What Men Live by

"What Men Live By" is a poignant short story by Leo Tolstoy that explores themes of love, compassion, and the interconnectedness of humanity. Set in 19th-century Russia, the narrative follows a poor shoemaker named Mattheus, who encounters a mysterious traveler and learns profound lessons about the nature of life. Through a series of encounters that reveal the importance of love and selflessness, Tolstoy conveys the message that human existence is rooted in caring for one another, ultimately demonstrating that what sustains life is not material wealth, but the bonds of empathy and kindness between people.

• Fiction
• Short story

								
We know that we have passed from death unto life, because we love
     the brethren. He that loveth not his brother abideth in death.
     (First Ep. of John, iii. 14.)

     But whoso hath this world's good, and seeth his brother have need,
     and shutteth, up his heart from him, how dwelleth the love of God
     in him? (Ib. iii. 17.)

     My children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in
     deed and in truth. (Ib. iii. 18.)

     Love is of God; and every one that loveth is born of God, and
     knoweth God. (Ib. iv. 7.)

     He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love. (Ib. iv. 8.)

     No man hath seen God at any time. If we love one another, God
     dwelleth in us. (Ib. iv. 12.)

     God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God
     in him. (Ib. iv. 16.)

     If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar: for
     he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love
     God whom he hath not seen. (Ib. iv. 20.)


I.

A shoemaker was lodging with his wife and children at the house of a
peasant. He had no house, no land of his own, and supported his family
by his shoemaker's trade. Bread was dear, but work was cheap, and he
spent everything he made. The shoemaker and his wife had one fur coat
between them, and even that was all worn to tatters; this was the second
year that the shoemaker had been meaning to buy a sheepskin for a new
fur coat.

Toward fall the shoemaker had saved some money: three roubles in paper
lay in his wife's coffer, and five roubles and twenty kopeks were
outstanding in the village.

In the morning the shoemaker went to the village to get him that fur
coat. He put on his wife's wadded nankeen jacket over his shirt, and
over it his cloth caftan; he put the three-rouble bill into his pocket,
broke off a stick, and started after breakfast. He thought:

"I shall get the five roubles from the peasant, will add my own three,
and with that will buy me a sheepskin for the fur coat."

The shoemaker came to the village, and called on the peasant: he was not
at home, and his wife promised to send her husband with the money, but
gave him none herself. He went to another peasant, but the peasant swore
that he had no money, and gave him only twenty kopeks for mending a pair
of boots. The shoemaker made up his mind to take the sheepskin on
credit, but the furrier would not give it to him.

"Bring me the money," he said, "and then you can choose any you please;
we know what it means to collect debts."

Thus the shoemaker accomplished nothing. All he got was the twenty
kopeks for the boots he had mended, and a peasant gave him a pair of
felt boots to patch with leather.

The shoemaker was grieved, spent all the twenty kopeks on vódka, and
started home without the fur coat. In the morning it had seemed frosty
to him, but now that he had drunk a little he felt warm even without the
fur coat. The shoemaker walked along, with one hand striking the stick
against the frozen mud clumps, and swinging the felt boots in the other,
and talking to himself.

"I am warm even without a fur coat," he said. "I have drunk a cup, and
the vódka is coursing through all my veins. I do not need a sheepskin.
I have forgotten my woe. That's the kind of a man I am! What do I care!
I can get along without a fur coat: I do not need it all the time. The
only trouble is the old woman will be sorry. It is a shame indeed: I
work for him, and he leads me by the nose. Just wait! If you do not
bring the money, I'll take away your cap, upon my word, I will! How is
this? He pays me back two dimes at a time! What can you do with two
dimes? Take a drink, that is all. He says he suffers want. You suffer
want, and am I not suffering? You have a house, and cattle, and
everything, and here is all I possess; you have your own grain, and I
have to buy it. I may do as I please, but I have to spend three roubles
a week on bread. I come home, and the bread is gone: again lay out a
rouble and a half! So give me what is mine!"

Thus the shoemaker came up to a chapel at the turn of the road, and
there he saw something that looked white, right near the chapel. It was
growing dusk, and the shoemaker strained his eyes, but could not make
out what it was.

"There was no stone here," he thought. "A cow? It does not look like a
cow. It looks like the head of a man, and there is something white
besides. And what should a man be doing there?"

He came nearer, and he could see plainly. What marvel was that? It was
really a man, either alive or dead, sitting there all naked, leaning
against the chapel, and not stirring in the least. The shoemaker was
frightened, and thought to himself:

"Somebody must have killed a man, and stripped him of his clothes, and
thrown him away there. If I go up to him, I shall never clear myself."

And the shoemaker went past. He walked around the chapel, and the man
was no longer to be seen. He went past the chapel, and looked back, and
saw the man leaning away from the building and moving, as though
watching him. The shoemaker was frightened even more than before, and he
thought to himself:

"Shall I go up to him, or not? If I go up, something bad may happen. Who
knows what kind of a man he is? He did not get there for anything good.
If I go up, he will spring at me and choke me, and I shall not get away
from him; and if he does not choke me, I may have trouble with him all
the same. What can I do with him, since he is naked? Certainly I cannot
take off the last from me and give it to him! May God save me!"

And the shoemaker increased his steps. He was already a distance away
from the chapel, when his conscience began to smite him.

And the shoemaker stopped on the road.

"What are you doing, Semén?" he said to himself. "A man is dying in
misery, and you go past him and lose your courage. Have you suddenly
grown so rich? Are you afraid that they will rob you of your wealth? Oh,
Semén, it is not right!"

Semén turned back, and went up to the man.


II.

Semén walked over to the man, and looked at him; and saw that it was a
young man, in the prime of his strength, with no bruises on his body,
but evidently frozen and frightened: he was leaning back and did not
look at Semén, as though he were weakened and could not raise his eyes.
Semén went up close to him, and the man suddenly seemed to wake up. He
turned his head, opened his eyes, and looked at Semén. And this one
glance made Semén think well of the man. He threw down the felt boots,
ungirt himself, put his belt on the boots, and took off his caftan.

"What is the use of talking?" he said. "Put it on! Come now!"

Semén took the man by his elbows and began to raise him. The man got up.
And Semén saw that his body was soft and clean, his hands and feet not
calloused, and his face gentle. Semén threw his caftan over the man's

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