This surely is misleading. War in Russia in 1812 was very similar to war in Russia in 1854, and the son who had fought in the latter war, describing the war in which his father had fought, was not at all in the position of Thackeray describing the life of the Virginians. Tolstoy depicting the homes of his parents and grandparents, which he in part remembered, and which he at any rate knew well from those who had formed part of them, was as close to first-hand experience as he was when describing the life of Karénin the pedantic Petersburg statesman, who belonged to a world which was essentially foreign to Tolstoy, though he had occasionally glanced at it.
But the sentence in Arnold's essay which has done most harm, is that in which he speaks about translations: 'I use the French translation; in general, as I long ago said, work of this kind is better done in France than in England, and Anna Karénina is perhaps also a novel which goes better into French than into English.'
It is true enough that the first English translations of Tolstoy were very poor, and it is also true that the French versions, so long as Tourgénef attended to them, were really good. But Arnold was wrong in supposing that Anna Karénina would naturally go better into French than into English. Had he been able to read the original, or had he been acquainted with Russian life, he would have seen that in Tolstoy's novels there are two sets of people: a Court, Petersburg set, who continually speak French and are Frenchified; and a plain, homely, straightforward Russian (I had almost said, English) set who do not use French phrases, and who are sharply contrasted with the others. This contrast can be made quite clear in an English version, but it is difficult to make it clear in a version where even the most Russian characters have to speak French. The case is worse than that, however: Arnold did not say, as he fairly might have said, that up to his time the French versions were better than the English; he speaks as though it were in the nature of things that any translation into French must be better than any possible translation into English. A prejudice of that kind tends to divert attention from the fact that some French translations are bad, and some English translations are good. As a matter of fact, since Arnold's time the position has been largely reversed. When staying at Yásnaya Polyána in 1902, I heard Tolstoy express considerable dissatisfaction with the new collected French edition of his works, the first volumes of which had then recently appeared, while he commended some recent English versions, including work done by Mrs. Garnett and by my wife.
A grave error, again, is made by Arnold in speaking of Tolstoy's later life, where he says that he 'earns his bread by the labour of his own hands.' Tolstoy never did that, and never claimed to have done it; though it is extraordinary how often and how confidently the statement has been repeated. It is a matter however which need not detain us, for it does not relate to the period with which this volume deals.
Arnold's summary of the story of the novel is excellent, but I can here only quote one more passage from his essay. 'We have,' he says, 'been in a world which misconducts itself nearly as much as the world of a French novel all palpitating with "modernity." But there are two things in which the Russian novel—Count Tolstoi's novel at any rate—is very advantageously distinguished from the type of novel now so much in request in France. In the first place, there is no fine sentiment, at once tiresome and false. We are not told to believe, for example, that Anna is wonderfully exalted and ennobled by her passion for Vrónsky. The English reader is thus saved from many a groan of impatience. The other thing is yet more important. Our Russian novelist deals abundantly with criminal passion and with adultery, but he does not seem to feel himself owing any service to the goddess Lubricity, or bound to put in touches at this goddess's dictation. Much in Anna Karénina is painful, much is unpleasant, but nothing is of a nature to trouble the senses, or to please those who wish their senses troubled. This taint is wholly absent.'
W. D. Howells, who has stood sponsor for Tolstoy in America as Matthew Arnold has done in England, similarly says: 'It is Tolstoy's humanity which is the grace beyond the reach of art in his imaginative work. It does not reach merely the poor and the suffering; it extends to the prosperous and the proud, and does not deny itself to the guilty. There had been many stories of adultery before Anna Karénina, nearly all the great novels outside of English are framed upon that argument, but in Anna Karénina, for the first time the whole truth was told about it. Tolstoy has said of the fiction of Maupassant that the whole truth can never be immoral; and in his own work I have felt that it could never be anything but moral.'
Tolstoy never fears to deal with the real problems of life, and never fears to call a spade a spade; but he also never panders to the animal passions. In a letter relating to Resurrection he remarked: 'When I read a book, what chiefly interests me is the Weltanschauung des Autors: what he likes and what he hates. And I hope that any one who reads my book with that in view will find out what the author likes and dislikes, and will be influenced by the author's feelings.' What is important is not the subject treated of, but the feeling the author imparts when dealing with it.
Arnold, it is true, is rather shocked that Anna should yield so quickly and easily to the persuasions of Vrónsky. He is quite sure that she ought to have resisted. But here we come to a matter on which many Russians disapprove of Tolstoy on quite the opposite ground. Kropótkin in his interesting work Ideals and Realities in Russian Literature, has stated their case very clearly, and this is the substance of what he says:
Anna Karénina produced in Russia an impression which brought Tolstoy congratulations from the reactionary camp and a very cool reception from the advanced portion of society. The fact is that the question of marriage and of the separation of husband and wife, had been most earnestly debated in Russia by the best men and women, both in literature and in life. Levity towards marriage such as is continually unveiled in the Divorce Courts, was decidedly condemned, as also was any form of deceit such as supplies the subject for countless French novels and plays. But after levity and deceit had been condemned, the right of a new love—appearing perhaps after years of happy married life—was seriously considered, Tchernyshévsky's novel, What Is To Be Done? may be taken as the best expression of the opinions on marriage which became current among the better portion of the young generation. Once married, it was said, don't take lightly to love affairs or flirtation. Not every fit of passion deserves the name of a new love; and what is called love is often merely temporary desire. Even if it be real, before it has grown deep there is generally time to reflect on the consequences that would result were it allowed to grow. But when all is said and done, there are cases when a new love does come, and comes almost inevitably: as for instance when a girl has been married almost against her will under the continued insistence of her lover, or when the two have married without properly understanding one another, or when one of the two has continued to progress towards an ideal, while the other, after having worn the mask of idealism, falls back into the Philistine happiness of warmed slippers. In such cases separation not only becomes inevitable, but is often to the interest of both. It would be better for both to live through the suffering a separation involves (honest natures are improved by such suffering) than to spoil the entire subsequent life of one—or both in most cases—and to face the evil consequences which living together under such circumstances would be sure to produce on the children. That at any rate was the conclusion to which, both in literature and in life, the best portion of Russian society came.
And into the society Kropótkin describes in the above statement, comes Tolstoy with Anna Karénina. The epigraph of the book is 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay,' and death by suicide is the fate of poor Anna, who was married young to an old and unattractive man, and who had never known love till she met Vrónsky. Deceit was not in her nature. To maintain a conventional marriage would not have made her husband or child happier. Separation and a new life with Vrónsky, who seriously loved her, was the only possible outcome. At any rate, continues Kropótkin, if the story of Anna Karénina had to end in tragedy, it was not in consequence of an act of supreme justice. The artistic genius of Tolstoy, honest here as everywhere, itself indicated the real cause, in the inconsistency of Vrónsky and Anna. After leaving her husband and defying public opinion—that is, as Tolstoy shows, the opinion of women not honest enough to have a right to a voice in the matter—neither she nor Vrónsky had the courage to break right away from that society, the futility of which Tolstoy describes so exquisitely. Instead of that, when Anna returns with Vrónsky to Petersburg, their chief preoccupation is, how Betsy and other such women will receive her if she reappears among them? 'And it was the opinion of the Betsies—surely not Superhuman Justice—which brought Anna to suicide.'
Whether Matthew Arnold's view or Kropótkin's view be accepted, Tolstoy at any rate does full justice to Anna's charm: 'her large, fresh, rich, generous, delightful nature which keeps our sympathy' and even our respect; there is no nonsense about her being a degraded or vile person. And after all, Tolstoy's view of marriage sanctity is a very old and a very widely held one; and it is surely good to have that side of the case put so artistically, so persuasively, so well, as he puts it. If ultimately the idea that two uncongenial people ought to live out their lives together because they have married, has to be abandoned, let it not be abandoned without the very best advocates being heard on its behalf.
Anna Karénina contains passages: the ball, the officers' steeplechase, the mowing, the death of Lévin's brother, and others, which for artistic beauty are unsurpassed and, one is tempted to add, unsurpassable. It also, towards the end, contains in admirably concise form much of what Tolstoy has told in his Confession, of his quest after the meaning of life, his thoughts of suicide, and how he learnt from a talk with a peasant that man should live for his soul and for God.
His treatment in this novel of the Russian volunteers who went to fight for Servia, was as bold a slap in the face to the Russian jingoes, who were having things all their own way at that time, as Campbell Bannerman's 'methods of barbarism' speech, or Sir E. Clarke's declaration that the reassertion of England's claim to suzerainty in the internal affairs of the Transvaal, was 'a breach of national faith,' was to our jingoes at the time of the Boer war; but it is curious to note the precise position that (speaking through the mouth of Lévin) Tolstoy took up. He did not say that Russia ought not to fight to free the Christian populations of Turkey; he merely said that no individual Russian had any business to volunteer for the Servian or Bulgarian army, or to take any action to urge the Russian Government towards war.
Of Lévin we are told: 'He, like Miháylitch and the peasants, whose feelings are expressed in the legendary story of the invitation sent to the Varyági by the early inhabitants of Russia, said: "Come and be princes and rule over us. We gladly promise complete submission. All labour, all humiliations, all sacrifices we take on ourselves, but we do not judge or decide."' And Lévin goes on to repudiate the idea that the Russian people have 'now renounced this privilege [the privilege, that is, of not taking any part in Government] bought at so costly a price.'
The connection between the roots of Tolstoy's opinions—manifested in these writings of his first fifty years—and his opinions in their ultimate rigid and dogmatic form, as expressed during the last three decades, is in general so close, the dogmas of the later period grew so naturally out of the sympathies and experiences of the earlier time, that this point—at which there is a clean line of cleavage (the difference between obeying Government and disobeying it)—is worthy of particular note. When finishing Anna Karénina Tolstoy had not yet reached the conclusion that all Governments employing force are immoral; but his later teachings are dominated by that view.
Apart from the special points I have referred to, the general effect and influence of Tolstoy's fiction can hardly be summed up better than they have been summed up by W. D. Howells, who says:
'Up to his time fiction had been a part of the pride of life, and had been governed by the criterions of the world which it amused. But Tolstoy replaced the artistic conscience by the human conscience. Great as my wonder was at the truth in his work, my wonder at the love in it was greater yet. Here, for the first time, I found the most faithful picture of life set in the light of that human conscience which I had falsely taught myself was to be ignored in questions of art, as something inadequate and inappropriate. In the august presence of the masterpieces, I had been afraid and ashamed of the highest interests of my nature as something philistine and provincial. But here I stood in the presence of a master, who told me not to be ashamed of them, but to judge his work by them, since he had himself wrought in honour of them. I found the tests of conduct which I had used in secret with myself, applied as the rules of universal justice, condemning and acquitting in motive and action, and admitting none of those lawyer's pleas which baffle our own consciousness of right and wrong. Often in Tolstoy's ethics I feel a hardness, almost an arrogance (the word says too much); but in his esthetics I have never felt this. He has transmuted the atmosphere of a realm hitherto supposed unmoral into the very air of heaven. I found nowhere in his work those base and cruel lies which cheat us into the belief that wrong may sometimes be right through passion, or genius, or heroism. There was everywhere the grave noble face of the truth that had looked me in the eyes all my life, and that I knew I must confront when I came to die. But there was something more than this, infinitely more. There was that love which is before even the truth, without which there is no truth, and which if there is any last day, must appear the Divine justice....
'As I have already more than once said, his ethics and esthetics are inseparably at one; and that is what gives a vital warmth to all his art. It is never that heartless skill which exists for its own sake, and is content to dazzle with the brilliancy of its triumphs. It seeks always the truth, in the love to which alone the truth unveils itself. If Tolstoy is the greatest imaginative writer who ever lived, it is because, beyond all others, he has written in the spirit of kindness, and not denied his own personal complicity with his art.
'As for the scope of his work, it would not be easy to measure it, for it seems to include all motives and actions, in good and bad, in high and low, and not to leave life untouched at any point as it shows itself in his vast Russian world. Its chief themes are the old themes of art always,—they are love, passion, death, but they are treated with such a sincerity, such a simplicity, that they seem almost new to art, and as effectively his as if they had not been touched before....
'Passion, we have to learn from the great master, who here as everywhere humbles himself to the truth, has in it life and death; but of itself it is something, only as a condition precedent to these; without it neither can be; but it is lost in their importance, and is strictly subordinate to their laws. It has never been more charmingly and reverently studied in its beautiful and noble phases than it is in Tolstoy's fiction; though he has always dealt with it so sincerely, so seriously. As to its obscure and ugly and selfish phases, he is so far above all others who have written of it, that he alone seems truly to have divined it, or portrayed it as experience knows it. He never tries to lift it out of nature in either case, but leaves it more visibly and palpably a part of the lowest as well as the highest humanity....
'He comes nearer unriddling life for us than any other writer. He persuades us that it cannot possibly give us any personal happiness; that there is no room for the selfish joy of any one except as it displaces the joy of some other, but that for unselfish joy there is infinite place and occasion. With the same key he unlocks the mystery of death; and he imagines so strenuously that death is neither more nor less than a transport of self-surrender that he convinces the reason where there can be no proof. The reader will not have forgotten how in those last moments of earth which he has depicted, it is this utter giving up which is made to appear the first moment of heaven. Nothing in his mastery is so wonderful as his power upon us in the scenes of the borderland where his vision seems to pierce the confines of another world.'
Tolstoy of the later phase, the last three decades, with which the second volume of this work will deal, differed from the Tolstoy of the first fifty years; but the later Tolstoy grew out of the earlier, as the branches of a tree grow from its roots.
The difference lay chiefly in this: that from about the year 1878 Tolstoy became sure of himself, succeeded in formulating his outlook on life, and proceeded to examine and pass judgment on all the main phases of human thought and activity. His work was sometimes hasty and often harsh; he painted in black and white, subjects really composed of many shades of colours; but what other man has even attempted so to examine, to portray, and to tell the frank truth about all the greatest problems of life and death?
No one really concerned to leave the world better than he found it—be his line of work what it may—can afford to ignore what Tolstoy has said on his subject.
No such combination of intellectual and artistic force has in our times provoked the attention of mankind. No one has so stimulated thought, or so successfully challenged established opinions. Tolstoy has altered the outlook on life of many men in many lands, and has caused some to alter not their ideas merely, but the settled habits and customs of their lives. Only those who neither know nor understand him at all, ever question his sincerity.
Those who have spoken scornfully of him are those who have not taken the trouble to understand him. On the other hand, the small minority who swallow his opinions whole, do so under the hypnotic influence of his force, fervour and genius. To analyse his opinions, and disentangle what in them is true from what is false, is a task no one has yet adequately performed, but for which the time is ripe, and which, bold as the undertaking may be, I mean to attempt.
Tolstoy's marvellous artistic power, his sincerity, and the love that is so strong a feature of his work, have often been dwelt upon; but what really gives him his supreme importance as a literary force is the union of all these things: artistic capacity, sincerity and love, with a quite extraordinary power of intellect.
It is not given to any man to solve all the problems of life; but no one has made so bold and interesting an attempt to do so as Tolstoy, or has striven so hard to make his solutions plain to every child of man.
CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER XII
The literature that has grown up both in Russia and elsewhere round Tolstoy's earlier writings is so voluminous, that I can merely indicate a few of the best known works.
In English we have:
Matthew Arnold's essay: Count Leo Tolstoi in Essays in Criticism, Second Series: Macmillan and Co., London.
W. D. Howells has written several very readable and excellent essays on Tolstoy. I have unfortunately mislaid my note of them. If any American admirer of W. D. Howells will supply me with a list, I shall be glad to include it in any future edition of this work.
P. Kropotkin's Ideals and Realities in Russian Literature gives a very good idea of Tolstoy's general influence and relation to Russian life and literature generally.
In Russian:
Mihaylovsky's articles in his collected works are interesting.
N. Strahof's Krititcheskiya Statyi o Tourgeneve i Tolstom, Petersburg, 1895, is excellent.
V. Zelinsky's Rousskaya Krititcheskaya Literatoura o proizvedeniyakh L. N. Tolstovo (7 vols.) reprints a large collection of Russian criticisms on Tolstoy's works.
D. S. Merezhkovsky's Zhizn i tvortchestvo L. N. Tolstovo i Dostoyevskavo contains some acute literary criticism, but for all that relates to Tolstoy as a man, it is worse than useless. Merezhkovsky did not know Tolstoy personally when he wrote about him. He relied on the works of Behrs and Anna Seuron, and even that scrappy information he used unfairly. His talk about scents and fine linen, and in general his whole characterisation of Tolstoy, is spiteful, and to those who know the man attacked, it is merely ridiculous.
CHRONOLOGY
As in the text, dates are given old style, except those relating to the Crimean War and to Tolstoy's travels abroad.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The dates mentioned in the text are usually old style (twelve days behind our calendar), unless the contrary is expressly stated.
[2] Russian babies are usually swaddled tightly with bands, making them look like fresh mummies.
[3] All that you say about the perversity of play is very true, and I often think about it, and that is why I believe that I shall gamble no more.... 'I believe,' but I hope soon to tell you for certain.
[4] I went to the fête at Sokólniki in detestable weather, which was why I did not meet any of the society ladies I wished to see. As you say I am a man who tests himself, I went among the plebs in the gipsy tents. You can easily imagine the inward struggle I there experienced, for and against. However, I came out victorious: that is to say, having given nothing but my blessing to the gay descendants of the illustrious Pharaohs. Nicholas considers me a very agreeable travelling companion, except for my cleanliness. He is cross because he says I change my linen 12 times a day. I also find him a very agreeable companion, except for his dirtiness. I do not know which of us is right.
[5] Nicholas left within a week of his arrival and I have followed him, so that we have now been almost three weeks here, lodging in a tent But as the weather is fine and I am getting accustomed to this kind of life, I feel very well. There are magnificent views here, beginning where the springs are situated. It is an enormous mountain of rocks one upon another, some of which are detached and form, as it were, grottoes; others remain suspended at a great height. They are all intersected by torrents of hot water which fall noisily in certain parts and, especially in the morning, cover the whole upper part of the mountain with a white vapour which this boiling water continually gives off. The water is so hot that one can boil eggs hard in three minutes. In the middle of this ravine, by the chief torrent, stand three mills one above the other, built in a quite peculiar and very picturesque manner. All day long, above and below these mills, Tartar women come unceasingly to wash clothes. I should mention that they wash with their feet. It is like an ant-hill, always in motion. The women, for the most part, are beautiful and well formed. In spite of their poverty the costumes of Oriental women are graceful. The picturesque groups formed by the women, added to the savage beauty of the place, furnish a really admirable coup d'œil. I very often remain for hours admiring the view. Then again, in quite a different way, the view from the top of the mountain is even more beautiful. But I fear to weary you with my descriptions.
I am very glad to be at the springs, for I benefit by them. I take ferruginous baths, and no longer have pain in my feet.
[6] Do you remember, dear Aunt, the advice you once gave me—to write novels? Well, I am following your advice, and the occupation I mentioned to you consists in producing literature. I do not know if what I am writing will ever be published, but it is work that amuses me, and in which I have persevered too long to abandon it.
[7] I have just received your letter of 24 November, and I reply at once (as I have formed the habit of doing). I wrote you lately that your letter made me cry, and I blamed my illness for that weakness. I was wrong. For some time past all your letters have had the same effect on me. I always was Leo Cry-baby. Formerly I was ashamed of this weakness, but the tears I shed when thinking of you, and of your love for us, are so sweet that I let them flow without any false shame. Your letter is too full of sadness not to produce the same effect on me. It is you who have always given me counsel, and though unfortunately I have not always followed it, I should wish all my life to act only in accord with your advice. For the moment, permit me to tell you the effect your letter has had on me, and the thoughts that have come to me while reading it. If I speak too freely, I know you will forgive it, on account of the love I have for you. By saying that it is your turn to leave us, to rejoin those who are no more and whom you have loved so much, by saying that you ask God to set a limit to your life which seems to you so insupportable and isolated—pardon me, dear Aunt, but it seems to me that in so saying you offend God and me and all of us who love you so much. You ask God for death, that is to say, for the greatest misfortune that can happen to me. (This is not a phrase, for God is my witness that the two greatest misfortunes that could come to me would be your death and that of Nicholas—the two persons whom I love more than myself.) What would be left to me if God granted your prayer? To please whom should I then wish to become better, to have good qualities and a good reputation in the world? When I make plans of happiness for myself, the idea that you will share and enjoy my happiness is always present. When I do anything good, I am satisfied with myself because I know you will be satisfied with me. When I act badly, what I most fear is to cause you grief. Your love is everything to me, and you ask God to separate us! I cannot tell you what I feel for you; words do not suffice to express it. I fear lest you should think I exaggerate, and yet I shed hot tears while writing to you.
[8] To-day one of those things happened to me which would have made me believe in God, if I had not for some time past firmly believed in Him.
In summer, at Stáry Urt, all the officers who were there did nothing but play, and play rather high. As, living in camp, one has to meet frequently, I was very often present at play, but in spite of persuasions I kept steady for a month; but one fine day for fun I put down a small stake. I lost, staked again, and lost again. I was in bad luck; the passion for play reawoke in me, and in two days I had lost all the money I had, and what Nicholas gave me (about Rs. 250) and another Rs. 500 besides, for which I gave a note-of-hand payable in January 1852.
I should tell you that near the camp there is an Aoul [native village] inhabited by Circassians. A young fellow (a Circassian) named Sádo used to come to the camp and play; but as he could neither reckon nor write, there were scamps who cheated him. For that reason I never wished to play against Sádo, and I even told him that he ought not to play, because he was being cheated; and I offered to play for him. He was very grateful to me for this, and presented me with a purse; and as it is the custom of that nation to exchange presents, I gave him a wretched gun I had bought for Rs. 8. I should tell you that to become a Kounák, that is to say, a friend, it is customary to exchange presents, and afterwards to eat in the house of one's Kounák. After that, according to the ancient custom of these peoples (which hardly exists now except as a tradition) you become friends for life and death: that is to say, if I asked of him all his money, or his wife, or his weapons, or all the most precious things he has, he must give them to me, and I also must not refuse him anything. Sádo made me promise to come to his house and become his Kounák. I went. After having regaled me in their fashion, he asked me to choose anything in his house that I liked: his weapons, his horse—anything. I wished to choose what was of least value, and took a horse's bridle with silver mountings; but he said I was offending him, and obliged me to take a sword worth at least Rs. 100.
His father is a rather rich man, but keeps his money buried, and does not give his son a cent. The son, to have money, goes and steals horses and cows from the enemy. Sometimes he risks his life 20 times to steal something not worth Rs. 10, but he does it not from greed, but because it is 'the thing.' The greatest robber is most esteemed, and is called Dzhigit, 'a Brave.' Sometimes Sádo has Rs. 1000, sometimes not a cent. After one visit to him, I gave him Nicholas's silver watch, and we became the greatest friends in the world. He has proved his devotion several times by exposing himself to danger for my sake; but that is nothing to him—it has become a habit and a pleasure.
When I left Stáry Urt and Nicholas remained there, Sádo used to go to him every day, saying that he did not know how to get on without me, and that he felt terribly dull. I wrote to Nicholas saying that as my horse was ill I begged him to find me one at Stáry Urt. Sádo having learnt this, must needs come to me and give me his horse, in spite of all I could do to refuse it.
After the folly I committed in playing at Stáry Urt, I did not touch a card again, and I was always lecturing Sádo, who is devoted to gambling and, though he does not know how to play, always has astonishing luck. Yesterday evening I was engaged in considering my money matters and my debts, and thinking how I was to pay them. Having long thought of these things, I saw that if I do not spend too much, all my debts will not embarrass me, but can be paid off little by little in 2 or 3 years; but the Rs. 500 that I had to pay this month, threw me into despair. It was impossible for me to pay it, and at the moment it embarrassed me much more than did previously the 4000 of Ogaryóf. The stupidity, after having contracted those debts in Russia, of coming here and adding fresh ones, made me despair. In the evening while saying my prayers, I asked God—and very fervently—to get me out of this disagreeable scrape. 'But how can I get out of this scrape?' thought I, as I lay down. 'Nothing can happen that will make it possible for me to meet that debt.' I already pictured to myself all the unpleasantnesses I should have to go through because of it. (See English sentence in the French text, above.)
Next day I received a letter from Nicholas enclosing yours and several others. He wrote me: (See English sentence in the French text, above).
Is it not astonishing to see one's petitions granted like this the very next day? That is to say, there is nothing so wonderful as the divine goodness to one who merits it so little as I. And is not the trait of Sádo's devotion admirable? He knows I have a brother Sergius, who loves horses, and as I have promised to take him to Russia when I go, he tells me that, if it costs him his life 100 times over, he will steal the best horse to be found in the mountains, and will take it to him.
Please, have a 6-barrelled pistol bought in Toúla and sent to me, and also a musical-box, if that does not cost too much. These are things which will give him much pleasure.
[9] Religion and the experience I have of life (however small it may be) have taught me that life is a trial. In my case it is more than a trial, it is also an expiation of my faults.
It seems to me that the frivolous idea I had of journeying to the Caucasus was an idea with which I was inspired from above. It is the hand of God that has guided me—I do not cease to thank Him for it. I feel that I have become better here (and that is not saying much, for I was very bad) and I am firmly persuaded that all that can happen to me here can only be for my good, since it is God himself who has so willed it. Perhaps it is a very audacious notion; nevertheless it is my conviction. That is why I bear the fatigues and the physical privations I have mentioned (they are not physical privations: there are none for a fellow of 23 who is in good health) without resenting them, and even with a kind of pleasure in thinking of the happiness that awaits me.
This is how I picture it:
After an indefinite number of years, neither young nor old, I am at Yásnaya; my affairs are in order, I have no anxieties or worries. You also live at Yásnaya. You have aged a little, but you are still fresh and in good health. We lead the life we used to lead. I work in the morning, but we see one another almost all day. We have dinner. In the evening I read aloud something which does not weary you, and then we talk. I tell you of my life in the Caucasus, you tell me your recollections of my father and my mother; and you tell me the 'terrible tales' we used to listen to with frightened eyes and open mouths. We remind each other of those who were dear to us and who are now no more; you will weep, I shall do the same, but those tears will be sweet; we shall talk about my brothers, who will come to see us from time to time; of dear Marie, who with all her children will also spend some months of the year at Yásnaya, which she loves so much. We shall have no acquaintances—no one will come to weary us and carry tales. It is a beautiful dream, but it is not all that I let myself dream.—I am married. My wife is a gentle creature, kind and affectionate; she has the same love for you as I have. We have children who call you Grandmamma; you live upstairs in the big house, in what used to be Grandmamma's room. The whole house is as it was in Papa's time, and we recommence the same life, only changing our rôles. You take the rôle of Grandmamma, but you are still better; I take Papa's place, though I despair of ever deserving it; my wife, that of Mamma; the children take ours; Marie, that of the two aunts (excepting their misfortunes) ... but some one will be lacking to take the part you played in our family—never will any one be found with a soul so beautiful, so loving, as yours. You have no successor. There will be three new characters who will appear from time to time on the scene—the brothers, especially the one who will often be with us, Nicholas: an old bachelor, bald, retired from service, as good and noble as ever.
I imagine how he will, as of old, tell the children fairy tales of his own invention, and how they will kiss his greasy hands (but which are worthy of it), how he will play with them, how my wife will bustle about to get him his favourite dishes, how he and I will recall our common memories of days long past, how you will sit in your accustomed place and listen to us with pleasure; how, as of yore, you will call us, old men, 'Lyóvotchka' and 'Nikólenka,' and will scold me for eating with my fingers, and him for not having clean hands.
If they made me Emperor of Russia, or gave me Peru: in a word, if a fairy came with her wand asking me what I wished for—my hand on my conscience, I should reply that I only wish that this dream may become a reality.
[10] During this expedition, I twice had the chance of being presented to receive a St. George's Cross, and I was prevented from receiving it by that confounded paper being a few days late. I was nominated to receive it on 18 February (my name's day), but it had to be refused me for want of that paper. The list of nominations was sent off on the 19th, the paper came on the 20th. I frankly confess that of all military honours, that little cross is the only one which I have had the vanity to desire.
[11] There is too great a difference in the education, the sentiments, and the point of view of those I meet here, for me to find any pleasure in their company. Only Nicholas, in spite of the enormous difference between him and all these gentlemen, has the talent to amuse himself with them, and to be loved by all. I envy him this talent, but feel that I cannot do the same.
[12] There was a time when I was vain of my intelligence, of my position in the world, and of my name; but now I know and feel that if there is anything good in me, and if I have anything to thank Providence for, it is for a good heart, sensitive and capable of love, which it has pleased it to give me and to preserve in me.
[13] The Cossack hunter Epíshka, the original of Eróshka, who figures so prominently in The Cossacks.
[14] Prince Gortchakóf was not here. He arrived yesterday, and I have just come from his lodgings. He received me better than I expected—quite as a relation. He embraced me, and made me promise to dine at his house every day. He wants to keep me near him, but this is not yet decided.
Forgive me, dear Aunt, for writing but little to you—I have not yet collected my wits; this large and fine town, all these presentations, the Italian opera, the French theatre, the two young Gortchakófs, who are very fine lads ... so that I have not remained two hours at home, and have not thought of my duties.
[15] While you are fancying me exposed to all the dangers of war, I have not yet smelt Turkish powder, but am very quietly at Bucharest, strolling about, making music, and eating ices. In fact, all this time, except for two weeks I spent at Oltenitza, where I was attached to a battery, and one week I passed making excursions in Moldavia Wallachia and Bessarabia by order of General Serzhpoutóvsky, on whose staff I now am by special appointment, I have been at Bucharest; and to speak frankly, the rather dissipated, quite idle and very expensive kind of life that I lead here, displeases me very much. Formerly it was the service that kept me here; but now for three weeks I have been kept here by a fever caught during my journey, but from which, thank God, I have for the present recovered sufficiently to be able in two or three days' time to rejoin my General, who is in camp near Silistria. Apropos of my General, he appears to be a very fine fellow, and though we know each other very slightly, seems well disposed toward me. What is also agreeable is that his staff consists for the most part of gentlemen.
[16] I am going to tell you of my recollections of Silistria. I there saw so much that was interesting, poetic and touching, that the time I passed there will never be effaced from my memory. Our camp was on the other side of the Danube, i.e. on the right bank, on very high ground amid splendid gardens belonging to Mustafa Pasha, the Governor of Silistria. The view from that place is not only magnificent, but of the greatest interest to us all. Not to speak of the Danube, its islets and its banks, some occupied by us, others by the Turks, one could see the town, the fortress and the little forts of Silistria as on the palm of one's hand. One heard the booming of cannon and musket-shots unceasingly day and night; and with a spy-glass one could distinguish the Turkish soldiers. It is true it is a queer sort of pleasure to see people killing one another, yet every evening and every morning I got on to my cart and remained for hours at a time, watching: nor was I the only one who did so. The sight was really fine, especially at night. At night my soldiers usually undertake trench-work, and the Turks fling themselves upon them to hinder them; then one should see and hear the fusillade! The first night I passed in camp, this dreadful noise awoke and frightened me: I thought an assault had begun. I very soon had my horse saddled; but those who had been already some time in camp told me that I had only to keep quiet: that this cannonade and fusillade was an ordinary affair, and they jestingly called it 'Allah.' Then I lay down again; but not being able to sleep, I amused myself, watch in hand, counting the cannon-shots, and I counted 110 reports in a minute. And yet, at close quarters, all this did not look so terrible as might be supposed. At night, when nothing was visible, it was a case of who could burn most powder, and with all these thousands of cannon-shots at most some thirty men were killed on each side....
This then was an ordinary performance we had every day, and one in which I took a share when I was sent to the trenches with orders; but we also had extraordinary performances, such as the one on the eve of the attack, when a mine of 240 poods (8600 lbs.) of gunpowder was exploded under one of the enemy's bastions. On the morning of that day the Prince had been to the trenches with all his staff (and as the General I was attached to belong to it, I was there too) to make the final arrangements for next day's assault. The plan—too long for me to explain here—was so well arranged, all was so well foreseen, that no one doubted its success. Apropos of this I must tell you further that I am beginning to feel admiration for the Prince (for that matter you should hear how the officers and soldiers speak of him: not only have I never heard him spoken ill of, but he is generally adored).
That morning I saw him under fire for the first time. You should see his rather absurd tall figure, his hands behind his back, his cap on the back of his head, his spectacles, and his way of speaking like a turkey-cock. One could see that he was so preoccupied with the general trend of affairs that the balls and bullets did not exist as far as he was concerned. He exposes himself to danger so simply that one would say he was unconscious of it, and involuntarily one fears it only for oneself; [The text here is obscure, and the meaning a little doubtful] and then he gives his orders with such clearness and precision, and is at the same time always so affable with everybody. He is a great man, i.e. a capable and honest man, as I understand the word: one who has dedicated his whole life to the service of his country, and not from ambition, but for the sake of duty. I will give you a trait of his character connected with the story I had begun to tell you of the assault. After dinner that same day, the mine was sprung, and nearly 600 guns opened fire on the fort we wished to take, and this continued the whole night. It was such a sight and such an emotion as one never forgets. That evening the Prince, amid all the commotion, went to sleep in the trenches, that he might personally direct the assault, which was to begin at 3 o'clock the same night.
We were all there, and as usual on the eve of a battle, we all made believe not to think of the morrow more than of any other day, and we all, I am sure, at bottom, felt our hearts contract a little (and not a little, but a great deal) at the thought of the assault. As you know, the time before a fight is the most disagreeable: it is only then that one has time to be afraid, and fear is a most disagreeable feeling. Towards morning, the nearer the moment came the more the feeling diminished, and towards 3 o'clock when we were all expecting to see a shower of rockets let off, which was the signal for the attack, I was so well inclined for it that I should have been much disappointed if any one had come to tell me that the attack was not to take place. And there! Just an hour before the time for the attack, an aide-de-camp comes from the Field-Marshal [Paskévitch, who for a time took over the supreme command of the army of the Danube] with orders to raise the siege of Silistria! I can say, without fear of making a mistake, that this news was received by all, soldiers, officers, and generals, as a real misfortune, the more so as we knew from the spies—who very often came to us from Silistria, and with whom I very often had occasion to speak—that once we had taken this fort (about which none of us felt any doubt) Silistria could not have held out for more than 2 or 3 days. Is it not true that if this news was calculated to pain any one, it must have been the Prince, who having all through this campaign arranged everything for the best, yet saw, in the very middle of the action, the Field-Marshal override him and spoil the business? Having this one chance to repair our reverses by this assault, he received counter-orders from the Field-Marshal at the moment of commencing! Well, the Prince was not put out of temper for a moment. He who is so impressionable, was, on the contrary, pleased to be able to avoid that butchery, the responsibility for which he would have had to bear; and during the whole time of the retreat—which he directed personally, not wishing to cross (the Danube) before the last of the soldiers—which took place with remarkable order and exactitude, he was gayer than he has ever been. What contributed much to his good humour, was the emigration of nearly 7000 Bulgarian families, whom we took with us as a reminder of the ferocity of the Turks: a ferocity in which, in spite of my incredulity, I was obliged to believe. As soon as we quitted the different Bulgarian villages we had occupied, the Turks returned to them, and except women young enough for a harem, they made a clean sweep of all that was in them. There was one village to which I went from the camp for milk and fruit, which had been exterminated in this way. So, as soon as the Prince let the Bulgarians know that those who wished to, could cross the Danube with our army and could become Russian subjects, the whole country rose, and with their wives, children, horses and cattle, came to the bridge: but as it was impossible to take them all, the Prince was obliged to refuse the last arrivals, and you should have seen how it grieved him to do so. He received all the deputations which came from these poor folk, and spoke with them all: trying to explain the impossibility of the matter, offering to let them cross without their carts and cattle, charging himself with their support till they could reach Russia, and out of his own purse paying for private ships to transport them; in a word, doing his very best for the welfare of these people.
Yes, dear Aunt, I should much like your prophecy to come true. What I desire most is to be aide-de-camp to such a man as he, whom I love and esteem from the bottom of my heart. Adieu, dear and kind Aunt. I kiss your hands.
[17] In this chapter the dates, when possible, are given new style (12 days later than the Russian style), in order that they may tally with English accounts of the Crimean war.
[18] This must refer to some family joke, as it occurs in other letters home, apropos of people who were killed.
[19] Father of the present (1908) Premier of Russia.
[20] There is no more fighting in the open country on account of the winter, which is extraordinarily rigorous, particularly just now; but the siege still goes on.... I think I have mentioned an occupation I had in view, which promised very well—as I may say, now that it is settled. I had the idea of founding a military newspaper. This project, at which I worked with the co-operation of many very distinguished men, was approved by the Prince and submitted to His Majesty for his consent, but he has refused.
This disappointment has, I confess, distressed me greatly, and has much altered my plans. If God wills that the Crimean campaign should end well, and if I do not receive an appointment that satisfies me, and if there is no war in Russia, I shall leave the army and go to Petersburg to the Military Academy. I have formed this plan, (1) because I do not want to abandon literature, at which it is impossible to work amid this camp life; (2) because it seems to me that I am becoming ambitious: not ambitious, but I want to do some good, and to do it one must be something more than a Sub-Lieutenant, and (3) because I shall see you all and all my friends.
[21] The 8th September, new style, was 24th August, old style.
[22] The Battle of Alma, fought on 8th September, old style = 20th September, new style.
[23] Prince Alexander Ménshikof, who was Commander-in-Chief in the Crimea till replaced by Gortchakóf. Besides being diplomatist and General, he was also an Admiral. In the other verses he is nicknamed 'Ménshik.'
[24] After the Battle of Alma, Ménshikof retreated northward to Baktchiseráy, almost abandoning Sevastopol.
[25] Saint Arnaud, the French Commander-in-Chief.
[26] Prince Alexander Ménshikof.
[27] Bags of sand were used as temporary protection from behind which to fire.
[28] Count Osten-Sáken was sent to advise Ménshikof and to report to the Tsar on his operations.
[29] The Grand Dukes alluded to above.
[30] Alexander II, who succeeded Nicholas I on 2nd March (n.s.) 1855.
[31] Dear Aunt,—I have received my passport for abroad, and I have come to Moscow to pass some days with Mary, and to take leave of you. (See sentences in English in letter above.)
But now I have reconsidered the matter, especially on Máshenka's advice, and have decided to remain with her here a week or two and then to go straight through Warsaw to Paris. You no doubt understand, chère tante, why I do not wish and why it is not right for me to come now to Yásnaya, or rather to Soudakóva. I, it seems, have acted very badly in relation to V., but were I to see her now, I should behave still worse. As I wrote you, I am more than indifferent to her, and feel that I can no longer deceive either her or myself. But were I to come, I might perhaps, from weakness of character, again delude myself.
Do you remember, dear Aunt, how you made fun of me when I told you I was going to Petersburg 'to test myself'? Yet it is that idea that has saved me from bringing misery on the young lady and on myself; for do not suppose that it is a case of inconstancy or unfaithfulness. No one has taken my fancy during these two months, but simply I have come to see that I was deceiving myself, and that I not only never had, but never shall have, the least feeling of true love for V. V. A. The only things which give me much pain are that I have hurt the young lady, and that I cannot take leave of you before my departure....
[32] If Mlle. Vergani, who has written me so absurd a letter, would remember my whole conduct towards V. V. A., how I tried to come as seldom as possible, and how it was she who induced me to come more frequently and to enter into closer relations. I understand her being vexed that an affair she much desired has not come off (I perhaps am more vexed about it than she) but that is no reason for her to tell a man who has tried to act as well as he could, and who has made sacrifices in order not to make others unhappy, that he is a pig, and to spread that report about. I am sure all Toúla is convinced that I am the greatest of monsters....
[33] Tolstoy makes a slip here: he was over twenty-seven.
[34] See Golovátcheva-Panáeva's Rousskie Pisateli i Artisty.
[35] I spent a month-and-a-half in Paris, and so agreeably that every day I said to myself that I had done well to come abroad. I went very little either into society or into the literary world, or into the world of cafés and public balls; but in spite of that I found so many things that were new and interesting to me, that every day on going to bed I said to myself, 'What a pity the day has passed so quickly.' I have not even had time to work, which I intended to do.
Poor Tourgénef is very ill physically, and still more so morally. His daughter, and especially his unfortunate liaison with Madame Viardot, keep him here in a climate which is bad for him, and it makes one sad to see him. I should never have believed that he could be so in love.
[36] I have just received your letter, dear Aunt, which found me, as you must know from my last letter, at Clarens, in the neighbourhood of Geneva, in the same village where Rousseau's Julie lived.... I will not try to depict the beauty of this country, especially at present when all is in leaf and flower; I will only say that it is literally impossible to detach oneself from this lake and from these banks, and that I spend most of my time gazing and admiring while I walk, or simply sit at the window of my room.
I do not cease congratulating myself on the thought which made me leave Paris and come to pass the spring here, though I have thereby deserved your reproach for inconstancy. Truly I am happy, and begin to feel the advantage of having been born with a caul.
There is some charming Russian society here: les Poúshkins, the Karamzíns and the Mestchérskys; and they have all, Heaven knows why, taken to liking me; I feel it, and the month I have spent here I have been so nice and good and cosy, that I am sad at the thought of leaving.
[37] I am again all alone, and I confess that very often the solitude is painful to me, for the acquaintanceships one makes in hotels and on the railways are not a resource. But there is at least this much good in this loneliness—it prompts me to work. I am working a little, but it goes badly, as usual in summer.
[38] God, who is goodness itself, cannot desire our pain.
[39] To make my mouth water.
[40] Included in the World's Classics.
[41] To work like a peasant. The origin of this word is given on p. 179.
[42] Who is that singular person?—inquired my visitors in astonishment.
Why, it is Leo Tolstoy!
Ah, good heavens! Why did you not tell us who it was? After reading his admirable writings, we were dying to see him.—said they, reproachfully.
[43] In the volume Essays and Letters, included in the World's Classics.
[44] I am in good health and burn with desire to return to Russia. But once in Europe and not knowing when I shall return, you understand that I wanted to benefit as much as possible by my travels. And I think I have done so. I am bringing back such a great quantity of impressions and facts, that I must work a long time before I can get it all in order in my head.
I am bringing with me a German from the University, to be a teacher and clerk, a very nice, well-educated man, but still very young and unpractical.
[45] In one edition after another of Tolstoy's works, the article referred to above is called 'Yásno-Polyána School in Nov. and Dec. 1862,' though the article itself appeared in the first number of Yásnaya Polyána, in February of that year. In small matters of detail of this kind, Tolstoy has always been careless.
[46] The daring Caucasian leader mentioned by Tolstoy in a letter quoted in Chapter III.
[47] Some details of this crime are given in 'Why do Men Stupefy Themselves?' in Essays and letters, published in the World's Classics.
[48] This word, when first invented by Nicholas Tolstoy, meant ploughing, but it had by now come to mean farming in general.
[49] Published by Walter Scott, Ltd., London, and by T. Y. Crowell and Co., New York.
[50] Published by Messrs. A. Constable and Co., London, and Funk and Wagnalls Co., New York.
[51] What is Art? p. 54: Constable, London, and Funk and Wagnalls Co., New York.
[52] Ibid., p. 65.
[53] This letter evidently relates to the year 1875, though in Fet's Vospominániya it is given as belonging to 1874.
[54] It is strange that Tolstoy's Confession has not yet been put into English at all reproducing the vigorous simplicity of the original. There is, I think, nothing better than the threepenny edition issued by the Free Age Press under the title, How I Came to Believe; and on looking at that to see if I could quote from it, I find that it is not good enough.
[55] Readers of Resurrection (Book II, Chap. 17) will remember the vivid description of the Evangelical meeting addressed by Kiesewetter, who spoke in English. The original from whom Tolstoy drew Kiesewetter was Baedeker, a well-known Evangelical preacher who lived in England, but visited Russia frequently.
[56] This passage is the more noteworthy because it is almost the only reference (and even this is indirect) made by Tolstoy at this period to the revolutionary or 'To-the-People' movement in which so many young men and women were risking and sacrificing home, property, freedom, and life itself, from motives which had much in common with his own perception that the upper layers of 'Society' are parasitic, and prey on the vitals of the people who support them.