order to do good, it is 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 his goods, and fourfold restitution.  And our feeling is correct.  Zaccheus, according to his lights, performed a great deed.  He had not even begun to do good.  He had only begun in some small measure to purify himself from evil, and so Christ told him.

He merely said to him: “To-day is salvation come nigh unto this house.”

What if the Moscow Zaccheuses were to do the same that he did?  Assuredly, more than one milliard could be collected.  Well, and what of that?  Nothing.  There would be still greater sin if we were to think of distributing this money among the poor.  Money is not needed.  What is needed is self-sacrificing action; what is needed are people who would like to do good, not by giving extraneous sin-money, but by giving their own labor, themselves, their lives.  Where are such people to be found?  Here they are, walking about Moscow.  They are the student enumerators.  I have seen how they write out their charts.  The student writes in the night lodging-house, by the bedside of a sick man.  “What is your disease?”—“Small-pox.”  And the student does not make a wry face, but proceeds with his writing.  And this he does for the sake of some doubtful science.  What would he do if he were doing it for the sake of his own undoubted good and the good of others?

When children, in merry mood, feel a desire to laugh, they never think of devising some reason for laughter, but they laugh without any reason, because they are gay; and thus these charming youths sacrifice themselves.  They have not, as yet, contrived to devise any means of sacrificing themselves, but they devote their attention, their labor, their lives, in order to write out a chart, from which something does or does not appear.  What would it be if this labor were something really worth their while?  There is and there always will be labor of this sort, which is worthy of the devotion of a whole life, whatever the man’s life may be.  This labor is the loving intercourse of man with man, and the breaking-down of the barriers which men have erected between themselves,