How Much Land Does a Man Need?

Pahom was a peasant, and he had only one complaint about his life.

"If I had plenty of land," he said one evening, lying on top of the stove, "I wouldn't fear the Devil himself."

And the Devil, who was sitting behind the stove, heard him.

"All right," thought the Devil. "We'll have a little contest, you and I. I'll give you land enough, and by means of that land I will get you into my power."

A little more

Not long afterwards, a lady who owned land near the village decided to sell it. Pahom scraped together every coin he had, sold a colt and half his bees, borrowed the rest and bought forty acres.

At first he was very happy. When he went out to plough his own fields, or to look at his own growing corn, his heart filled with joy. The grass that grew on his land seemed different from other grass. The flowers seemed brighter.

But soon his neighbours' cattle wandered into his meadows, and he went to court, and quarrelled, and lost his friends. His land had grown, but his peace had grown smaller.

Then a traveller told him of a place far away, beyond the Volga, where the land was rich and every settler got plenty of it. So Pahom sold everything and moved, and there he had three times as much land as before.

He was content at first. But after a while he began to think, "If only I had more land of my own, instead of renting, I would be really well off."

The offer

One day a travelling merchant told him about the land of the Bashkirs, a people who lived on the great open steppe.

"They have more land than they could walk around in a year," said the merchant. "And they are simple folk. I bought thirteen thousand acres from them for a thousand roubles."

Pahom could hardly sleep that night. Within days he had set off with a servant and a load of presents.

The Bashkirs welcomed him kindly. They gave him tea and mutton and listened to his request. Then their chief spoke.

"Our price is always the same," he said. "One thousand roubles a day."

Pahom did not understand. "What kind of measure is a day? How many acres is that?"

"We sell it by the day," said the chief. "As much as you can walk around in a day is yours, for a thousand roubles. But there is one condition. If you don't return to the place you started from by sunset, your money is lost."

The walk

At dawn they went up a little hill on the steppe. The chief put down his fox-fur cap.

"This will be the mark," he said. "Start from here and come back here. All the land you walk around shall be yours."

Pahom put his money in the cap, took a spade to mark his corners and set off towards the rising sun.

The air was cool, and walking was easy. After a thousand paces he dug a hole to mark his path, and kept going. The farther he went, the better the land seemed. "I'll go on a little further," he thought. "It's a pity to leave out such fine land."

The sun climbed higher. He took off his coat and his boots. He ate a little bread and drank some water. Then he turned the first corner, and the second. But each time he saw a fine hollow, or a damp meadow where flax would grow, he made a long loop to take it in too.

When he finally turned for home, the hill was far away, and the sun was already sinking.

Sunset

Pahom began to hurry. His feet were cut and bruised. His legs grew weak. He wanted to rest, but he dared not.

"Oh dear," he thought. "I've grasped too much and ruined the whole affair."

He threw away his coat and his boots, his flask and his cap. He kept only the spade to lean on. He began to run. His breath came in gasps. His heart beat like a hammer. His mouth was dry and his chest burned. He was afraid of dying, but he could not stop.

"After having run all that way," he thought, "they will call me a fool if I stop now."

The sun was touching the edge of the earth. He could see the Bashkirs on the hill, waving and shouting to him. He could see the fur cap on the ground, with the money in it.

With his last strength he threw himself forward and reached the cap with his hands.

"Ah, that's a fine fellow!" cried the chief. "He has gained much land!"

Pahom's servant ran to lift him up. But blood was flowing from his mouth. Pahom was dead.

The Bashkirs clicked their tongues in pity.

His servant picked up the spade and dug a grave long enough for Pahom to lie in, and buried him there.

Six feet from his head to his heels was all he needed.

About this story

Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910), the author of War and Peace and Anna Karenina, wrote this parable in 1886 for ordinary Russian readers. James Joyce is reported to have called it the greatest story in the literature of the world. This is a shortened retelling; the full original is in the public domain.