the gulf, but it cannot be escaped by any man who seeks after life. We may be unwilling to go into it, but let us be honest about it, and say so, and not deceive ourselves with hypocritical pretences.
And, after all, the gulf is not so terrible. Or, if it is terrible, yet the horrors which await us in a worldly way of life are more terrible still.
News reached us lately, correct or not (for in such cases people are apt to exaggerate), that Admiral Tryon for honor's sake (the "honor" of a fleet designed for murder) declined to save himself and persisted like a hero (like a fool rather) with his ship.
There is less danger of death from lice, infection, or want after giving away one's last crust to help others, than there is of being killed at the manceuvers or in war.
Lice, black bread, and want seem so terrible. But the bottom of the pit of want is not so deep after all, and we are often like the boy who clung by his hands in terror all night to the edge of the well into which he had stumbled, fearing the depth and the water he supposed to be there, while a foot below him was the dry bottom. Yet we must not trust to that bottom, we must go forward prepared to die. Only that is real love, which knows no limit to sacrifices—even unto death.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
Tolstoï keeps a diary in which he notes down what he has been thinking. Much of this diary is hastily written and unsatisfactory to Tolstoï himself, so that he frequently inserts such remarks as: "these thoughts are confused and need restating," or "this is nonsense," etc. But the diary contains much that is valuable, and Tolstoï has yielded to a friend's request to be allowed to make extracts for publication. "The Demands of Love" is a good example of one of the longest and most finished passages.
On a first perusal this extract has a depressing effect on most readers. But is it not true that, looking at the matter objectively—as a problem outside ourselves—we can imagine no position in which one would be justified in stopping and refusing to go farther along the path of self-abnegation? Judged by the demands of love we are all sinners, even the best must say: "Why callest thou me good? none is good, save one, even God."
