this long while." But tell that same man the most lofty truth,
expressed in the clearest, most concise manner, as it has never
before been expressed, and every ordinary individual, especially one
who takes no particular interest in moral questions, or, even more,
one to whom the moral truth stated by you is displeasing, will
infallibly say to you: "Well, who does not know that? That was
known and said long ago." It really seems to him that this has been
said long ago and in just this way. Only those to whom moral truths
are dear and important know how important and precious they are, and
with what prolonged labor the elucidation, the simplification, of
moral truths, their transit from the state of a misty, indefinitely
recognized supposition, and desire, from indistinct, incoherent
expressions, to a firm and definite expression, unavoidably demanding
corresponding concessions, are attained.

We have all become accustomed to think that moral instruction is a
most absurd and tiresome thing, in which there can be nothing new or
interesting; and yet all human life, together with all the varied and
complicated activities, apparently independent, of morality, both
governmental and scientific, and artistic and commercial, has no
other aim than the greater and greater elucidation, confirmation,
simplification, and accessibility of moral truth.

I remember that I was once walking along the street in Moscow, and in
front of me I saw a man come out and gaze attentively at the stones
of the sidewalk, after which he selected one stone, seated himself on
it, and began to plane (as it seemed to me) or to rub it with the
greatest diligence and force. "What is he doing to the sidewalk?" I
said to myself. On going close to him, I saw what the man was doing.
He was a young fellow from a meat-shop; he was whetting his knife on