not money that is necessary, but, first of all, a capacity for
detaching ourselves, for a time at least, from the conditions of our
own life. It is necessary that we should not be afraid to soil our
boots and clothing, that we should not fear lice and bedbugs, that we
should not fear typhus fever, diphtheria, and small-pox. It is
necessary that we should be in a condition to seat ourselves by the
bunk of a tatterdemalion and converse earnestly with him in such a
manner, that he may feel that the man who is talking with him
respects and loves him, and is not putting on airs and admiring
himself. And in order that this may be so, it is necessary that a
man should find the meaning of life outside himself. This is what is
requisite in order that good should be done, and this is what it is
difficult to find.

When the idea of assisting through the medium of the census occurred
to me, I discussed the matter with divers of the wealthy, and I saw
how glad the rich were of this opportunity of decently getting rid of
their money, that extraneous sin which they cherish in their hearts.
"Take three hundred--five hundred rubles, if you like," they said to
me, "but I cannot go into those dens myself." There was no lack of
money. Remember Zaccheus, the chief of the Publicans in the Gospel.
Remember how he, because he was small of stature, climbed into a tree
to see Christ, and how when Christ announced that he was going to his
house, having understood but one thing, that the Master did not
approve of riches, he leaped headlong from the tree, ran home and
arranged his feast. And how, as soon as Christ entered, Zaccheus
instantly declared that he gave the half of his goods to the poor,
and if he had wronged any man, to him he would restore fourfold. And
remember how all of us, when we read the Gospel, set but little store
on this Zaccheus, and involuntarily look with scorn on this half of