The savage instinct of military murder has been so carefully cultivated for thousands of years that it has become deeply rooted in the human brain.  It is to be hoped, however, that a better humanity will be able to free itself from this horrible crime.  But what will this better humanity think of the so-called refined civilization of which we are so proud?  The same that we think of the ancient inhabitants of Mexico and of their cannibalism: people who were warlike, pious, and bestial at the same time.  (Letourneau)

War will disappear only when men shall take no part whatever in violence and shall be ready to suffer every persecution that their abstention will bring them.  It is the only way to abolish war.  (Anatole France, Daily Reading, December 29th)

Ask the majority of Christians what they consider the greatest evil from which Christ freed humanity, and they will answer from Hell, everlasting fire, and punishment in the next world.  And according to this idea, they believe that our salvation may be obtained thanks to the intervention of others.  The word Hell, which is seen so seldom in the Scriptures, has done much harm to Christianity on account of false interpretation.  Men flee from an external Hell, when in reality they carry within themselves the Hell that they should fear the most.  The salvation that they need, that frees them, is the liberation of their souls from the evil that is concealed within them.

Much worse than external punishment is the soul in a state of rebellion against God, the soul endowed with divine force and abandoning itself to bestial passions.  It is the soul living in the sight of God and fearing the anger of men, preferring glory in men’s eyes to the peaceful realization of his virtue.  There is no greater disaster than that.

It is this that impenitent man carries with him to his grave.

To gain salvation, in the highest interpretation of this word, is to lift up the weary spirit, to cure the suffering soul, and to give it back its liberty of thought, conscience, and love.  In doing this one finds the salvation for which Christ died.  It is for this salvation that the Holy Ghost was given to us.  It is towards this salvation that the true Christian doctrine is discovering the right road.  (Channing)

It seems so easy to tell the truth, yet it takes a great deal of effort within ourselves to attain this virtue.  A man’s degree of veracity indicates the degree of his moral perfection.  (Daily Reading, September 19th)

The condition of the Christian world indicated in the preceding chapter, as well as that of the rest of the inhabitants of the earth, remains the same as has been described.  But I believe that the moment has come, for Russians above all, and for the moujiks in particular, to see at last where the means of salvation lies.

I believe that the Russians are summoned first to this task because they are less civilized than the other nations.  That is to say, they are less corrupt intellectually, and they have kept a vague but profound understanding of the Christian religion.  They are summoned today precisely because they have just gone through an irregular, lamentable revolution and a repression horrible in its extraordinarily insolent and stupid cruelty.

The means of salvation of which I am speaking has been foreseen by men for a long time, but it is only lately that they are becoming conscious of it and are beginning to apply it.

A military court is sitting in a Russian town.  The judges are seated before a table.  On this table are the mirror of justice surmounted by the two-headed imperial eagle and carrying an inscription on its base, law books, and sheets of paper with underlined headings.

Among the judges, in the place of honor, is seated a stout man in uniform with a cross at his collar.  He seems rather intelligent, good-natured, and even tenderhearted because he has lunched well and has received comforting news about his youngest son’s health.  At his side is another officer, of German origin, who is displeased at having been appointed.  He is going over in his head the terms of the report that he is about to address to his chief.  A very young officer occupies the third place – smart, good-humored, still thinking of the epigram that he ventured to make while lunching at the colonel’s, and which amused the guests so much.  He is still smiling about it.  He is frantically anxious to smoke, and is impatiently awaiting the end of the sitting.

At a short distance the registrar is sitting in front of a small table.  He is absorbed in the arrangement of a bundle of papers, among which he will choose the documents to be asked for presently at the first injunction.

Two young people, one a peasant from the government of Panza, the other a small-time merchant from the town of Lubin, are both dressed as troopers.  A third is brought in, dressed like the others and quite young.

This young man is very pale.  He casts a rapid glance at the court, and then his eyes take on a vague expression.  He has passed three years in prison for having refused to take the oath for military service.  In order to get rid of him after his three years of prison, he has been offered an opportunity to swear allegiance, after which he could be set at liberty as having served three years, even though he passed them in prison.  But he has again refused, declaring, as he did the first time, that he was a Christian, and that he could not possibly swear an oath of allegiance or become a murderer.

The registrar reads a paper called the act of accusation.  It is noted that the young man has refused to touch the pay and considers that military service is a sin.

The president good-naturedly asks the accused if he is guilty.

“Everything that has been read is exact.  I acted and spoke like that, but I do not consider myself guilty,” answers the young man in a voice trembling with emotion.

The president nods his head in assent, as if the reply was what he expected it to be.  He consults a paper and asks, “What do you say in explanation of your conduct?”

“I have refused and I still refuse because I consider military service a sin, contrary to the teaching of Christ.”

The president, satisfied, nods again in approval.  Everything is in order.  He asks, “Have you anything to add?”

The young man explains with trembling lips that it is written in the Scriptures that murder is forbidden, and not only murder, but even any hostile feeling towards one’s neighbor.

The president keeps on approving.  The German officer frowns.  The young officer, head and eyebrows raised, becomes attentive as if he were hearing something new and interesting.

The accused, becoming more and more agitated, says that the oath is positively forbidden, that he would consider himself guilty if he had consented to serve, that he was again ready…

This time the president stops him, finding that the accused is digressing and making futile remarks.

The witnesses are called: the colonel of the regiment and the sergeant.  The colonel is the president’s usual partner at cards and is a past master in that exercise.  The sergeant is a Pole belonging to the minor nobility – clever, handsome, and a great reader of fiction.

Then in comes the priest, who is rather elderly.  He has just left his daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren, who have come to visit him, and he is still under the influence of a quarrel with his wife on account of a carpet that he has given his daughter, against his wife’s express wish.

“Father, please swear in the witnesses, and tell them the sin they will commit against God by not telling all the truth,” says the president, addressing the priest.

The latter puts on his vestment, takes the cross and the Bible, and pronounces the usual exhortation.

The colonel is the first to take the oath, rapidly raising two very clean fingers, so well known to the president.  He repeats after the priest the formula of the oath, and kisses the cross and Bible noisily, as if the act gave him pleasure.

Then it is the turn of the priest to swear in the young sergeant just as quickly.

The judges, grave and calm, wait.  The young officer, who had gone out for a minute to take a few puffs of a cigarette, comes back during the deposition of the witnesses.  The latter testify, confirming what the accused has said.  The president nods approvingly.

After this an officer placed at a certain distance from the judges gets up.  He is the speaker for the defense.  He approaches the desk, takes up the papers lying there, and begins to speak in a loud voice, setting forth in lengthy periods everything that the young man has done, which the judges know already, and which the accused has just admitted, without trying to minimize his crime, but rather aggravating it.

The prosecutor announces that, according to the young man’s own declaration, he does not belong to any sect, that his parents are orthodox, and that, to begin with, his refusal to serve was only unwillingness.  This obstinacy, not only of the accused, but of others like him, obliged the government to take the most severe measures against them, applicable as well in the present case.

Then it is the turn of the defender, whose speech seems to have little connection with the affair.

Then everyone goes out, comes back, and causes the accused to come back, followed by the court.  The judges first sit down, then get up, and the president, without looking at the accused, reads the sentence in a quiet, even voice.  The accused, who has already suffered three years for not being a soldier, is condemned: first to be dismissed from the army and deprived of all his rights and privileges, and secondly to four years of prison.

The guard takes the young man out.  Then all those who took part in the ceremony return to their occupations and habitual distractions, as if nothing in particular had happened.

Except that the young officer, the great smoker, feels a strange twinge of uneasiness, which recurs each time he thinks of the strong, noble words of the accused, said with so much emotion.  During the deliberation the young officer had a fancy to express a contrary opinion to the decision of his elders, but he was embarrassed, so he swallowed hastily and agreed.

That evening, at the home of the colonel of the regiment, between two games of cards, when all the guests were seated around the tea table, they began to speak of the case of the refractory soldier.  The colonel expressed his opinion frankly that lack of instruction was the cause of such incidents.  One assimilates all kinds of ideas without adapting them to circumstances, and that leads to all sorts of extravagances.

“Pardon me, uncle,” said a student, who was a social democrat and the colonel’s niece.  “The strong opinions and the energy of this man are worthy of respect.  One should only regret that this force has taken a wrong direction,” added the young girl, thinking how such energy would be valuable if used in the service of socialist ideas, instead of being wasted in out-of-date religious whims.

“Come, you are a mad revolutionary,” said her uncle, with a smile.

The young officer, cigarette in mouth, intervened in his turn, “Yet it seems to me that from the Christian point of view it would be difficult to contradict him.”

“I don’t know anything about any point of view,” said a general severely.  “But I do know that a soldier should be a soldier, and not a preacher.”

“In my opinion,” said the president of the tribunal, his eyes twinkling, “the most important thing of all is not to lose time if we want to finish our game.”

“If any of you want more tea, you will be served at the card table,” said the master of the house amiably, while one of the players, in a practical manner, threw the cards on the table.  Each one took his place.

In the prison entry, where the soldiers who were guarding the prisoner were waiting with him for their orders, another conversation took place.

“How is it that the priest does not understand what exactly is said in the books?” asked one of the soldiers with a Ukrainian accent.

“Naturally he doesn’t understand,” answered the prisoner, “or he would have said as I do.  Christ commands us to love and not to kill.”

“That is true, but very difficult.”

“It is not at all difficult.  Just see, I have been locked up, and I am going to be locked up again, but I have such a light heart that I wish you all had the same.”

A middle-aged noncommissioned officer drew near, and addressing the prisoner, said to him respectfully, “Well, Seminitch, you’ve been condemned?”

“Yes, of course.”

The noncommissioned officer shook his head, and added, “That is all very well, but one has to suffer for it.”

“It is necessary,” answered the prisoner with a smile, visibly touched by this sympathy.

“I know.  Our Lord suffered and He told us to suffer also, but it is difficult just the same.”

As he was speaking, the handsome Polish sergeant entered with a quick, authoritative step, and said briefly, “No conversation here.  Put him in prison.”

The sergeant was especially severe, because he had received orders to see that the prisoner did not talk with the soldiers.  In fact, during the time that this refractory youth had been in prison, four men had already been seduced by him.  They had been court-martialed for refusing to serve, and were imprisoned in their turn.