He succeeded in accomplishing a great deal, because in disposing of his time he put exactly as firm restrictions on himself as in material things. Not a quarter of an hour a month was lost in recreation; he did not take rest. “My occupations are various; change from one occupation to another is sufficient rest.” He did not join the circle of his friends, whose headquarters were at Kirsánof’s or the Lopukhófs’, more frequently than was necessary to keep him in close relations with this circle. “This is necessary; everyday occurrences prove the advantage of having close connection with some circle of men; it is necessary to have in your power open resources for various references.” With the exception of the meetings with this circle, he never called on anybody, except on business, and he never stayed five minutes longer than was necessary for his business; and he never allowed anybody to stay with him, except on the same conditions. Without beating around the bush he would say to the caller, “We have talked about this business; now you will allow me to take up other things, because my time is valuable.”
During the first months of his regeneration, he used to spend almost all his time reading; but this lasted only a little more than six months. When he saw that he had acquired a systematic style of thought in the spirit whose principles he found to be correct, he said to himself: “Reading is now a secondary matter: from this time forth I am ready for life;” and he began to give to reading only the time which was free from other occupations, and such time was very little. Notwithstanding this fact, he extended the circle of his knowledge with wonderful rapidity; now that he is twenty-two years old, he is a man of remarkably solid learning. This was because he had made a rule also in this regard: luxury and pleasure there should be none; only what is needful. And what is needful? He used to say: “On every subject there are very few first-rate works; all that you can find fuller and clearer in these few, in all the rest is repeated, spoiled, ruined. It is necessary to read only them, and all other reading is only an idle waste of time. Let us take Russian belles lettres. I say: I shall read Gogol before anything else. In the thousand and one other stories I see, from half a dozen lines on half a dozen different pages, that they contain nothing else but Gogol spoiled; why should I read them, then? The same thing in science; in science this limit is still more striking. If I have read Adam Smith, Malthus, Ricardo, and Mill, I know the alpha and the omega of their theories, and I have no need of reading hundreds of other political economists, no matter how famous they may be: by half a dozen lines on half a dozen pages I see that I shall not find one single fresh thought which belongs to them; they are all borrowed and mutilated. I read only spontaneous works, and only to such a degree as to appreciate their spontaneity.” Therefore, it was impossible to make him read Macaulay; after spending a quarter of an hour on different pages, he decided: I know all the originals from which this matter is taken. He read Thackeray’s Vanity Fair with delight, and he began to read Pendennis, but he gave it up when he reached the twentieth page. “All this is said in Vanity Fair; apparently there will be nothing more, and so there is no need of reading it. Every book that I read in such a way spares me the necessity of reading hundreds of books,” he used to say.74
Gymnastics, work that served to increase his strength and reading—these were Rakhmétof’s personal occupations; but after he returned to Petersburg, they took only the fourth part of his time; the rest of his time he spent in helping others, or in things that did not belong to anyone in particular, constantly observing the same rule as in reading: not to waste any time on secondary matters and with secondary people, but to occupy himself only with things of essential importance, from which the secondary things and secondary people are influenced, without his interference. For instance, outside of his circle, he used to get acquainted only with people who had influence over others. Whoever was not an authority for several other people could not even begin a conversation with him; he used to say, “I beg you to excuse me,” and go away. But in the same way it was impossible for anyone with whom he had a desire to become acquainted to avoid him in anywise. He simply used to come to you and say whatever he had to say, with such an introduction as this: “I want to be acquainted with you; it is necessary. If you have no time now, appoint another time.” To your trifling business he never paid the least heed, no matter if you were his closest friend, and begged him to help you out of your embarrassment. “I have no time,” he would say, and go away. But in important business he used to take a share, when it was necessary, as he expressed it, though no one may have asked his aid. “I must,” he used to say. What things he used to say and do on such occasions is beyond comprehension.
Here, for example, is my own experience with him. I was then not very young; I was
