by care for themselves, in truth it is love alone by
which they live. He who has love, is in God, and God is in
him, for God is love.”
And the angel sang praise to God, so that the hut trembled
at his voice. The roof opened, and a column of fire rose
from earth to heaven. Simon and his wife and children fell
to the ground. Wings appeared upon the angel’s shoulders,
and he rose into the heavens.
And when
Simon came to himself the hut stood as before, and there was
no one in it but his own family.
1881
“We know that we have passed out of death into life, because
we love the brethren. He that loveth not abideth in
death.” —1 “Epistle St. John” iii. 14.
“Whoso hath the world’s goods, and beholdeth his brother in
need, and shutteth up his compassion from him, how doth the
love of God abide in him? My little children, let us not
love in word, neither with the tongue; but in deed and
truth.” —iii. 17-18.
“Love is of God; and every one that loveth is begotten of
God, and knoweth God. He that loveth not knoweth not God;
for God is love.” -iv. 7-8.
“No man hath beheld God at any time; if we love one another,
God abideth in us.” —iv. 12.
“God is love; and he that abideth in love abideth in God,
and God abideth in him.” —iv. 16.
“If
a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar;
for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how
can he love God whom he hath not seen?” iv. 20.
December 2004 Leo Tolstoy "What Men Live By" "The Three Lessons of God"
paraphrased..
Learn, "What dwells in man".
Love has been given to men
To dwell in their hearts.
Learn, "What is not given to man".
It is not given to men
To know their own needs.
Learn, "What Men Live
By".
Man does not live by care for himself
But by the love for them that is in
other's
hearts.
God does not wish men to live apart, and
therefore he does not reveal to them what each one needs for
himself; but he wishes them to live united, and therefore
reveals to each of them that
they are needful to each other's Happiness.
Leo Tolstoy 1828-1910
View, Download and Print a .pdf Version of "What Men
Live By"
Version at Christian Classics
Ethereal Library
"What Men Live By"
