Dead Souls

There­fore take unto your­self what­so­ever task you may, and do it as though you were do­ing it, not unto man, but unto God. Even though to your lot there should fall but the clean­ing of a floor, clean that floor as though it were be­ing cleaned for Him alone. And thence at least this good you will reap: that there will re­main to you no time for what is evil—for card play­ing, for feast­ing, for all the life of this gay world.

In­struc­tion can be im­par­ted to chil­dren only through the me­dium of ex­ample; and would a life like yours fur­nish them with a prof­it­able ex­ample—a life which has been spent in idle­ness and the play­ing of cards?

“But how do you pro­pose to live without work­ing? How can a man like you ex­ist without a post or a po­s­i­tion of any kind? Look around you at the works of God. Everything has its proper func­tion, and pur­sues its proper course. Even a stone can be used for one pur­pose or an­other. How, then, can it be right for a man who is a think­ing be­ing to re­main a drone?”

“Emo­tion has be­come a dis­ease with you,” said Platon. “You seek your own troubles, and make your own anxi­et­ies.”

At present you are in a con­di­tion of men­tal slum­ber. You have fallen asleep, not so much from wear­i­ness or sati­ety, as through a lack of vivid per­cep­tions and im­pres­sions. For my­self, I am your com­plete an­ti­thesis. I should be only too glad if I could feel less acutely, if I could take things less to heart.”

may say that I am trav­el­ling on my own ac­count as well, in that, in ad­di­tion to pos­sible be­ne­fit to my health, I de­sire to see the world and the whir­li­gig of hu­man­ity, which con­sti­tute, to so speak, a liv­ing book, a second course of edu­ca­tion.”

“I have made up my mind to go tour­ing our Holy Rus­sia with Paul Ivan­ovitch,” said Platon. “Per­haps it will rid me of my mel­an­choly.”

While de­sir­ing to do everything, he ac­com­plishes noth­ing.

The present-day Rus­sian—I know of it my­self—is help­less without a driver. Without one he falls asleep, and the mould grows over him.”

Why has so much in­tel­lect been put into that head, and only a drop or two into my own dull pate?