–58. Women / Sisters

I. Women

The calling of every person, man and woman, lies in serving people. With this general proposition, I think, all moral people agree. The difference between men and women in fulfilling this calling is only in the means by which they achieve it, that is, by which they serve people.

A man serves people through physical labor—acquiring the means of subsistence; through mental labor—studying the laws of nature in order to master it; and through social labor—establishing the forms of life and the relations between people. The means of serving people for a man are very diverse. The entire activity of humanity, except for childbearing and nursing, constitutes the field of this service.

A woman, besides her ability to serve people by all the same means as a man, is by her constitution called and drawn to that service which alone is excluded from the man’s sphere of service.

Service to humanity naturally divides into two parts: one is the increase of good in the existing humanity; the other is the continuation of humanity itself. To the first, men are predominantly called, since they are deprived of the ability to serve in the second way. To the second, women are predominantly called, since they alone are capable of it.

This distinction cannot, should not, and is sinful (that is, mistaken) to forget or erase. From this distinction flow the duties of each—duties not invented by people but lying in the nature of things. From this same distinction flows the evaluation of virtue and vice in woman and man—an evaluation that has existed in all ages and exists now, and will never cease to exist so long as there is and will be reason in people.

It always has been and always will be that a man who spends the greater part of his life in the varied physical, mental, and social labor proper to him, and a woman who spends the greater part of her life in the labor of bearing, nursing, and raising children that is proper to her alone, will equally feel that they are doing what they ought, and, doing these things, will equally arouse the respect and love of other people, because both are fulfilling what is destined for them by their nature.

The calling of a man is more varied and broader; the calling of a woman is more uniform and narrower, but deeper. And therefore it always has been and always will be that a man, having a hundred duties, who fails in one or ten of them, remains a not-bad, not-harmful person who has still fulfilled part of his calling. But a woman, having a small number of duties, who fails in one of them, immediately falls morally lower than a man who has failed in ten of his hundred duties. Such has always been the general opinion, and such it will always be, because such is the essence of the matter.

A man, in order to fulfill the will of God, must serve Him in the sphere of physical labor, and thought, and morality: he can fulfill his calling by all these activities. For a woman, the means of serving God are predominantly and almost exclusively (because no one else can do this) children. Only through his works is a man called to serve God and people; only through her children is a woman called to serve.

And therefore the love for her own children implanted in a woman—an exclusive love against which it is utterly useless to struggle with reason—always will be and should be characteristic of the mother-woman. This love for the child in infancy is not at all egoism; it is the love of a worker for the work he is doing while it is in his hands. Take away this love for the object of one’s work—and work becomes impossible.

The same with the mother. A man is called to serve people through varied works, and he loves these works while he is doing them. A woman is called to serve people through her children, and she cannot but love these her children while she bears them, nurses them, and raises them.

In their common calling—to serve God and people—man and woman are perfectly equal, despite the difference in the form of this service. The equality lies in this: that one service is as important as the other, that one is unthinkable without the other, that one conditions the other, and that for genuine service both man and woman equally need knowledge of the truth, without which the activity of both man and woman becomes not useful but harmful to humanity. A man is called to perform his varied labor; but his labor is useful, and his work—physical, mental, and social—is fruitful only when it is done in the name of truth and for the good of other people.

The same with the calling of woman: her bearing, nursing, and raising of children will be useful to humanity only when she raises not simply children for her own joy, but future servants of humanity; when the upbringing of these children is done in the name of truth and for the good of people—that is, when she raises children so that they become the best workers for other people.

“But what about those who have no children, who have not married, widows?”

They will do splendidly if they participate in the varied labor of men.

Every woman who has finished bearing children, if she has strength, will have time to engage in this assistance to man in his labor. The help of woman in this labor is very precious; but to see a young woman ready for childbearing and occupied with men’s work will always be pitiful. To see such a woman is the same as seeing precious black soil covered with gravel for a parade ground or promenade. Still more pitiful, because this soil could bear only grain, but the woman could bear that for which there can be no valuation, than which nothing is higher—a human being. And she alone can do this.

—Leo Tolstoy

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II. Sisters

On May 3, 1882, the three-masted ship Our Lady of the Winds sailed from Le Havre for the Chinese seas. She delivered her cargo in China, took on a new cargo, brought it to Buenos Aires, and from there carried goods to Brazil.

The crossings, damages, repairs, calms lasting several months, winds that drove the ship far off course, maritime adventures and misfortunes delayed her so long that she spent four years sailing foreign seas, and only on May 8, 1886, did she put in at Marseille with a cargo of tinned American preserves.

When the ship left Le Havre, she had a captain, a mate, and fourteen sailors. During the voyage one sailor died, four disappeared in various adventures, and only nine returned to France. In place of the lost sailors, two Americans, a Negro, and a Swede who had been found in a tavern in Singapore were hired aboard.

The ship furled her sails and lashed her rigging crosswise on the mast. A tug approached and, puffing, towed her into the line of ships. The sea was calm; near shore the remnant of a swell barely lapped. The ship entered the line where vessels from all the countries of the world stood side by side along the quay, large and small, of every size, shape, and rigging. Our Lady of the Winds took her place between an Italian brig and an English galliot, which made room for their new comrade.

As soon as the captain had finished with the customs and port officials, he released half the sailors ashore for the whole night.

The night was warm, summery. Marseille was all lit up; the streets smelled of food from the kitchens; from all sides came the sound of talk, the rumble of wheels, and merry shouts.

The sailors from Our Lady of the Winds had not been ashore for about four months, and now, having come ashore, they walked timidly through the city in pairs, like strangers, like people unaccustomed to cities. They looked around, sniffing the streets nearest the harbor as though searching for something. For four months they had not seen women, and they were tormented by lust. At their head walked Celestin Duclos, a big, strapping fellow. He always led the others when they went ashore. He knew how to find good places, knew how to get out of trouble when necessary, and did not get into fights—which often happens with sailors when they come ashore; but if a fight started, he did not lag behind his mates and knew how to stand up for himself.

For a long time the sailors jostled through dark streets that all sloped down toward the sea like drains and from which came the heavy smell of cellars and closets. At last Celestin chose one narrow alley where convex lanterns glowed above the doors, and entered it. The sailors, joking and singing, followed him.

On the frosted, painted glass of the lanterns were huge numbers. Under the low ceilings of the doorways, women sat on straw chairs in aprons; they jumped up at the sight of the sailors and, running out into the middle of the street, blocked their way and lured each one into her own den.

Sometimes in the depths of a hallway a door would accidentally fly open. From it appeared a half-undressed girl in coarse, tight cotton trousers, a short skirt, and a black velvet bodice with gilt braid. “Hey, handsome fellows, come in!” she called from afar, and sometimes ran out herself, grabbed one of the sailors, and dragged him with all her might toward the door. She clung to him like a spider dragging a fly bigger than itself. The fellow, softened by lust, resisted weakly, while the others stopped and watched what would happen; but Celestin Duclos shouted: “Not here, don’t go in. Further on!” And the fellow obeyed his voice and broke free from the girl by force. And the sailors went on, followed by the curses of the angry girl. At the noise, others ran out all along the alley, pounced on them, and in hoarse voices praised their wares. So they went further and further. Now and then they met soldiers clanking their spurs, or a lone tradesman or clerk making his way to a familiar place. In other alleys the same lanterns glowed, but the sailors went on and on, striding through the foul ooze that seeped from under houses full of women’s bodies. At last Duclos stopped at one house, better than the others, and led his men in there.

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The sailors sat in a large tavern hall. Each had chosen himself a partner and would not be parted from her all evening; such was the custom of the tavern. Three tables had been pushed together, and the sailors first drank with the girls, then they rose and went upstairs with them. For a long time the heavy boots of twenty feet clattered loudly on the wooden steps while they all piled through the narrow doors and scattered into the sleeping rooms. From the sleeping rooms they came back down to drink, then went upstairs again.

The carousing went into full swing. Their whole half-year’s wages were gone in four hours of revelry. By eleven o’clock they were all drunk and, with bloodshot eyes, shouted incoherently, not knowing what. Each had a girl on his lap. Some sang, some shouted, some pounded the table with their fists, some poured wine down their throats.

Celestin Duclos sat among his mates. Astride his knee sat a big, fat, red-cheeked girl. He had drunk no less than the others but was not yet completely drunk; some thoughts were wandering in his head. He had grown sentimental and was searching for something to talk to his partner about. But thoughts came to him and immediately went away, and he could not catch them, remember them, or express them.

He laughed and said:

“So, so… And have you been here long?”

“Six months,” the girl answered.

He nodded as though approving her for it.

“Well, and is it good for you?”

She thought.

“I’ve gotten used to it,” she said. “After all, one has to do something. Still, it’s better than being a servant or a washerwoman.”

He nodded approvingly, as though approving her for this too.

“And you’re not from around here?”

She shook her head to show she was not.

“From far away?”

She nodded.

“Where from?”

She seemed to think, as though trying to remember.

“From Perpignan,” she said.

“So, so,” he said and fell silent.

“And you, are you a sailor?” she asked now.

“Yes, we’re sailors.”

“Well, have you been far?”

“Yes, not close. We’ve seen a lot.”

“Perhaps you’ve even sailed around the world?”

“Not just once—we’ve almost gone around twice.”

She seemed to be thinking, remembering something.

“I suppose you’ve met many ships?” she said.

“Of course.”

“Did you ever come across Our Lady of the Winds? There’s such a ship.”

He was surprised that she named his ship and decided to joke.

“Why yes, we met her last week.”

“Really, truly?” she asked, and turned pale.

“Truly.”

“You’re not lying?”

“By God,” he swore.

“Well, and did you see Celestin Duclos there?” she asked.

“Celestin Duclos?” he repeated, surprised and even frightened. How could she know his name?

“Do you know him?” he asked. She too seemed frightened by something.

“No, not me—there’s a woman here who knows him.”

“What woman? From this house?”

“No, here nearby.”

“Where nearby?”

“Not far.”

“Who is she?”

“Just a woman, the same as me.”

“And why does she need him?”

“How should I know? Maybe she’s from his part of the country.”

They looked searchingly straight into each other’s eyes.

“I’d like to see this woman,” he said.

“What for? Do you want to tell her something?”

“Tell her…”

“What?”

“Tell her that I saw Celestin Duclos.”

“Ah, you saw Celestin Duclos? And is he alive and well?”

“Well. Why?”

She fell silent, again collecting her thoughts, and then said quietly:

“And where is Our Lady of the Winds going?”

“Where? To Marseille.”

“Really?!” she cried out.

“Really.”

“And you know Duclos?”

“I told you I know him.”

She thought.

“So, so. That’s good,” she said softly.

“But why do you need him?”

“If you see him, tell him… No, never mind.”

“What?”

“No, nothing.”

He looked at her and became more and more troubled.

“But do you know him?” he asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“Then why do you need him?”

Without answering, she suddenly jumped up, ran to the counter where the proprietress sat, took a lemon, cut it, squeezed the juice into a glass, then poured in water and gave it to Celestin.

“Here, drink this,” she said, and sat down on his lap as before.

“What’s this for?” he asked, taking the glass from her.

“So the drunkenness will pass. Then I’ll tell you. Drink.”

He drank and wiped his lips with his sleeve.

“Well, speak. I’m listening.”

“But you won’t tell him you saw me? You won’t tell him who told you what I’m going to say?”

“All right, I won’t tell.”

“Swear!”

He swore.

“By God?”

“By God.”

“Then tell him that his father is dead, and his mother died, and his brother died too. There was a fever. All three died in one month.”

Duclos felt all his blood press against his heart. For several minutes he sat silent, not knowing what to say, then he brought out:

“And you know for certain?”

“For certain.”

“Who told you?”

She put her hands on his shoulders and looked straight into his eyes.

“Swear you won’t tell anyone.”

“All right, I swear: by God.”

“I’m his sister.”

“Françoise!” he cried.

She looked at him intently and very, very quietly moved her lips, barely letting out the words.

“So you are Celestin!”

They did not move, remained frozen as they were, looking into each other’s eyes.

And around them the others were shouting in drunken voices. The clinking of glasses, the slapping of palms and heels, and the shrill squealing of women mingled with the din of songs.

“How did this happen?” he said so quietly that even she barely made out his words.

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

“It just happened. All three in one month,” she continued. “What was I to do? I was left alone. For the apothecary, for the doctor, for the burial of all three… I sold what there was, paid my debts, and was left with nothing but the clothes on my back. I went into service with Monsieur Cachaud—remember, the lame one? I had just turned fifteen; I wasn’t even fourteen yet when you left. I sinned with him… We women are fools. Then I got a job as a nursemaid at the notary’s. He did too. First he set me up, I lived in an apartment. But not for long. He abandoned me; for three days I didn’t eat; no one would hire me, so I came here, like the rest.”

She spoke, and tears streamed from her eyes, from her nose, wetting her cheeks and flowing into her mouth.

“What have we done?” he said.

“I thought you were dead too,” she said through her tears. “Was any of this my fault?” she whispered.

“How could you not recognize me?” he said, also in a whisper.

“I don’t know, I’m not to blame,” she continued, and cried still harder.

“How could I recognize you? Were you like this when I left? How could you not recognize me?”

She waved her hand in despair.

“Ah! I see so many of them, these men, that they all look alike to me.”

His heart was squeezing so painfully and so hard that he wanted to scream and howl like a little boy being beaten.

He rose, pushed her away from him, and, seizing her head in his big sailor’s paws, began to peer intently into her face.

Little by little he finally recognized in her the small, thin, cheerful little girl he had left at home with those whose eyes she had closed.

“Yes, you are Françoise! Sister!” he said.

And suddenly sobs, heavy man’s sobs like a drunkard’s hiccups, rose in his throat. He let go of her head, struck the table so that the glasses tipped over and shattered, and cried out in a wild voice.

His mates turned toward him and stared.

“Look how drunk he got,” said one. “Stop shouting,” said another. “Hey! Duclos! Why are you yelling? Let’s go back upstairs,” said a third, pulling Celestin by the sleeve with one hand while with the other he embraced his laughing, flushed partner with brilliant black eyes, in a pink silk open bodice.

Duclos suddenly fell silent and, holding his breath, stared at his mates. Then, with that strange and resolute expression with which he used to enter a fight, he staggered over to the sailor embracing the girl and struck with his hand between him and the girl, separating them.

“Away! Don’t you see she’s your sister! They’re all somebody’s sister. And this one is my sister Françoise. Ha-ha-ha-ha…” He broke into sobs that sounded like laughter, and he swayed, raised his arms, and crashed face-down onto the floor. And he began to roll about on the floor, beating it with his hands and feet, wheezing like a dying man.

“We’d better put him to bed,” said one of his mates, “or he’ll get thrown in jail on the street.”

And they lifted Celestin and dragged him upstairs to Françoise’s room and laid him on her bed.

—Leo Tolstoy (after Maupassant)

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Translator’s Notes:

• This pairing is devastating: Tolstoy’s idealized vision of woman’s calling collides with the reality of Françoise—orphaned, seduced at fifteen, abandoned, driven to prostitution.
• “Sisters” is adapted from Maupassant’s “Le Port” (1889). The climactic line—“They’re all somebody’s sister”—transforms the personal tragedy into a universal indictment.
• The metaphor in “Women” of a young woman doing men’s work being like “precious black soil covered with gravel” uses the famous Russian chernozem (black earth), among the world’s most fertile.
• Françoise was “not even fourteen” when Celestin left—her vulnerability without family protection is central to the tragedy.