a confession(忏悔录)-第2部分

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my　writings　I　contrived　to　hide　under　the　guise　of　indifference；　or

even　of　banter；　those　strivings　of　mine　towards　goodness　which　gave

meaning　to　my　life！　　And　I　succeeded　in　this　and　was　praised。

　　　　　At　twenty…six　years　of　age　＇Footnote：　He　was　in　fact　27　at　the

time。＇　I　returned　to　Petersburg　after　the　war；　and　met　the　writers。　

They　received　me　as　one　of　themselves　and　flattered　me。　　And　before

I　had　time　to　look　round　I　had　adopted　the　views　on　life　of　the　set

of　authors　I　had　come　among；　and　these　views　completely　obliterated

all　my　former　strivings　to　improve　　they　furnished　a　theory　which

justified　the　dissoluteness　of　my　life。

　　　　　The　view　of　life　of　these　people；　my　comrades　in　authorship；

consisted　in　this：　that　life　in　general　goes　on　developing；　and　in

this　development　we　　men　of　thought　　have　the　chief　part；　and

among　men　of　thought　it　is　we　　artists　and　poets　　who　have　the

greatest　influence。　　Our　vocation　is　to　teach　mankind。　　And　lest

the　simple　question　should　suggest　itself：　What　do　I　know；　and　what

can　I　teach？　it　was　explained　in　this　theory　that　this　need　not　be

known；　and　that　the　artist　and　poet　teach　unconsciously。　　I　was

considered　an　admirable　artist　and　poet；　and　therefore　it　was　very

natural　for　me　to　adopt　this　theory。　　I；　artist　and　poet；　wrote　and

taught　without　myself　knowing　what。　　For　this　I　was　paid　money；　I

had　excellent　food；　lodging；　women；　and　society；　and　I　had　fame；

which　showed　that　what　I　taught　was　very　good。

　　　　　this　faith　in　the　meaning　of　poetry　and　in　the　development　of

life　was　a　religion；　and　I　was　one　of　its　priests。　　To　be　its

priest　was　very　pleasant　and　profitable。　　And　I　lived　a

considerable　time　in　this　faith　without　doubting　its　validity。　　But

in　the　second　and　still　more　in　the　third　year　of　this　life　I　began

to　doubt　the　infallibility　of　this　religion　and　to　examine　it。　　My

first　cause　of　doubt　was　that　I　began　to　notice　that　the　priests　of

this　religion　were　not　all　in　accord　among　themselves。　　Some　said：

We　are　the　best　and　most　useful　teachers；　we　teach　what　is　needed；

but　the　others　teach　wrongly。　　Others　said：　No！　we　are　the　real

teachers；　and　you　teach　wrongly。　　and　they　disputed；　quarrelled；

abused；　cheated；　and　tricked　one　another。　　There　were　also　many

among　us　who　did　not　care　who　was　right　and　who　was　wrong；　but　were

simply　bent　on　attaining　their　covetous　aims　by　means　of　this

activity　of　ours。　　All　this　obliged　me　to　doubt　the　validity　of　our

creed。

　　　　　Moreover；　having　begun　to　doubt　the　truth　of　the　authors'

creed　itself；　I　also　began　to　observe　its　priests　more　attentively；

and　I　became　convinced　that　almost　all　the　priests　of　that

religion；　the　writers；　were　immoral；　and　for　the　most　part　men　of

bad；　worthless　character；　much　inferior　to　those　whom　I　had　met　in

my　former　dissipated　and　military　life；　but　they　were　self…

confident　and　self…satisfied　as　only　those　can　be　who　are　quite

holy　or　who　do　not　know　what　holiness　is。　　These　people　revolted

me；　I　became　revolting　to　myself；　and　I　realized　that　that　faith

was　a　fraud。

　　　　　But　strange　to　say；　though　I　understood　this　fraud　and

renounced　it；　yet　I　did　not　renounce　the　rank　these　people　gave　me：

the　rank　of　artist；　poet；　and　teacher。　　I　naively　imagined　that　I

was　a　poet　and　artist　and　could　teach　everybody　without　myself

knowing　what　I　was　teaching；　and　I　acted　accordingly。

　　　　　From　my　intimacy　with　these　men　I　acquired　a　new　vice：

abnormally　developed　pride　and　an　insane　assurance　that　it　was　my

vocation　to　teach　men；　without　knowing　what。

　　　　　To　remember　that　time；　and　my　own　state　of　mind　and　that　of

those　men　（though　there　are　thousands　like　them　today）；　is　sad　and

terrible　and　ludicrous；　and　arouses　exactly　the　feeling　one

experiences　in　a　lunatic　asylum。

　　　　　We　were　all　then　convinced　that　it　was　necessary　for　us　to

speak；　write；　and　print　as　quickly　as　possible　and　as　much　as

possible；　and　that　it　was　all　wanted　for　the　good　of　humanity。　　And

thousands　of　us；　contradicting　and　abusing　one　another；　all　printed

and　wrote　　teaching　others。　　And　without　noticing　that　we　knew

nothing；　and　that　to　the　simplest　of　life's　questions：　What　is　good

and　what　is　evil？　we　did　not　know　how　to　reply；　we　all　talked　at

the　same　time；　not　listening　to　one　another；　sometimes　seconding

and　praising　one　another　in　order　to　be　seconded　and　praised　in

turn；　sometimes　getting　angry　with　one　another　　just　as　in　a

lunatic　asylum。

　　　　　Thousands　of　workmen　laboured　to　the　extreme　limit　of　their

strength　day　and　night；　setting　the　type　and　printing　millions　of

words　which　the　post　carried　all　over　Russia；　and　we　still　went　on

teaching　and　could　in　no　way　find　time　to　teach　enough；　and　were

always　angry　that　sufficient　attention　was　not　paid　us。

　　　　　It　was　terribly　strange；　but　is　now　quite　comprehensible。　　Our

real　innermost　concern　was　to　get　as　much　money　and　praise　as

possible。　　To　gain　that　end　we　could　do　nothing　except　write　books

and　papers。　　So　we　did　that。　　But　in　order　to　do　such　useless　work

and　to　feel　assured　that　we　were　very　important　people　we　required

a　theory　justifying　our　activity。　　And　so　among　us　this　theory　was

devised：　　〃All　that　exists　is　reasonable。　　All　that　exists

develops。　　And　it　all　develops　by　means　of　Culture。　　And　Culture　is

measured　by　the　circulation　of　books　and　newspapers。　　And　we　are

paid　money　and　are　respected　because　we　write　books　and　newspapers；

and　therefore　we　are　the　most　useful　and　the　best　of　men。〃　　This

theory　would　have　been　all　very　well　if　we　had　been　unanimous；　but

as　every　thought　expressed　by　one　of　us　was　always　met　by　a

diametrically　opposite　thought　expressed　by　another；　we　ought　to

have　been　driven　to　reflection。　　But　we　ignored　this；　people　paid

us　money　and　those　on　our　side　praised　us；　so　each　of　us　considered

himself　justified。

　　　　　It　is　now　clear　to　me　that　this　was　just　as　in　a　lunatic

asylum；　but　then　I　only　dimly　suspected　this；　and　like　all

lunatics；　simply　called　all　men　lunatics　except　myself。







　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　III



　　　　　So　I　lived；　abandoning　myself　to　this　insanity　for　another　six

years；　till　my　marriage。　　During　that　time　I　went　abroad。　　Life　in

Europe　and　my　acquaintance　with　leading　and　learned　Europeans

＇Footnote：　　Russians　generally　make　a　distinction　between　Europeans

and　Russians。　　A。M。＇　confirmed　me　yet　more　in　the　faith　of

striving　after　perfection　in　which　I　believed；　for　I　found　the　same

faith　among　them。　　That　faith　took　with　me　the　common　form　it

assumes　with　the　majority　of　educated　people　of　our　day。　　It　was

expressed　by　the　word　〃progress〃。　　It　then　appeared　to　me　that　this

word　meant　something。　　I　did　not　as　yet　understand　that；　being

tormented　（like　every　vital　man）　by　the　question　how　it　is　best　for

me　to　live；　in　my　answer；　〃Live　in　conformity　with　progress〃；　I　was

like　a　man　in　a　boat　who　when　carried　along　by　wind　and　waves

should　reply　to　what　for　him　is　the　chief　and　only　question。

〃whither　to　steer〃；　by　saying；　〃We　are　being　carried　somewhere〃。

　　　　　I　did　not　then　notice　this。　　Only　occasionally　　not　by

reason　but　by　instinct　　I　revolted　against　this　superstition　so

common　in　our　day；　by　which　people　hide　from　themselves　their　lack

of　understanding　of　life。。。。So；　for　instance；　during　my　stay　in

Paris；　the　sight　of　an　execution　revealed　to　me　the　instability　of

my　superstitious　belief　in　progress。　　When　I　saw　the　head　part　from

the　body　and　how　they　thumped　separately　into　the　box；　I

understood；　not　with　my　mind　but　with　my　whole　being；　that　no

theory　of　the　reasonableness　of　our　present　progress　could　justify

this　deed；　and　that　though　everybody　from　the　creation　of　the　world

had　held　it　to　be　necessary；　on　whatever　theory；　I　knew　it　to　be

unnecessary　and　bad；　and　therefore　the　arbiter　of　what　is　good　and

evil　is　not　what　people　say　and　do；　nor　is　it　progress；　but　it　is

my　heart　and　I。　　Another　instance　of　a　realization　that　the

superstitious　belief　in　progress　is　insufficient　as　a　guide　to

life；　was　my　brother's　death。　　Wise；　good；　serious；　he　fell　ill

while　still　a　young　man；　suffered　for　more　than　a　year；　and　died

painfully；　not　understanding　why　he　had　lived　and　still　less　why　he

had　to　die。　　No　theories　could　give　me；　or　him；　any　reply　to　these

questions　during　his　slow　and　painful　dying。　　But　these　were　only

rare　instances　of　doubt；　and　I　actually　continued　to　live

professing　a　faith　only　in　progress。　　〃Everything　evolves　and　I

evolve　with　it：　　and　why　it　is　that　I　evolve　with　all　things　will

be　known　some　day。〃　　So　I　ought　to　have　formulated　my　faith　at　that

time。

　　　　　On　returning　from　abroad　I　settled　in　the　country　and　chanced

to　occupy　myself　with　peasant　schools。　　This　work　was　particularly

to　my　taste　because　in　it　I　had　not　to　face　the　falsity　which　had

become　obvious　to　me　and　stared　me　in　the　face　when　I　tried　to

teach　people　by　literary　means。　　Here　also　I　acted　in　the　name　of

progress；　but　I　already　regarded　progress　itself　critically。　　I

said　to　myself：　　〃In　some　of　its　developments　progress　has

proceeded　wrongly；　and　with　primitive　peasant　children　one　must

deal　in　a　spirit　of　perfect　freedom；　letting　them　choose　what　path

of　progress　they　please。〃　　In　reality　I　was　ever　revolving　round

one　and　the　same　insoluble　problem；　which　was：　　How　to　teach

without　knowing　what　to　teach。　　In　the　higher　spheres　of　literary

activity　I　had　realized　that　one　could　not　teach　without　knowing

what；　for　I　saw　that　people　all　taught　differently；　and　by

quarrelling　among　themselves　only　succeeded　in　hiding　their

ignorance　from　one　another。　　But　here；　with　peasant　children；　I

thought　to　evade　this　difficulty　by　letting　them　learn　what　they

liked。　　It　amuses　me　now　when　I　remember　how　I　shuffled　in　trying

to　satisfy　my　desire　to　teach；　while　in　the　depth　of　my　soul　I　knew

very　well　that　I　could　not　teach　anything　needful　for　I　did　not

kno