LEO TOLSTOY: HIS LIFE AND WORK
Autobiographical Memoirs, Letters, and Biographical Material,
Compiled by Paul Biryukov,
Revised by Leo Tolstoy
1911 - English edition
Distributed by the Tolstoy Library
Childhood and Early Manhood
PREFACE
Conscious of my inability, it is with diffidence and hesitation
that I approach this work, sacred in my eyes--the life-story of my
teacher, the aged prophet, Leo Tolstoy.
Only a few years ago I was so far from dreaming of this
undertaking that, while living much of my time in close proximity
to Tolstoy, and often staying in his house for hours or even whole
days, it never entered into my mind to make any note or record of
what I heard from Tolstoy himself or from those about him. Now, an
exile [See P.S. to this Introduction] for my religious opinions,
living far from my country and far from Tolstoy, I have set myself
to accomplish this important task.
I was first encouraged to do it by the French publisher Stock,
who, when taking in hand a complete publication of Tolstoy's works
in French, asked me if I would revise the Russian texts and write
a biography of the author.
I knew very well that it was impossible to write the biography
of a man still living without the consent of himself and his
family, so, before accepting Stock's offer, I wrote to Countess
Tolstoy, asking if she had any objection to my undertaking the
biography of her husband. I received from her a kind and
encouraging reply, from which I will quote a few lines:
"...Of course you ought to write the biography, and Lev
Nikolayevich could answer many of your questions, only you must not
delay. The life so precious to us all was on the point of passing
away. But now Lev Nikolayevich is progressing favorably and is
again at work."
This letter bears the date July 19, 1901, and was written
directly after Tolstoy's severe illness.
On receipt of this letter I did not trouble Tolstoy himself,
being convinced beforehand that he would not stand in my way; I
accepted Stock's offer and set to work.
When I began to look into my materials and to consider the
nature and the plan of the work I was undertaking, I grew alarmed
on the one hand at its magnitude, while on the other I felt more
and more fascinated by it, and, carried away as I was with the
subject, I became so much engrossed with it that at the present
moment I look upon it as my life's work, and heed no considerations
which are offered from a publisher's point of view.
Some preliminary labor had to be spent in the collection of
materials. These I divide into four categories, according to their
importance and value.
In the first category I place Tolstoy's own autobiographical
notes, as well as his letters and diaries. Such notes can be
turned to much better account in the lifetime of the author, for
the reason that any discrepancies between them and information
derived from other sources can be explained by the author himself.
In the second category I place reminiscences and notices
generally of Tolstoy by those who knew him personally, such as
relations, friends, and acquaintances who had immediate intercourse
with him. It may also include various kinds of official documents,
such as certificates of birth, documents of the educational
authorities, official records of State service, copies from
judicial and administrative documents, and so on.
The third category includes notices of Tolstoy from outside
sources, as well as works of his own in which real facts are
intermingled with fiction by the play of the artistic imagination.
But these, when looked at from a biographer's point of view, must
be treated with great caution.
Lastly, the fourth category consists of sundry short articles,
not to speak of whole books, which, though badly or clumsily
written, or coming from authors who are not wholly trustworthy, yet
have a certain comparative value where there is a gap left by other
works. These I do not consider it necessary to enumerate.
Foreign literature gives us very few facts, especially in
relation to the first period of Tolstoy's life. For this reason I
do not make a separate list of foreign works, but include them in
the general catalogue.
At the end of this Introduction is appended a list of all the
written materials I have used.
After my first few steps in the examination of the collected
materials, I found it necessary to seek personal intercourse with
Tolstoy, as he alone could explain a number of obscure points by
which I was puzzled. For a long while I hesitated, wondering
whether it was right to trouble him, but at last I made up my mind
to write to him and say that I had resolved to approach him with a
few questions. Being aware that he permitted artists to take his
portrait or make busts of him and amateur photographers to take his
likeness, though all this gave him no pleasure, I requested him to
sit for me too, as I wished to make a picture of him in words. To
this he returned his kind consent in the following terms in a
letter of December 2, 1901:
"...I shall be very glad to give you a sitting and will
categorically answer your questions."
My friend V. Chertkov rendered me an important service by
consenting to lay open for my work his rich archive of Tolstoy's
private correspondence and of extracts from his diaries.
One great drawback to my labor was the fact that through a
senseless administrative order [See P.S. to this Introduction], I
was exiled from Russia, and have thus been deprived of an
opportunity of consulting the man whose life I was writing, as well
as prevented from working in Russian public libraries and archives,
a circumstance which greatly hindered my work so far as dependent
on the use of extracts from old periodicals, although, owing to the
kindness of some owners of private Russian libraries and to the
literary wealth of the Russian Department of the British Museum,
this obstacle has been to some extent overcome. I have done my
best in accordance with conscience and reason to meet these
difficulties; I even petitioned the Minister of Interior to be
allowed to visit Russia for two months, but I received a distinct
refusal. I therefore cannot look upon my task as complete.
As to the first volume, which I am now publishing, I may state
that the readers will find there something perfectly new--I mean
Tolstoy's memories of his childhood, and of his relations, as well
as a great many of his private letters.
In order to illustrate for the reader the difficulty which
Tolstoy had in writing his Reminiscences, as well as the way in
which to treat them, I will quote a few extracts from our
correspondence upon the subject.
I had written several times to Tolstoy and also to his intimate
friends begging the latter to write down anything that, during
quiet evening conversations, they might hear from him about his
childhood.
At last I received the following communication from Tolstoy:
"...At first I thought that I should not be able to help you
with my biography, notwithstanding all my desire to do so. I was
afraid of the insincerity incidental to every autobiography, but
now I seem to have found a form in which I can meet your wish by
pointing out the distinguishing features of the consecutive periods
of my life, in childhood, youth, and manhood. As soon as I find it
possible, I will devote some hours to this work, and will endeavor
to carry it out."
In one of his subsequent letters he writes:
"...I am afraid that it was in vain I gave you hopes by my
promise to write my Reminiscences. I have tried to think about it,
and I saw what a dreadful difficulty it is to avoid the Charybdis
of self-praise (by keeping silence about all that is bad) and the
Scylla of cynical frankness about all the abomination of one's
life. Were a man to describe all his odiousness, stupidity,
viciousness, vileness--quite truthfully, even more truthfully than
Rousseau--it would be a seductive book or article. People would
say: `Here is a man whom many place high, but look what a scoundrel
he was; if so, then for us ordinary folk it is all the more
admissible.'
"Seriously, when I began to recall vividly to my mind all my
life and saw all its stupidity (sheer stupidity) and abomination,
I thought, `What then are other men if I, praised by many, am such
a stupid worm?' And yet this could be explained by the fact that I
am more cunning than others. I tell you all this not for the sake
of verbal display, but quite sincerely. I have personally
experienced it."
Seeing his hesitation and being alive to the great importance
of the subject, I still insisted, and I sent him the outlines of
the intended biography by way of canvas for him to embroider.
In my scheme I set forth the plan of dividing human life into
periods of seven years' duration. I heard once from Tolstoy that
he believed that, as physiologists divide human life into periods
of seven years, so psychological life has the same periods of
growth, and that each period of seven years' duration has its own
moral physiognomy.
In arranging thus briefly the facts of Tolstoy's life we arrive
at the following scheme:
(1) 1828-35: From birth to 7 years. Childhood.
(2) 1835-42: From 7 to 14 years. Boyhood.
(3) 1842-49: From 14 to 21 years. Youth, studies university,
country life, and farming.
(4) 1849-56: From 21 to 28 years. The beginning of a literary
career; the Caucasus, Sevastopol, St. Petersburg.
(5) 1856-63: From 28 to 35 years. Retirement from service.
Travels, death of a brother, educational activity, services as a
"Mediator," marriage.
(6) 1863-70: From 35 to 42 years. Married life. War and Peace.
Farming.
(7) 1870-77: From 42 to 49 years. The famine in Samara. Anna
Karenina. The summit of literary fame, family happiness, and
wealth.
(8) 1877-84: From 49 to 56 years. Crisis, How I Came to Believe (My
Confession). New Testament. What I Believe.
(9) 1884-91: From 56 to 63 years. Moscow. What shall we do?
Literature for the people. Posrednik. Spread of ideas in the
classes and the masses. The Critics.
(10) 1891-98: From 63 to 70 years. Famine. The Kingdom of God is
Within You. the Doukhobors. The persecutions of the supporters of
these views.
(11) 1898-1905: From 70 to 77 years. Resurrection.
Excommunication. The latest period. Appeal to the military, the
people, the clergy, and social reformers. The war.
On even a cursory glance at this scheme the reader must notice
the spiritual tendency of each period. And this scheme or plan has
not remained without results. Before long I received a letter from
Tolstoy in which, among other things, he writes:
"...With regard to my biography, I may tell you that I very
much desire to help you and to write at least what is most
essential. I decided that I might write it, because I can
understand that it may be interesting and possibly useful to men
were I to show all the abomination of the life I led before my
awakening, and--speaking without false modesty--what was good in it
(were it only in intentions, which, owing to my weakness, were not
always realized) after the awakening. It is in this spirit that I
should like to write it for you. Your programme of seven-year
periods is useful to me and does indeed suggest thoughts. I will
endeavor to occupy myself with this as soon as I complete the work
I am now engaged in."
Finally, in a few more months, I received a rough draft of the
first part of his reminiscences written by Tolstoy. I hastened to
make use of them, putting his own vivid descriptions in the place
of colorless passages of the biography I had begun. At the first
opportunity which I had I forwarded to Tolstoy the early chapters
of my work, asking him to give his opinion of it. In his answer he
says:
"...My general impression is that you make very good use of my
notes, but I avoid entering into details, as this might draw me
into the work of correcting, which I wish to avoid. So I leave it
all to you, merely requesting that in your biography, when citing
extracts from my notes, you should add that they are taken from
uncorrected draft notes sent to you and put at your disposal by
me."
I relate all this here in order to free Tolstoy from all
literary responsibility, and, in accordance with his wish, I quote
the italicized sentence both in the Introduction and with all the
extracts from his notes.
With this encouragement I continued my labors.
The first volume, now published, contains the story of his
origin and the earlier periods of his life--childhood, youth, and
manhood, and ends with his marriage.
This limit is, I think, very appropriate, the more so as
Tolstoy himself looks upon his marriage as the beginning of a new
life. It happens also to have one practical convenience--its
contents make up an ordinary-sized volume.
In the second volume will be described the period of Tolstoy's
greatest literary success, family happiness, and material welfare,
followed by an important crisis which led to his birth into a new
spiritual life. The period is that of the years 1863-84,
corresponding to his age, 35-56.
In the third and last volume will be presented the life which
he lives now, and which I hope will continue to our joy for many
years.
It is well remarked by one of Tolstoy's biographers that his
life may be compared to a pyramid with its top downward and the
base upward, growing higher and wider. The biographical material
is distributed in a corresponding proportion: there is very little
of it during his childhood, but, as we approach the present time,
its growth becomes enormous.
Tolstoy's name is so well known that I am relieved of the
difficult and responsible task of giving his general
characteristics in order to introduce him to the public. It is my
sole aim and endeavor to adhere to the simple facts.
October 15, 1905
Onex, near Geneva, Villa Russe, Switzerland
P.S. I had already reached the end of my first volume, when, in
consequence of a temporary relaxation of repressive measures in
Russia, I received permission to revisit my country. I went to
Russia, accordingly, and have there been able adequately to enlarge
the biographical material of the first volume, thanks to my
personal intercourse with Tolstoy himself, and also by reading his
diaries and correspondence, for which privilege I am deeply
grateful to Countess S. Tolstoy. She gave me access to the
valuable collections of biographical materials collected by her and
placed in the Historical Museum of Moscow, in the room called after
Tolstoy's name.
Had my work been begun under more favorable circumstances, it
would probably appear in a different and less imperfect shape. But
it is impossible to go back and begin again from the beginning; I
therefore leave it in its original form, introducing only such
changes as are rendered necessary by the additional material newly
collected in Russia. I also leave unchanged the Introduction to
the work, as it truly represents the conditions under which I have
done it.
Two more words. I hope the reader will understand under what
peculiar conditions I had to labor and still am laboring. I am
writing the biography not only of a living man, but also of one who
leads a strenuous and energetic life, and hence, as a biographer,
I am unable to say the last word or give my judgment on the stream
of life which is still flowing so forcibly.
I must therefore be content simply to call my work, as I most
sincerely do, a Collection of those materials for the biography of
Leo Tolstoy which are accessible to me. I desired not to delay the
publication of this volume, which is more or less complete in
itself, as I thought that its publication might indicate to
everyone a center to which information and reminiscences, as well
as any documents concerning Tolstoy, could be forwarded, and for
all help and advice I shall be very grateful.
P. Biryukov
August 23, 1905
BIBLIOGRAPHY
List of materials used for the writing of Volume
I.
First Division
(1) A Short Biography, written by Tolstoy at the request of N.
Strakhov for the Stasulevich publication, Russian Library, Issue
IX. Count L. Tolstoy, St. Petersburg, 1879.
(2) How I Came to Believe, L. Tolstoy. Complete Edition of
Tolstoy's Works, vol. i. Published by The Free Age Press,
Christchurch, Hants.
(3) First Reminiscences. A Fragment. Complete Edition of Leo
Tolstoy's Works, vol. xiii, tenth edition. Moscow, 1897.
(4) A rough draft of uncorrected notes intrusted to me by Tolstoy.
(5) Private letters of Tolstoy to his friends and relations.
(6) The Diary of Leo Tolstoy.
(7) The Memoirs of Countess S.A. Tolstoy.
(8) Autobiographical Tales, printed in vol. iv. Complete Edition of
Tolstoy's Works (Articles on Education).
(9) My Reminiscences, 1848-1889, by A. Fet. Moscow, 1890. (Many
letters by Tolstoy).
(10) "A Few Words in Connection with the Book, War and Peace." An
article by Tolstoy. The Russian Archive, 1868, vol. iii.
Second Division
(11) S.A. Bers, Reminiscences of Count L.N. Tolstoy. Smolensk,
1894.
(12) Paul Boyer, Chez Tolstoy: Trois jours a Yasnaya Polyana. Le
Temps, August 27-29, 1901.
(13) A. E. Golovachev Panayev, Russian Writers and Artists:
Reminiscences, 1824-1870. St. Petersburg, 1890. Published by
Gubinsky.
(14) D.V. Grigorovich, Literary Reminiscences. Complete Works, vol.
xii, p. 326.
(15) G.P. Danilevsky, A Journey to Yasnaya Polyana. Historical
Messenger, March, 1886.
(16) From the Papers of A.V. Druzhinin: Twenty-Five Years. Magazine
published by the Friendly Society of Needy Writers and Scholars.
St. Petersburg, 1884.
(17) N.P. Zagoskin, Count Leo Tolstoy and his Life as a Student.
Historical Messenger, January, 1894.
(18) Zakharyin (Yakunin), Dr., Countess A.A. Tolstaya: Personal
Impressions and Reminiscences. Messenger of Europe, June, 1904.
(19) R. Loewenfeld, Count Leo Tolstoy; His Life and Works.
Translated from the German by A.V. Pereligin (with notes by the
Countess S.A. Tolstaya). Moscow, 1897.
(20) R. Lowenfeld, Gespraeche mit und ueber Tolstoy. Leipzig.
(21) Eugene Markov, The Living Soul in School. Thoughts and
Reminiscences of an old Educationist. Messenger of Europe,
February, 1900.
(22) M.O. Menshikov, The First Work of Tolstoy. Booklets of
"Nedelya." October, 1892.
(23) N.K. Mikhailovsky, Literary Reminiscences and the Contemporary
Muddle, vol. i. Published by the Russian Wealth. St. Petersburg,
1900.
(24) "Opinion of One Hundred and Five Noblemen of the Tula Province
upon the Question of Allotting Land to Peasants." The Contemporary,
1858, vol. lxxii.
(25) N.A. Nekrasov, Four Letters to Count Leo Tolstoy. "Niva." N.
2, 1898.
(26) L.P. Nikiforov, Biographical Sketch. The Courier, September
1902.
(27) Prince D.D. Obolensky, Reminiscences and Characteristics. The
Russian Archive, 1894.
(28) I.I. Panayev, Literary Reminiscences, including Letters. St.
Petersburg, 1888. Published by Martinov.
(29) S. Plaksin, Count Leo Tolstoy among Children, 1903.
(30) V.A. Poltoratsky, Reminiscences. Historical Messenger, June,
1893.
(31) A. Rumyantsev, Letter to D.D. Titov. The Polar Star, iv.
Published by Herzen, London, 1857.
(32) The Sevastopol Song. Related by one of the authors of the
song. Russian Olden Times, February, 1884.
(33) P.A. Sergeyenko, How Leo Tolstoy Lives and Works. Moscow,
1898.
(34) Eugene Schuyler, Reminiscences of Count Leo Tolstoy. Russian
Olden Times, October, 1890. Translated from the English (Scribner's
Magazine, 1889).
(35) I.S. Turgenev, First Collection of Letters, 1840-1883.
Published by the Literary Fund, St. Petersburg, 1885.
(36) D. Oospensky. Archive Materials for Tolstoy's Biography.
Russian Thought, September, 1903.
(37) Private letters of Tolstoy's friends and relations about him.
(38) N.K. Schilder, Episode of the Battle of Austerlitz. Russian
Olden Times, vol. lxviii, 1890.
Third Division
(39) Eugene Gogoslavsky, Turgenev on Lyof Tolstoy, Seventy-five
Opinions. Tiflis, 1894.
(40) Wilh. Bode, Tolstoy in Weimar. Der Saemann, Monatschrift,
Leipzig. September, 1905.
(41) M.I. Venukov, Sevastopol Song. Russian Olden Times, February,
1875.
(42) Princess E.G. Volkonskaya, The Family of the Princes'
Volkonsky. Materials collected and edited by Princess E.G.
Volkonskaya. St. Petersburg, 1900.
(43) Prince. S.G. Volkonsky (decembrist). Memoirs. Published by
M.S. Volkonsky.
(44) Eugene Garshin, Reminiscences of I.S. Turgenev. Historical
Messenger, November, 1883.
(45) P.D. Draganov, Count L.N. Tolstoy; as a writer of world-wide
fame, and the circulation of his works in Russia and abroad.
(46) A.F. Kony, A Biographical Sketch: "I.F. Gorbunov" (preface to
the edition of his works).
(47) V.N. Lyaskovsky, A.S. Khomyakov, His Biography and Teaching.
The Russian Archive, No. 11, 1896.
(48) V.N. Nazaryev, Life and Men of the Past Time. Historical
Messenger, November, 1900.
(49) Eugene Solovyov, L.N. Tolstoy; His Life and Literary Activity.
Published by Pavlenkov.
(50) M.A. Yanzhul, To Tolstoy's Biography. Russian Olden Times,
February, 1900.
Books of Reference, Articles in Newspapers,
Notes.
(51) Brockhaus and Effron. Encyclopaedic Dictionary.
(52) Yuriy Bitoft. Count Tolstoy in Literature and Art.
Bibliographical Indicator. Published by Sytin. Moscow, 1903.
(53) Russian Literature, Eleventh to Nineteenth Century Inclusive,
by A.V. Mezyer.
(54) V. Zelinsky, Criticism in Russian Literature of Tolstoy's
Works. Moscow, 1896.
INTRODUCTION TO HIS REMINISCENCES
by Leo Tolstoy
My friend, Paul Biryukov, having undertaken to write my
biography (for the complete edition of my works), has asked me to
furnish him with some particulars of my life.
I very much wished to fulfill his desire, and in my imagination
I began to compose my autobiography. At first, I involuntarily
began in the most natural way with only that which was good in my
life, merely adding to this good side, like shade on a picture, its
dark, repulsive features. But upon examining the events of my life
more seriously I saw that such an autobiography, though it might
not be a direct lie, would yet be a lie, owing to the biased
exposure and lighting up of the good and the hushing up or
smoothing down of the evil. Yet when I thought of writing the
whole truth without concealing anything that was bad in my life, I
was shocked at the impression which such an autobiography was bound
to produce. At that time I fell ill, and during the unavoidable
idleness of an invalid, my thoughts kept continually turning to my
reminiscences, and dreadful these reminiscences were.
I experienced with the utmost force what Pushkin says in his
verses, "Memory":
"When, for mankind, the weary day grows still,
And on the City's silent heart there fall
The half transparent shadows of the night
With sleep, the sweet reward of daily work--
Then is the time when in the hush I wear
Through dragging hours of heavy watchfulness:
When, idle in the dark, most keen I feel
The stinging serpent of my heart's remorse:
Reflection seethes--and on my o'erwhelmed mind
Rushes a multitude of woeful thoughts,
While memory, her unending roll unfolds
In silence, and with sick recoil I read
The story of my life, and curse myself,
And bitterly bewail with bitter tears--
But not one woeful line can I wash out!"
In the last line I would only make this alteration: instead of
"woeful line" I would say "shameful line can I wash out."
Under this impression I wrote the following in my diary:
6th January, 1903:--I am now suffering the torments of hell: I
am calling to mind all the infamies of my former life--these
reminiscences do not pass away and they poison my existence.
Generally people regret that the individuality does not retain
memory after death. What a happiness that it does not! What an
anguish it would be if I remembered in this life all the evil, all
that is painful to the conscience, committed by me in a previous
life. And, if one remembers the good, one has to remember the evil
too. What a happiness that reminiscences disappear with death and
that there only remains consciousness, a consciousness which, as it
were, represents the general outcome of the good and the evil, like
a complex equation reduced to its simplest expression: x = a
positive or a negative, a great or a small quantity.
Yes, the extinction of memory is a great happiness; with memory
one could not live a joyful life. As it is, with the extinction of
memory we enter into life with a clean white page upon which we can
write afresh good and evil.
It is true that not all my life was so fearfully bad. That
character prevailed only for a period of twenty years. It is also
true that even during that period my life was not the uninterrupted
evil that it appeared to me during my illness; for even during that
period there used to awake in me impulses toward good, although
they did not last long and were soon stifled by unrestrained
passions.
Still these reflections, especially during my illness, clearly
showed me that my autobiography--as autobiographies are generally
written--if it passed over in silence all the abomination and
criminality of my life, would be a lie, and that, when a man writes
his life, he should write the whole and exact truth. Only such an
autobiography, however humiliating it may be for me to write it,
can have a true and fruitful interest for the readers.
Thus recalling my life to mind, i.e., examining it from the
point of view of the good and evil which I had done, I saw that all
my long life breaks up into four periods: that splendid--especially
in comparison with what comes after--that innocent, joyful, poetic
period of childhood up to fourteen; then the second, those dreadful
twenty years, the period of coarse dissoluteness, of service of
ambition and vanity, and, above all, of sensuousness; then the
third period of eighteen years, from my marriage until my spiritual
birth, a period which, from the worldly point of view, one might
call moral; I mean that during these eighteen years I lived a
regular, honest family life, without addicting myself to any vices
condemned by public opinion, but a period all the interests of
which were limited to egotistical family cares, to concern for the
increase of wealth, the attainment of literary success, and the
enjoyment of every kind of pleasure; and lastly, there is the
fourth period of twenty years in which I am now living and in which
I hope to die, and from the standpoint of which I see all the
significance of my past life, and which I do not desire to alter in
anything except in those habits of evil which were acquired by me
in the previous periods.
Such a history of my life during all these four periods, I
should like to write quite, quite truthfully, if God will give me
the power and the time. I think that such an autobiography, even
though very defective, would be more profitable to men than all
that artistic prattle with which the twelve volumes of my works are
filled, and to which men of our time attribute an undeserved
significance.
And I should now like to do this. I will begin by describing
the first joyful period of my childhood, which attracts me with
special force; then, however ashamed I may be to do so, I will also
describe, without hiding anything, those dreadful twenty years of
the following period; then the third period, which may be of the
least interest of all; and, finally, the last period of my
awakening to the truth which has given me the highest well-being in
life and joyous peace in view of approaching death.
In order not to repeat myself in the description of my
childhood, I have read over again my work under that title, and
felt sorry that I had written it--so badly, in such an insincere
literary style is it written. It could not have been otherwise,
first, because my aim was to describe, not my own history, but that
of the companions of my childhood; and, secondly, because when
writing it I was far from independent in the form of expression,
being under the influence of two writers who at that time strongly
impressed me: Sterne (Sentimental Journey) and Topfer (Bibliotheque
de mon oncle).
I am at this day especially displeased with the last two parts,
Boyhood and Youth, in which, besides the clumsy confusion of truth
with fiction, there is also insincerity, the desire to put forward
as good and important that which, at the time of writing, I did not
regard as good and important--my democratic tendency.
I hope that what I shall now write will be better and, above
all, more profitable to others.1
1. From uncorrected draft notes communicated to me and put at my
disposal by Tolstoy.
PART I
The Family Origin of Leo Tolstoy
Chapter I
The Ancestors of Leo Tolstoy
on His Father's Side
The history of the Counts Tolstoy presents a picture of an
ancient and noble family descending, according to the accounts of
genealogists, from the good and true man Indris, who came from
Germany to Chernigov in 1353 with his two sons and a retinue of
3,000 men; he was baptized and received the name of Leonty; he
became the founder of several noble families. His great-grandchild,
Andrey Kharitonovich, who moved from Chernigov to Moscow and
received from the Grand Duke Vasiliy Tyomniy the surname of
Tolstoy, was the founder of the branch known to us as the Tolstoys
(in which branch Count Lev Tolstoy was born in the twentieth
generation from the founder Indris).
One of his descendants, Peter Andreyevich Tolstoy, became a
dignitary at the Russian court in 1683, and was afterward one of
the chief actors in the rebellion of the Streltsi. The fall of the
Tsarevna Sofya caused this Tolstoy abruptly to change his attitude
and pass over to the Tsar Peter; but the latter behaved to him for
a long time with coldness, and a considerable period passed before
Peter Andreyevich enjoyed the full confidence of the Tsar. It is
said that at their merry banquets Tsar Peter delighted to pull the
big wig off Peter Tolstoy's head, and tapping him on the bald crown
to repeat: "Little head, little head, if you were not so clever,
you would have parted from your body long ago."
The Tsar's suspicions were not allayed even by the military
achievements of Peter Tolstoy during the second Azov campaign
(1696).
In 1697 the Tsar sent "volunteers" to study in foreign
countries, and Peter Tolstoy, already a middle-aged man, offered
himself to go abroad to study naval matters. Two years which he
spent in Italy gave him an opportunity of seeing something of the
culture of Western Europe. At the end of 1701 Peter Tolstoy was
appointed ambassador in Constantinople, an important but very
difficult post. During the complications of 1710-1713 Peter
Tolstoy was twice confined in the Castle of the Seven Towers, a
fact which accounts for this castle being represented in the
Tolstoy coat-of-arms.
In 1717 Tolstoy rendered an important service to the Tsar, and
so strengthened his position for all subsequent time. Having been
sent to Naples, where the Tsarevich Alexis was hiding with his
mistress Euphrosyne in the Castle of St. Elmo, Peter Tolstoy, with
the help of the lady, adroitly outwitted the Tsarevich, and by
means of threats and false promises induced him to return to
Russia. For his active participation in the subsequent trial and
secret execution of the Tsarevich carried out by Peter Tolstoy,
with the aid of Rumyantsev1, Oshakov, and Buturlin, his
accomplices, at the direction of Peter I, Peter Tolstoy received a
present of land, and was appointed Chief of the Secret Chamber,
where there was soon a great deal to be done in consequence of the
rumors and agitations provoked among the people by the fate of
Alexis. From that time Peter Tolstoy is conspicuous as one of the
most intimate and trusted persons about the Emperor. The affair of
the Tsarevich brought Peter into favor with the Empress Catherine,
and on the day of her coronation, May 7, 1724, he was made a Count.
After the death of Peter I, Tolstoy, together with Menshikov,
greatly aided Catherine's accession to the throne, and consequently
enjoyed much favor during her reign. But on Peter II's accession
his fall ensued. In spite of his advanced age--he was eighty-two
years old--he was exiled to the Solovetsky Convent, where, however,
he did not live long. He died in 1729.
We still possess the diary of Peter Tolstoy's journey abroad in
1697-1699, a characteristic exhibition of the impression made on
men of his period by their acquaintance with Western Europe.
Besides this, in 1706, Peter Tolstoy wrote a detailed description
of the Black Sea. There also exist two translations he made:
Ovid's Metamorphoses, and Administration of the Turkish Empire.
Peter Tolstoy had a son, Ivan Petrovich, who was himself
deprived of his office, that of President of the Court, at the same
time as his father, and was exiled to the same convent, where he
died soon after him.
It was not till May 26, 1760, when the Empress Elizabeth
Petrovna was already on the throne, that the descendants of Peter
Andreyevich were restored to the rank of counts in the person of
Peter's grandson, Andrey Ivanovich, the grandfather of Lev Tolstoy.
"I heard from my aunt the following story about Andrey
Ivanovich, who whilst very young married the Princess Schetinin.
For some reason or other his wife had to go to a ball without her
husband. Having started on her way, probably in a covered sledge,
from which the seat had been removed in order that her high
headgear should not be injured, the young countess, perhaps
seventeen years old, remembered that she had not said goodby to her
husband, and returned home.
"When she arrived, she found him in tears; he was so much
distressed at his wife's leaving the house without bidding him
goodby."2
In his Reminiscences Tolstoy speaks of his grandfather and
grandmother on his father's side as follows:
"My grandmother, Pelageya Nikolayevna, was the daughter of the
blind Prince Nikolay Ivanovich Gorchakov, who had amassed a large
fortune. As far as I can form an idea of her character, she was
not very intelligent, poorly educated--like all at that time, she
knew French better than Russian (and to this her education was
limited)--and exceedingly spoilt, first by her father, then by her
husband, and lastly, in my time, by her son. Besides this, as a
daughter of the elder branch, she enjoyed great regard from the
Gorchakovs: from the former Minister of War, Nikolay Ivanovich,
from Andrey Ivanovich and the sons of Dmitriy Petrovich, the
freethinker, Peter, Sergey, and Mikhail of Sevastopol.
"My grandfather, Ilya Andreyevich, her husband was, according
to my view of him, a man of limited intelligence, gentle in manner,
merry, and not only generous, but carelessly extravagant, and above
all, trustful. In his estate, Polyani, in the Belyefski
district--not Yasnaya Polyana, but Polyani--incessant fetes,
theatrical performances, balls, banquets, and excursions were kept
up, which largely owing to my grandfather's tendency to play for
high stakes at lomber and whist without knowing the game, and his
readiness either to give or lend to any one who asked, both in loan
and donation, and above all with the speculations and monopolies he
used to start, resulted in his wife's large estate being so
involved in debts, that at last there was no means of livelihood,
and my grandfather had to procure the post of governor in Kazan,
which he did easily owing to his connections.
"My grandfather, as I have been told, would not accept bribes,
except from wine merchants, though it was then a universal custom,
and he was angry when any were offered to him. But my grandmother,
as I am informed, accepted presents unknown to her husband.
"In Kazan, my grandmother gave her youngest daughter Pelageya
in marriage to Yushkov; the eldest, Alexandra, while yet in St.
Petersburg, had married Count Osten-Saken.
"After the death of her husband in Kazan, and the marriage of
my father, my grandmother settled down with my father in Yasnaya
Polyana, and here I knew her as an old woman, and well remember
her.
"My grandmother passionately loved my father and us, her
grandchildren, and amused herself with us. She was fond of my
aunts, but I think she did not quite love my mother; she considered
her unworthy of my father, and was jealous of her in regard to him.
With the servants she could not be exacting, because all knew she
was the first person in the house, and tried to please her, but
with her maid, Gasha, she gave herself up to her caprices and
tormented her, calling her `You, my dear,' and demanding of her
what she had not asked for, and in every way worrying her. Strange
to say, Gasha or Agafiya Mikhaylovna3, whom I knew well, became
infected with my grandmother's capricious ways, and with her little
daughter, with her cat, and in general with all those beings with
whom she could be exacting, was as capricious as my grandmother was
with herself.
"My earliest reminiscences of my grandmother, before our
removal to Moscow and our life there, amount to three strong
impressions concerning her. One was how my grandmother washed, and
with some kind of special soap produced on her hands wonderful
bubbles, which, so it seemed to me, she alone could produce. We
used to be purposely brought to her--probably our delight and
wonder at her soap-bubbles amused her--in order to see how she
washed. I remember the white jacket, petticoat, white aged hands,
and the enormous bubbles rising on them, and her satisfied,
smiling, white face.
"The second recollection is how she was drawn out, my father's
valets acting as horses, in the yellow cabriolet on springs--in
which we used to go for drives with out tutor, Feodor
Ivanovich--into the small coppice for gathering nuts, of which
there was a specially great quantity that year. I remember the
dense thicket of hazel trees into which, thrusting aside and
breaking the branches, Petrusha and Matyusha, the house valets,
dragged the cabriolet with my grandmother, how they pulled down to
her branches with clusters of ripe nuts, sometimes dropping off,
how my grandmother herself gathered them into a bag, and how we
either ourselves bent down branches, or else were astonished by the
strength of Feodor Ivanovich, who bent down thick stems, while we
gathered nuts on all sides, and always noticed that there yet
remained nuts ungathered by us when Feodor Ivanovich let go the
stems, and the bushes slowly catching in one another straightened
up again. I remember how hot it was in the open spaces, how
pleasantly fresh in the shade, how one breathed the sharp odor of
the hazel-tree foliage, how the nuts cracked on all sides under the
teeth of the girls who were with us, and how we, without ceasing,
chewed the fresh, full, white kernels.
"We gathered the nuts into our pockets, into the skirts of our
jackets, into the cabriolet, and our grandmother took them from us
and praised us. How we came home, and what happened after, I do
not remember. I remember only that grandmother and the hazel
trees, the peculiar odor of the foliage of the hazel bushes, the
valets, the yellow cabriolet, and the sun were blended into one
joyful impression. It seemed to me that, as the soap-bubbles
could be produced only by my grandmother, so also the wood, the
nuts, the sun, could only be in connection with my grandmother in
her yellow cabriolet drawn by Petrusha and Matyusha.
"But the strongest impression connected with my grandmother was
a night passed in her bedroom with Lev Stepanovich. Lev
Stepanovich was a blind story-teller (he was already an old man
when I came to know him)--the survival of ancient luxury, the
luxury of my grandfather. He was bought merely for the purpose of
narrating stories, which, owing to the extraordinary memory
peculiar to blind people, he could retell word for word after they
had been twice read to him.
"He lived somewhere in the house, and during the whole day he
was not seen. But in the evenings he came up into my grandmother's
bedroom (this bedroom was a low little room into which one had to
enter up two steps), and he seated himself on a low window ledge,
where they used to bring him supper from the master's table. Here
he waited for my grandmother, who might with impunity perform her
night toilet in the presence of a blind man. On the day when it
was my turn to sleep in my grandmother's bedroom, Lev Stepanovich,
with his white eyes, clad in a long blue coat with puffs on the
shoulders, was already sitting on the window ledge having his
supper. I don't remember where my grandmother undressed, whether
in this room or another, or how I was put to bed, I remember only
the moment when the candle was put out and there remained only a
little light in front of the gilded icons, and my grandmother, that
same wonderful grandmother who produced the extraordinary
soap-bubbles, all white, clothed in white, lying on white, and
covered with white, in her white nightcap, lay high on the
cushions, and from the window was heard the even quiet voice of Lev
Stepanovich. `Will it please you for me to continue?' `Yes,
continue,' `"Dearest sister," she said,' recommenced Lev
Stepanovich, with his quiet, even, aged voice, `"tell us one of
those most interesting stories which you know so well how to
narrate." "Willingly," answered Shaheresada, "would I relate the
remarkable history of Prince Kamaralzaman, if our lord will express
his consent." Having received the consent of the Sultan,
Shaheresada began thus: A certain powerful king had an only
son"'...and, evidently word for word, according to the book, Lev
Stepanovich began the history of Kamaralzaman. I did not listen,
I did not understand what he said, so absorbed was I by the
mysterious appearance of the white grandmother, by her swaying
shadow on the wall, and the appearance of the old man with white
eyes whom I could not now see, but whom I realized as sitting
immovably on the window ledge, and who was saying with a slow voice
some strange words, which seemed to me very solemn as they alone
resounded through the darkness of the little room lighted by the
trembling of the image-lamp. I probably immediately fell asleep,
for I remember nothing further, and in the morning I was again
astonished and enraptured by the soap-bubbles which my grandmother
when washing produced on her hands.
"According to Marie's recollections, the blind Lev
Stepanovich's sense of hearing was so perfect that he could
distinctly hear mice running about and could tell in which
direction they were going. In grandmother's room one of the
special attractions for the mice was the oil used for the
image-lamp, which they drank up. At night while telling stories he
would say, without changing his tone of voice: `There, your
excellency, a little mouse has just run to the image-lamp to get at
the oil.' After that he would go on again with his story-telling
in the same monotone."
The following genealogoical table gives the reader a view of
the nearest ancestors and relations of Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy:
The Counts Tolstoy
Number of
Generations
from Indris
15 Peter Andreyevich Tolstoy, the first Count
(died 1729)
16 Ivan Petrovich (died 1728)
17 Andrey Ivaonvich (died 1803)
18 Ilya Andreyevich, Governor of Kazan (died 1820)
19 Aleksandra, married to Count Osten-Saken. Nikolay
(died 1837)
19 Pelageya, married V.P. Yushkov. Ilya (died childless)
20 Nikolay (born 1823). Sergey (born 1826). Dmitriy
(born 1827). Lev (born 1828). Marie (born 1830).4
The Counts Tolstoy are known in many branches of social
activity. It would probably interest the reader to know the degree
of relationship which some of these bear to Tolstoy. For example,
let us take Feodor Petrovich Tolstoy, the well-known artist,
medallist, and vice-president of the Imperial Academy of Arts, his
nephew the poet, Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy, and the
ex-minister Dmitriy Andreyevich Tolstoy, well known for his
reactionary measures. These three members of the Tolstoy family
were distantly related to our Tolstoy, their common ancestor being
Ivan Petrovich Tolstoy, son of the first Count Tolstoy, Peter
Andreyevich, who died with his father in exile at the Solovetsky
Convent.5
I ought her to mention Theodore Tolstoy, and original man,
called the American. He was known for his very unusual adventures,
and the following words in Griboyedov's comedy, called "Come to
Grief through being too Clever," refer to him: "Exiled to
Kamchatka, he returned an Aleoute." Tolstoy speaks of him in his
reminiscences of his childhood, and it was his individuality which
partly suggested the character of Dolokhov in War and Peace. He
was Tolstoy's first cousin once removed.
Notes to Chapter I:
1. Rumyantsev. Letter to D.T. Titov. The Polar Star, IV. Herzen's
publication. London, 1857.
2. Note added by Tolstoy when revising the MS of this work.
3. Agafiya Mikhaylovna died an old woman a few years ago in
Yasnaya Polyana, where she had been living in retirement for many
years.
4. "Count L.N. Tolstoy and His University Life." N.P. Zagoskin
Istoricheskiy Vestnik, Jan., 1894, p. 81.
5. Information given by Lev Tolstoy. See also Brockhaus and
Effron's Encyclopedia, vol. xxxiii, p. 462.
Chapter II
The Ancestors of Leo Tolstoy
on His Mother's Side
The Princes Volkonsky trace their descent from Rurik. Since
the days of Prince Volkonsky (Tolstoy's grandfather) the
genealogical tree of the princes Volkonsky, painted in oil colors,
has been preserved1 at Yasnaya Polyana. In this the founder of the
line, St. Michael, Prince of Chernigov, is represented as holding
in his hand a tree whose branches exhibit an enumeration of his
descendants.
At the beginning of the fourteenth century Prince Ivan
Turyevich, in the thirteenth generation from Rurik, had received
the Volkonsky property, situated on the Volkona; this river flows
through the present province of Kaluga and to some extent through
Tula. Hence the family was known as that of the Princes
Volkonsky.2
His son, Feodor Ivanovich, was killed in the battle of Mamai in
1380.
Among other ancestors of Tolstoy we may mention his
great-grandfather, Prince Sergey Feodorovich Volkonsky, who is the
hero of the following legend:
"The prince took part in the Seven Years' War as Major-General.
During the campaign his wife dreamed that a voice commanded her to
have a small icon painted, showing on one side the source of life
and on the other Nikolay the Thaumaturgist, and to send it to her
husband. She selected a wooden plate, on which she ordered that
the icon should be painted, and this she sent to Prince Sergey by
the hands of Field-Marshal Apraksin. The same day Sergey received
by the courier an order to go out in search of the enemy; and
having appealed for God's help, he put on the sacred image. In a
cavalry attack a bullet struck him on the breast, but it knocked
against the icon and did not hurt him, and in this way the icon
saved his life. It was treasured in later years by his younger
son, Nikolay Sergeyevich. Prince Sergey Feodorovich died March 10,
1784."3
Tolstoy was no doubt acquainted with this legend, and made use
of it in War and Peace to illustrate the character of the devout
princess Marie Volkonskaya, as it is made to appear in an incident
represented as occurring before Prince Andrey's departure for the
war. The reader will remember that the princess persuaded her
brother to wear the image, handing it to Prince Andrey with the
words: "You may think what you like, but do this for my sake.
Please do it! The father of my father, our grandfather, wore it
during all his wars...."4
We see here artistic truth interwoven with historical, and if
the latter gives the former an air of truthfulness, so it receives
from it in return that touch of human nature which makes all the
characters of War and Peace so lifelike and so irresistibly
soul-stirring.
The younger son of Sergey Feodorovich, Nikolay Sergeyevich, was
Tolstoy's grandfather on his mother's side. What we learn about
him from the genealogy is as follows:
"Nikolay Sergeyevich, an infantry general, youngest son of
Sergey Feodorovich and Princess Marie Dmitriyevna, nee Chaadayeva,
was born March 30, 1753. In 1780 he was in the suite of the
Empress Catharine II when she was in Mogilev, and was present at
her first interview with the Emperor Joseph II. In 1786 he
accompanied the Empress to Taurida. On the occasion of the wedding
of the hereditary prince, afterward King Frederick William III, he
was appointed special envoy to Berlin. He died on February 3,
1821, on his estate, where he lived throughout those last years of
his life which have been immortalized by his grandson in his novel
War and Peace. His remains rest in the Troitsko-Sergey
monastery."7
In his Reminiscences Tolstoy speaks of his maternal grandfather
as follows:
"As for my grandfather, I know that having attained the high
position of Commander-in-chief during the reign of Catherine, he
suddenly lost it by refusing to marry Potemkin's niece and
mistress, Varenka Engelhardt. To Potemkin's suggestion he
answered: `What makes him think that I'll marry his strumpet?'
"In consequence of this exclamation, not only was his career
checked, but he was nominated Governor of Archangel, where he
remained, I believe, until Paul's accession, when he retired; and
having after that married Princess Catherine Trubetskaya, he
settled down in his estate, Yasnaya Polyana, which he had inherited
from his father, Sergey Feodorovich.
"The Princess Catherine died early, leaving my grandfather an
only daughter, and with this dearly beloved child and her friend,
a Frenchwoman, he lived until his death about 1821. He was
regarded as a very exacting master, but I never heard instances of
his cruelty or of his inflicting the severe punishments which were
usual at that time. I believe that such cases did occur on his
estate, but that the enthusiastic respect for his character and
intelligence was so great among the servants and the peasants of
his time, whom I have often questioned about him, that although I
have heard condemnation of my father, I heard only praises of my
grandfather's intelligence, business capacities, and interest in
the welfare of the peasants and of his enormous household. He
erected splendid accommodation for his servants, and took care that
they should always be not only well fed, but also well dressed and
happy. On fete days he arranged recreations for them, swings,
dancing, etc.
"Like every intelligent landowner of that time, he was
concerned with the welfare of the peasants, and they prospered, the
more so that my grandfather's high position, inspiring respect as
it did in the police and local authorities, exempted them from
oppression from this quarter.
"He probably possessed refined aesthetic feeling. All his
buildings were not only durable and commodious, but also of
considerable beauty; and these last words would apply also to the
park which he laid out in front of the house. He probably was very
fond of music, for he kept a small but excellent orchestra, merely
for himself and my mother. I still remember an enormous elm tree
which grew near the avenue of limes and was surrounded by benches
with stands for the musicians. In the mornings he used to walk in
the avenue and listen to the music. He could not bear sport, and
he loved flowers and hot-house plants.
"A strange fate brought him into contact with that same Varenka
Engelhardt whom he had refused to marry, for which refusal he had
suffered during his service. Varenka married Prince Sergey
Golitsin, who consequently received various promotions,
decorations, and rewards. With this Sergey Golitsin and his
family, consequently also with Varvara Vassiliyevna (Varenka), my
grandfather entered into so close a friendship that my mother was
betrothed in her childhood to one of Golitsin's ten sons, and the
two old princes exchanged portrait galleries (that is, of course,
copied made by serf artists). These Golitsin portraits are all
still in our house, among them Prince Sergey Golitsin wearing the
ribbon of St. Andrew, and the red-haired, fat Varvara Vassiliyevna
dressed as a high lady of the Court. The alliance, however, was
not destined to be concluded: `My mother's betrothed, Lev
Golitsin6, died from fever before the marriage.'"7
In going through the genealogy of the Princes Volkonsky one
comes across another interesting personage, a cousin of Tolstoy's
mother, the Princess Varvara Aleksandrovna Volkonskaya, a woman who
saw much that went on in the house of Tolstoy's grandfather. We
find the following said about her:
"The Princess Varvara Aleksandrovna Volkonskaya, daughter of
Prince Aleksandr Sergeyevich, after her mother's death frequently
made long visits with her father to the house of his brother
Nikolay Sergeyevich. Her she met the persons described by Count
Leo Tolstoy in his novel War and Peace, and many details relating
to them and to the events of their time remained fresh in her
memory in her old age. Toward the close of her life she moved into
a neighboring village, Sogalevo, which also belonged to her
parents. Here she had a house built for herself close to the
church, and in the society of a few old women house servants, who
did not care to part from her, she passed her life there, full of
memories of the past, reading and rereading War and Peace. Long
forgotten by others, the aged princess remained an object of
respect and devotion to the local peasants. To one casual visitor,
who called on her in 1876, she related with delight how peasants of
villages long before sold and handed over to strangers, had
nevertheless on her ninetieth birthday presented her with a sack of
flour and a silver rouble, while the women brought her a rouble,
fowls, and some linen. She told this not only with a feeling of
gratitude, but also with pride, since it was a proof that a kindly
recollection of her parents was still cherished among the
peasants.8
"I knew the dear old lady, my mother's cousin. I made her
acquaintance when living in Moscow in the fifties. Tired of the
dissipated worldly life I was then leading in Moscow, I went to
stay with her on her little estate in the district of Klin, and
passed a few weeks there. She embroidered, managed her household
work in her little farm, treated me to sour cabbage, cream cheese,
and fruit marmalades, such as are only made by housewives on such
small estates; and she told me about old times, about my mother, my
grandfather, and the four coronations at which she had been
present. During my stay with her I wrote the Three Deaths.
"And this visit has remained one of the pure, bright
reminiscences of my life."
Let us finally mention one more personality of the Volkonsky
family, who, though not an ancestor of Tolstoy's in the direct
line, is yet one of his kinsmen, Prince Sergey Grigoriyevich
Volkonsky, the Decembrist. He is a second cousin of Tolstoy's
mother and a grandson of Simon Fedorovich Volkonsky, brother of
Prince Sergey Feodorovich, mentioned above.
The prince was born in 1788, took part in the campaign of 1812,
and afterward joined the southern secret society; and for
participation in the conspiracy of the Decembrists he was exiled to
Eastern Siberia, where he remained for thirty years; the earlier
years he spent doing hard labor in irons, but afterward he lived
there in Siberia as a settler.9 The journey and arrival of his
wife, Princess Marie Nikolayevna, are described in the well-known
poem of Nekrasov.
In 1801 his brother Prince Nikolay Grigoriyevich Volkonsky
took, by order of the Emperor Aleksandr I, the surname Repnin, that
of his grandfather on his mother's side, whose family in the direct
line had died out. "Let not the family of the princes Repnin,"
said the ukase, "which so gloriously served its country, become
extinct with the death of the last of them, but let it be renewed,
and remain with its name and example never to be obliterated in the
remembrance of the Russian nobility."
Prince Nikolay Grigoriyevich took part in all the campaigns
against Napoleon and in the national war. For his share in the
battle of Austerlitz he was rewarded by St. George's Order of the
fourth class. In the battle he commanded a squadron and took part
in the well-known attack of the cavalry guards described in War and
Peace, in which he was wounded in the head and otherwise severely
hurt. The French bore him from the battlefield and carried him to
the hospital tent. On hearing of this, Napoleon ordered that he
should be brought on the following day to his quarters, and out of
respect for his valor he offered to set him free with all the
officers under his command, on the sole condition that they should
not take part in the war for two years. Nikolay Grigoriyevich
thanked Napoleon for the offer, but said that "he had given his
oath to serve his emperor to the last drop of his blood, and
therefore could not accept the proposal."
Shortly afterward, on his return from captivity, he was given
leave of absence out of consideration for his wounds.10
In the Russian periodical entitled Olden Times of 1890, p. 209,
appears a letter from Prince Repnin to Mikhailovskiy-Danilevskiy,
a veteran of the national war. In this letter Prince Repnin
relates in detail the episode described in War and Peace, and
quotes the actual words of his conversation with Napoleon. The
first part of this conversation is exactly reproduced in the novel
War and Peace.
Notes to Chapter II:
1. This picture has been destroyed, according to latest
information.
2. The Family of the Princes Volkonsky, p. 7.
3. The Family of the Princes Volkonsky, p. 697.
4. War and Peace, vol. i., p. 167, tenth edition.
5. The Family of the Princes Volkonsky, p. 707.
6. An aunt of mine told me that this Golitsin's name was Leo, but
this is evidently a mistake, as Sergey Golitsin had no son Leo. I
therefore think that the story about my mother being betrothed to
one of the Golitsins is correct, as well as that he died; but that
the name of Leo is not correct. (Note by Lev Tolstoy.)
7. From Tolstoy's uncorrected draft Reminiscences sent to me and
put at my disposal by himself.
8. The Family of the Princes Volkonsky, p. 720.
9. The Memoirs of S. G. Volkonsky (the Decembrist).
10. The Family of the Princes Volkonsky, pp. 704, 714, 715.
Chapter III
Tolstoy's Parents
In speaking of his parents, Tolstoy's Reminiscences follow a
certain chronological order. First he tells us of the faintly seen
features of his mother, supplementing his description by accounts
furnished by surviving members of her family; after this he gives
his fresher and more exact recollections of his father and of his
aunts. We propose to follow his example, endeavoring to change as
little as possible the order of his narrative. In giving his
account of his father and mother we have omitted only what he says
of his grandfather Volkonsky, which we have already quoted in the
chapter dealing with the ancestors.
"My mother I do not at all remember. I was a year and a half
old when she died. Owing to some strange chance no portrait
whatever of her has been preserved, so that, as a real physical
being, I cannot represent her to myself. I am in a sense glad of
this, for in my conception of her there is only her spiritual
figure, and all that I know about her is beautiful, and I think
this is so, not only because all who spoke to me of my mother tried
to say only what was good, but because there was actually very much
of this good in her.
"However, not only my mother, but also all those who surrounded
my infancy, from my father to the coachman, appear to me as
exceptionally good people. Probably my pure loving feeling, like
a bright ray, disclosed to me in people their best qualities (such
always exist); when all these people seemed to me exceptionally
good, I was much nearer truth than when I saw only their defects.
"My mother was not handsome. She was very well educated for
her time. Besides Russian, which, contrary to the national
illiterateness then current, she wrote correctly, she knew four
other languages, French, German, English, and Italian, and was
probably sensitive to art. She played well on the piano, and her
friends have told me that she was a great hand at narrating most
attractive tales invented at the moment. But the most valuable
quality in her was that she was, according to the words of the
servants, although hot-tempered, yet self-restrained. `She would
get quite red in the face, even cry,' her maid told me, `but would
never say a rude word.' Indeed she did not know such words.
"I have preserved several of her letters to my father and
aunts, and her diary concerning the conduct of Nikolenka (my eldest
brother), who was six years old when she died, and I think
resembled her more than the rest of us. They both possessed a
feature very dear to me, which I infer from my mother's letters,
but personally witnessed in my brother: their indifference to the
opinion of others, and their modesty in their endeavors to conceal
those mental, educational, and moral advantages which they had in
comparison with others. They were, as it were, ashamed of these
advantages.
"I well knew these qualities in my brother, about whom Turgenev
very correctly remarked that he did not possess those faults which
are necessary in order to become a great writer.
"I remember once how a very silly and bad man, an adjutant of
the governor, when out shooting with him, ridiculed him in my
presence, and how my brother smiled good-humoredly, evidently
greatly relishing the position.
"I remark the same feature in my mother's letters. She
evidently stood on a higher spiritual level than my father and his
family, with the exception, perhaps, of Tatyana Yergolskaya, with
whom I passed half my life, and who was a woman remarkable for her
moral qualities.
"Besides this, they both had yet another feature which I
believe contributed to their indifference to the judgment of
men--it was that they never condemned any one. This I know most
certainly about my brother, with whom I lived half my life. The
utmost extreme expression of his negative relation to a man
consisted with my brother in good-natured humor and a similar
smile. I observe the same in my mother's letters, and have heard
of it from those who knew her.
"In the Lives of the Saints, by Dmitriy Rostovskiy, there is a
short narrative which has always exceedingly touched me, of the
life of a certain monk who had, to the knowledge of all his
brethren, many faults, and, notwithstanding this, appeared to an
old monk in a dream among the saints in a place of honor. The
astonished old man asked: `How could this monk, so unrestrained in
many respects, deserve such a reward?' The answer was: `He never
condemned any one.'
"If such rewards did exist, I think that my brother and my
mother would have received them.
"A third feature which distinguishes my mother among her circle
was her truthfulness and the simple tone of her letters. At that
time the expression of exaggerated feelings was especially
cultivated in letters: `Incomparable, divine, the joy of my life,
unutterably precious,' etc., were the most usual epithets between
friends, and the more inflated the less sincere.
"This feature, although not in a strong degree, is noticeable
in my father's letters. He writes: `Ma bien douce amie, je ne
pense qu'au bonheur d'etre aupres de toi.' Whereas she addresses
her letters invariably in the same way, `Mon bon ami,' and in one
of her letters she frankly says, `Le temps me parait long sans toi,
quoiqu'a dire vrai, nous ne jouissons pas beaucoup de ta societe
quand tu es ici,' and she always subscribes herself in the same
way: `Ta devouee Marie.'
"My mother passed her childhood partly in Moscow, partly in the
country with a clever and talented, though proud man, my
grandfather Volkonsky. I have been told that my mother loved me
very much, and called me `Mon petit Benjamin.'
"I think that her love for her deceased betrothed, precisely
because it was terminated by death, was that poetic love which
girls feel only once. Her marriage with my father was arranged by
her relatives and my father's. She was a rich orphan, no longer
young, whereas my father was a merry, brilliant young man with name
and connections, but the family fortune was much impaired by my
grandfather Tolstoy--indeed my father even refused to accept the
heritage. I think that my mother loved my father, but more because
he was her husband and especially as he was the father of her
children; she was never in love with him. Of real loves she had,
as I understand, experienced three or four: there was her love to
her deceased betrothed; then a passionate friendship for a
Frenchwoman, Mlle. Enissienne, about which I heard from my aunts
and which I believe was terminated by a disillusionment. Mlle.
Enissienne married a cousin of my mother's Prince Mikhail
Volkonsky, the grandfather of the present-day writer of that name.
"This is what my mother writes about her friendship with this
lady. She is referring to two girls who were living in her house:
"`I get on very well with both of them. I do some music, I
laugh and joke with the one, and I talk sentiment and condemn the
frivolous world with the other. I am passionately loved by both
and am the confidante of each; I reconcile them when they have
quarreled, for there never was friendship more quarrelsome and
funny to witness than theirs; it is a series of sulks, tears,
reconciliations, and reproaches, and then of transports of
affection; in a word, I see as in a mirror the exalted and romantic
friendship which had animated and troubled my life during several
years. I contemplate them with an indefinable feeling; sometimes
I envy them their illusion which I no longer possess, but of which
I know the sweetness. Let us ask frankly whether the solid and
real happiness of ripe years is worth the charming illusions of
youth, when everything is embellished by the all-powerful
imagination. And sometimes I smile at their childishness.'
"Her third strong feeling, perhaps the most passionate, was her
love for my eldest brother Koko, the diary of whose conduct she
kept in Russian--putting down in it his bad conduct--and then read
to him. From this diary one can see that while she had a
passionate desire to do all that was possible toward giving Koko
the best education, she had a very indefinite idea as to what was
necessary for this purpose. Thus, for instance, she rebukes him
for being too sensitive and being moved to tears at the sight of
animals suffering. A man, according to her ideas, should be firm.
Another fault which she endeavors to correct in him is that he is
absorbed in his thoughts, and instead of `Bon soir,' or `Bon jour,'
says to his grandmother, `Je vous remercie.'
"The fourth strong feeling which did perhaps exist as my aunts
told me--I earnestly hope that it did exist--was her love for me,
which took the place of her love for Koko, who at the time of my
birth had already detached himself from his mother and been
transferred into male hands. It was a necessity for her to love
what was not herself, and one love took the place of another.
"Such was the figure of my mother in my imagination. She
appeared to me a creature so elevated, pure, and spiritual that
often in the middle period of my life, during my struggle with
overwhelming temptations, I prayed to her soul, begging her to aid
me, and this prayer always helped me much.
"My mother's life in her father's family was a very good and
happy one, as I may conclude from letters and stories.
"My father's household consisted of his mother, an old lady; of
her daughter, my aunt Countess Aleksandra Osten-Saken, and her ward
Pashenka; of another aunt, as we used to call her, although she was
a very distant relative, Tatyana Yergolskaya, who had been educated
in my grandfather's house and had passed all her later life in my
father's; and the tutor, Feodor Ivanovich Resselier, fairly
correctly described by me in Childhood. We were five
children--Nikolay, Sergey, Dmitriy, myself, the youngest boy, and
our younger sister Mashenka, at whose birth my mother died. My
mother's very short married life--I think it lasted not more than
nine years--was very full, and adorned by everyone's love to her
and hers to every one who lived with her. Judging by the letters,
I see that she lived at that time in great solitude. Scarcely any
one visited Yasnaya Polyana except our intimate friends the
Ogaryovs and some relatives who, if casually travelling along the
high-road might look in upon them.
"My mother's life was passed in occupations with the children,
in reading novels aloud of an evening to my grandmother, and in
serious readings, such as Emile by Rousseau, and discussions about
what had been read; in playing the piano, teaching Italian to one
of her aunts, walks, and household work. In all families there are
periods when illness and death are yet unknown, and the members
live peacefully. Such a period, it seems to me, my mother was
living through in her husband's family until her death. No one
died, no one was seriously ill, my father's disordered affairs were
improving. All were healthy, happy, and friendly. My father
amused everyone with his stories and jokes. I did not witness that
time. At the time with which my remembrances begin, my mother's
death had already laid its seal upon the life of our family.
"All this I have described from what I have heard and from
letters. Now I shall begin about what I have my self experienced
and remember. I shall not speak about the vague, indistinct
recollections of infancy, in which one cannot yet distinguish
reality from dream-land. I will commence with what I clearly
remember, with the circumstances and the persons that surrounded me
from my first years. The first place among them is occupied, of
course, by my father, if not owing to his influence upon me, yet
from my feeling toward him.
"My father from his early years had remained his parents' only
son. His younger brother, Ilenka, was injured, became a cripple,
and died in childhood. In the year 1812, my father was seventeen
years old, and, notwithstanding the horror and fear and pleading of
his parents, he entered the military service. At that time Prince
Nikolay Gorchakov, a near relative of my grandmother, Princess
Gorchakov, was Minister of War, his brother Andrey was a general in
command of troops in the field, and my father was attached to him
as adjutant. He went through the campaigns of the years '13 and
'14, and in '14, having somewhere in Germany been despatched as a
courier, he was taken prisoner by the French, and was liberated
only in the year '15, when our troops entered Paris. Even at the
age of twenty my father was not a chaste youth, but before he
entered the military service, consequently when he was sixteen
years old, a connection had been arranged by his parents between
him and a servant-girl, as such a union was at that time deemed
necessary for health. A son was born, Mishenka, who was made a
postilion, and who, during my father's life, lived well, but
afterward went wrong and often applied for help to us, his
half-brothers. I remember my strange feeling of consternation when
this brother of mine, fallen into destitution, bearing a greater
resemblance to our father than any of us, begged help of us and was
thankful for ten or fifteen rubles which were given him.
"After the campaign, my father, disillusioned as to military
service, as is evident from his letters, resigned and came to
Kazan, where my grandfather, already completely ruined, was
governor, and where also resided my father's sister who was married
to Yushkov. My grandfather soon died in Kazan, and my father
remained with an inheritance which was not equal to all the debts,
and with an old mother accustomed to luxury, as well as a sister
and a cousin, on his hands. At this time his marriage with my
mother was arranged for him, and he removed to Yasnaya Polyana,
where, after living nine years with my mother, he became a widower,
and within my memory lived with us.
"My father was a lively man of sanguine temperament; he was of
medium height, well built, with a pleasant face, and eyes of a
constantly serious expression. His life was passed in attending to
the estate, a business in which he, as it seems, was not very
expert, but in which he exercised a virtue great for that time: he
not only was not cruel, but was, perhaps, even weak. So that
during his time, too, I never heard of corporal punishment.
Probably it was administered, for it is difficult to imagine at
that time the management of an estate without the use of such
punishments, but the cases were probably so rare, and my father
took so little part in them, that we children never came to hear of
them. It was only after my father's death that I learned for the
first time that such punishments took place at home.
"We children with our tutor were returning home from a walk,
when by the barn we met the fat steward, Andrey Flyin, followed by
the coachman's assistant - `Squinting Kuzma,' as he was called -
with a sad face. He was a married man, no longer young. One of us
asked Andrey Flyin where he was going, and he quietly answered that
he was going to the barn, where Kuzma had to be punished. I cannot
describe the dreadful feeling which these words and the sight of
the good-natured, crestfallen Kuzma produced on me. In the evening
I related this to my aunt, Tatyana Aleksandrovna, who had educated
us and hated corporal punishment, never having allowed it for us
any more than for the serfs, wherever she had influence. She was
greatly revolted at what I told her, and rebuking me said: `And why
did you not stop him?' Her words grieved me still more...I never
thought that we could interfere in such things, and yet it appeared
that we could. But it was too late, and the dreadful deed had been
committed.
"I return to what I knew about my father, and how I represent
to myself his life. His occupation consisted in managing the
estate, and above all in litigation, which was very frequent at
that time, and I think particularly so with my father, who had to
disentangle my grandfather's affairs. These lawsuits often
compelled my father to leave home, besides which he used often to
go out shooting and hunting. His chief sporting companions were
his old friend, a wealthy bachelor, Kireyevskiy, Yazikov, Glebov,
and Islenyev. My father, in common with other landowners of that
time, had special favorites among the house serfs. Of these there
were two brothers, Petrusha and Matyusha, both handsome, smart
fellows, who helped in the sport. At home my father, besides his
occupations with his business and with us children, was greatly
given to reading. He collected a library consisting, in accordance
with the taste of the time, of French classics, historical works,
and books on natural history by Buffon, Cuvier, etc. My aunt told
me that my father had made a rule not to buy new books until he had
read those previously purchased. But although he read much, it is
difficult to believe that he mastered all these Histoires des
Croisades and des Papes which he purchased for his library. As far
as I can judge, he had no leanings toward science, but was on a
level with the educated people of his time. Like most men of the
first period of Aleksandr's reign, who served in the campaigns of
the years '13, '14, and '15, he was not what is now called a
Liberal, but, merely as a matter of self-respect, he regarded it as
impossible to serve either during the latter part of Aleksandr's
reign or during the reign of Nicholas. Not only did he never serve
himself, but even all his friends were similarly people of
independent character, who did not serve, and who were in some
opposition to the government of Nicholas I. During all my
childhood and even youth, our family had no intimate relations with
any government official. Naturally I understood nothing about this
in childhood, but I did understand that my father never humbled
himself before any one, nor altered his brisk, merry, and often
chaffing tone. And this feeling of self-respect which I witnessed
in him increased my love, my admiration for him. I remember him in
his study, where we used to come to say good-night to him and
sometimes merely to play, where he with a pipe in his mouth used to
sit on a leather couch and caress us, and sometimes, to our immense
delight, used to allow us to mount the couch behind his back, while
he would continue reading, or talking to the steward standing by
the door, or to S.I. Yazikov, my godfather, who often stayed with
us. I remember how he used to come downstairs to us and draw
pictures which appeared to us the height of perfection, as well as
how he once made me declaim to him some verses of Pushkin, which
had taken my fancy, and which I had learned by heart: `To the Sea,'
`Fare thee well, free element,' and to Napoleon, `The wonderful
fate is accomplished, the great man is extinguished,' and so on.
He was evidently impressed by the pathos with which I recited these
verses, and, having listened to the end, he in a significant way
exchanged glances with Yazikov, who was there. I understood that
he saw something good in this recitation of mine, and at this I was
very happy. I remember his merry jokes and stories at dinner and
supper, and how my grandmother and aunt and we children laughed
listening to him. I remember also his journeys to town, and the
wonderfully fine appearance he had when he put on his frock-coat
and tight-fitting trousers. But I principally remember him in
connection with hunting. I remember his departures from the house
for the hunt. It afterward always seemed to me that Pushkin took
his description of the departure for the hunt in Count Nulin from
my father. I remember how we used to go for walks with him, how
the young greyhounds who had followed him gambolled on the unmown
fields in which the high grass flicked them and tickled their
bellies, how they flew round with their tails on one side, and how
he admired them. I remember how, on the day of the hunting
festival of the 1st September, we all drove out in a lineyka1 to
the cover, where a fox had been let loose, and how the foxhounds
pursued him, and, somewhere out of our sight, the greyhounds caught
him.2 I particularly well remember the baiting of a wolf. It was
quite near the house. We all came out to look. A big gray wolf,
muzzled, and with his legs tied, was brought out in a cart. He lay
quietly, only looking through the corners of his eyes at those who
approached him. At a place behind the garden the wolf was taken
out, held to the ground with pitchforks, and his legs untied. He
began to struggle and jerk about, fiercely biting the bit of wood
tied into his mouth. At last this was untied at the back of his
neck, and some one called out, `Off!' The forks were lifted, the
wolf got up and stood still for about ten seconds, but there was a
shout raised, and the dogs were let loose. The wolf, the dogs, and
the horsemen all flew down the field; and the wolf escaped. I
remember how my father, scolding and angrily gesticulating,
returned home.
"But the pleasantest recollections of him were those of his
sitting with grandmother on the sofa and helping her to play
Patience. My father was polite and tender with everyone, but to
grandmother he was always particularly tenderly subservient. They
used to sit, grandmother, with her long chin, in a cap with ruche
and a bow, on the sofa, playing Patience, and from time to time
taking pinches from a gold snuffbox. Close to the sofa, in an
arm-chair, sat Petrovna, a Tula tradeswoman who dealt in fire-arms,
dressed in her military jacket, and spinning thread, and at
intervals tapping her reel against the wall, in which she had
already knocked a hole. My aunts are sitting in arm-chairs, and
one of them is reading out loud. In one of the arm-chairs, having
arranged a comfortable depression in it, lies black-and-tan Milka,
my father's favorite fast greyhound, with beautiful black eyes. We
come to say good-night, and sometimes sit here. We always take
leave of grandmother and our aunts by kissing their hands. I
remember once, in the middle of the game of Patience and of the
reading, my father interrupts my aunt, points to the looking-glass,
and whispers something. We all look in the same direction. It was
the footman Tikhon, who, knowing that my father was in the
drawing-room, was going into his study to take some tobacco from a
big, leather, folding tobacco-pouch. My father sees him in the
looking-glass, and examines his figure, carefully stepping on
tiptoe. My aunts are laughing. Grandmother for a long time does
not understand, and when she does she cheerfully smiles. I am
enchanted by my father's kindness, and taking leave of him with
special tenderness, kiss his white muscular hand. I loved my
father very much, but did not know how strong this love of mine for
him was until he died."3
To the above valuable information about his parents, given by
Tolstoy himself, we need add only a few facts taken from historical
documents.
Count Nikolay Ilich Tolstoy, the father of Lev Tolstoy, was
born in 1797. In the documents of the Kazan University, among the
papers connected with Tolstoy's admission as a student, one of some
interest is the certificate of the military service of his father,
Nikolay Ilich.
We give the material part of the text of this document, dated
January 29, 1825.4
"The bearer of this, Lieutenant-Colonel Nikolay Ilich, the son
of Tolstoy, as appears by the official documents, is twenty-eight
years old, has the order of St. Vladimir of the fourth class,
belongs to the nobility, owns no serfs. Being a government
secretary, he entered his Majesty's service as a cornet in 1812,
June 11, in the Irkutsk regular regiment of Cossacks, whence he was
transferred to the Irkutsk regiment of hussars in 1812, August 18;
he distinguished himself and was promoted lieutenant in 1813, April
27; and in the same year was promoted second cavalry captain. He
further distinguished himself, and was transferred in the same rank
to the regiment of horse-guards in 1814, August 8. From this he
was transferred to the regiment of the prince of Orange with the
rank of major in 1817, December 11. Having resigned, owing to
illness, he was rewarded with the rank of lieutenant-colonel in
1819, March 14. He received an appointment in the Military
Orphanage as assistant to the superintendent in 1821, December 15.
During his service he took part in various campaigns. In 1813 he
was often in action; on April 2 he was taken prisoner by the enemy
before the fall of Paris, and, for his distinguished conduct in
battle, was rewarded as above described with the ranks of
lieutenant and captain of cavalry, and the order of St. Vladimir of
the fourth class with ribbon."
From the same document we learn that count N.I. Tolstoy
resigned his post in the Military Orphanage and definitely retired
from service, "for family reasons," January 8, 1824.
After his resignation Count Nikolay Ilich Tolstoy settled in
Yasnaya Polyana. At that time he and his wife had only one child,
their son Nikolay, one year old, born in 1823. In the country the
family quickly increased. On February 17, 1826, a son, Sergey, was
born; on April 23, 1827, Dmitriy; on August 28, 1828, a third son,
Lev.
The peaceful and calm country life of the family did not last
long. In 1830, having brought into the world a daughter, Mariya
(born March 7), the Countess Tolstoy died, leaving her husband with
five children.
After the death of their mother the children were left under
the care of a distant relation, the above-mentioned Miss Tatyana
Aleksandrovna Yergolskaya, who had been practically brought up in
the house of Count Ilya Andreyevich, the grandfather of our Count
Tolstoy.
An interesting episode in the life of the father of Tolstoy is
remembered in the family.
In 1813, after the blockade of Erfurt, he was sent to St.
Petersburg with despatches, and on his way back, near the village
of St. Obie, he was taken prisoner together with his orderly, but
the latter managed to hide in his boot all his master's gold coins.
For several months, while they were kept prisoners, he never took
off his boots, for fear he should reveal his secret. He had to
bear extreme discomfort; he had, for instance, a bad sore on his
foot, still he showed no sign of pain. When Nikolay Ilich arrived
in Paris he could, thanks to his orderly, live in luxury. He long
retained a grateful recollection of his devoted servant.5
Any one who has read Tolstoy's personal reminiscences will
readily agree that the parents whom he describes in the novel
Childhood are not his own. In fact, so far as we know, in the
father was represented A.M. Islenev, a neighboring landowner and a
friend of Tolstoy's father. The mother is an imaginary character.
But in War and Peace it is not difficult to find an artistic
description of his parents in the persons of Count Nikolay Ilich
Rostov and Princess Mariya Volkonskaya.
Almost every member of the Rostov family, from Count Ilya
Andreyevich to Sonya the adopted, corresponds to some personage in
the Tolstoy family; and the inhabitants of the Bleak Hills can be
similarly brought into comparison. The reading of this novel
therefore may add much to our knowledge of the manners and
characters of the ancestors and parents of Tolstoy.
Notes to Chapter III:
1. A Russian country vehicle, somehwat resembling a low
four-wheeled jaunting-car.
2. In Russia, owing to local conditions, the methods of sport are
necessarily different from those in England. Thus foxes, abounding
in great numbers, are hunted out of the woods by foxhounds, and
then sometimes caught by greyhounds in the surrounding fields..
3. From a draft of uncorrected memoirs by L. Tolstoy in my
possession.--P.B.
4. "Count L.N. Tolstoy and his University Life." N.P. Zagoskin
Istoricheskiy Vestnik, January, 1894.
5. Sergeyenko, How L.N. Tolstoy Lives and Works, p. 40. Moscow,
1898.
PART II
Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth (1828-1850)
Chapter IV
Childhood
"I was born and I spent my earliest childhood in the village
Yasnaya Polyana."
With these words Tolstoy opens his Reminiscences, and before we
begin the description of his childhood we think it well to say a
few words about this little corner of the earth, destined to become
of world-wide interest. What a variety of visitors have called at
Yasnaya Polyana! Natives of the Malay Archipelago, Australians,
Japanese and Americans, Siberian runaways, and representatives of
all the European nations, have visited this village and spread
abroad a description of it, as well as the words and thoughts of
the aged prophet, its inhabitant.
Yasnaya Polyana, the family estate of the Princes Volkonsky, is
situated in the Krapivensk district of the province of Tula, almost
on the border line of the district of Tula, fifteen versts to the
south of the town of the same name. Three high-roads of three
different periods cross one another in its neighborhood; the old
Kiev road, overgrown with grass, the new Kiev macadamized road, and
the Moscow-Kursk Railway line, the nearest station of which,
Kozlovka-Zasseka, is at three and a half versts distance from
Tolstoy's home.
The beautiful hilly neighborhood surrounding Yasnaya Polyana is
divided from east to west by a long belt of Crown forest, called
the Abattis. This name points back to ancient times when in that
place the Slavs had to repel the attacks of the Crimean Tartars and
other Mongolian tribes, and were obliged to cut trees and make
barriers which formed a natural and impenetrable defence against
the enemies' hordes.
The house in which Tolstoy was born no longer stands in Yasnaya
Polyana. The work of building it was started by his grandfather,
Prince Volkonsky, and finished by his father; after which the house
was sold to a neighboring landowner, Gorokhov, and was removed to
the village Dolgoye, where it now stands. It was in the early
1850s, when Tolstoy was in great need of money, that he requested
one of his relatives to sell this house. The large-sized
residence with columns and balconies was sold for the comparatively
insignificant price of about five thousand rubles in paper money.
From Tolstoy's letters to his brother it is evident that he was
very sorry to part with it, and only dire necessity induced him to
do so. At present nobody lives in it. It stands neglected, with
its window-shutters nailed up. The present two houses of Yasnaya
Polyana consist of the two wings, formerly standing at the sides of
the main body of the old house which was sole. The place occupied
by the old house is partly planted with trees, partly cleared and
turned into a croquet ground and a small square which is used as a
dining-place when weather permits.
In front of the house there is at present a flower-bed, and
beyond that spreads an old garden with ponds and aged lime-tree
avenues. The garden is surrounded by a ditch and a rampart. At
the entrance of this garden stand two brick towers, painted white.
Old people say that in the time of the grandfather, Prince
Volkonsky, sentries used to stand there. A birch avenue, the
so-called "Prospect," begins at the towers and leads up to the
house.
To the old garden are added new fruit gardens planted under
Tolstoy's own supervision. The whole residence is situated on
rising ground and surrounded by a luxurious growth of shrubs.
It is unfortunate that there exist no details of interest
relating to Tolstoy's birth besides the following extract from the
church register, quoted by Zagoskin in his reminiscences:
"In the year 1828, on August 28, in the village of Yasnaya
Polyana, a son, Lev, was born to Count Nikolay Ilich Tolstoy and
baptized on the 29th of August by the priest Vasiliy Mozhaiskiy,
deacon Arkhip Ivanov, chanter Aleksandr Feodorov, and sexton Feodor
Grigoriyev. The sponsors at the baptism were the landowner of the
Belevsky district, Simon Ivanovich Yazikov, and Countess Pelageya
Tolstova."1
The countess Pelageya Tolstova was in fact the grandmother of
Lev Tolstoy on his father's side, Pelageya Nikolayevna Tolstaya.
It is seldom that a biographer has the good fortune to learn
facts of such an early age. In his First Memories, Tolstoy relates
his vague sensations on being swathed, sensations, that is, felt
during the first year of his life.
We quote these reminiscences as they stand:
"Here are my first reminiscences, which I am unable to arrange
in order, not knowing what came before and what after; of some of
them I do not even know whether they happened in reality or in a
dream. Here they are: I am bound; I wish to free my arms and I
cannot do it and I scream and cry, and my cries are unpleasant to
myself, but I cannot cease. Somebody bends down over me, I do not
remember who. All is in a half light. But I remember that there
are two people. My cries affect them; they are disturbed by my
cries, but do not unbind me as I desire, and I cry yet louder.
They think that this is necessary (i.e. that I should be bound),
whereas I know it is not necessary and I wish to prove it to them,
and am convulsed with cries distasteful to myself but
unrestrainable. I feel the injustice and cruelty, not of human
beings, for they pity me, but of fate, and I feel pity for myself.
I do not and never shall know what it was, whether I was swathed
when a babe at the breast and tried to get my arm free, or whether
I was swathed when more than a year old, in order that I should not
scratch myself; or whether, as it happens in dreams, I have
collected into this one reminiscence many impressions; but certain
it is that this was my first and most powerful impression in life.
Nor is it my cries that are impressed upon my mind, nor my
sufferings, but the complexity and contrast of the impression. I
desire freedom, it interferes with no one else, and I, who require
strength, am weak, whilst they are strong.
"Another impression is a joyful one. I am sitting in a wooden
trough, and am enveloped by the new and not unpleasant smell of
some kind of stuff with which my little body is being rubbed. It
was probably bran, and most likely I was having a bath, but the
novelty of the impression from the bran aroused me, and for the
first time I remarked and liked my little body with the ribs
showing on the breast, and the smooth, dark-colored trough, my
nurse's rolled-up sleeves, and the warm steaming bran-water, and
its sound, and especially the feeling of the smoothness of the
trough's edges when I passed my little hands along them.
"It is strange and dreadful to think that from my birth until
the age of three years, during the time when I was fed from the
breast, when I was weaned, when I began to crawl, to walk, to
speak, however much I may seek them in my memory, I can find no
other impressions save these two: When did I originate? When did
I begin to live? And why is it joyous to me to imagine myself as
at that time, and yet has been dreadful to me, as it is still
dreadful to many, to imagine myself again entering that state of
death of which there will be no recollections that can be expressed
in words? Was I not alive when I learned to look, to listen, to
understand, and to speak, when I slept, took the breast, kissed it,
and laughed and gladdened my mother? I lived, and lived
blissfully! Did I not then acquire all that by which I now live,
and acquire it to such an extent and so quickly, that in all the
rest of my life I have not acquired a hundredth part of the amount?
From a five-year-old child to my present self there is only one
step. From a new-born infant to a five-year-old child there is an
awesome distance. From the germ to the infant an unfathomable
distance. But from non-existence to the germ the distance is not
only unfathomable, but inconceivable. Not only are space and time
and causation forms of thought, and not only is the essence of life
outside these forms, but all our life is a greater and greater
subjection of oneself to these forms, and then again liberation
from them.
"The next reminiscences refer to the time when I was already
four or five years old, but of these I have very few, and not one
of them concerns life outside the walls of the house. Nature, up
to five years old, did not exist for me. All that I remember takes
place in my little bed in a room. Neither grass nor leaves nor sky
nor sun exists for me. It cannot be that I was not given flowers
or leaves to play with, that I did not see the grass, was not
shaded from the sun; still, up to five or six years, I have no
recollection of what we call nature. Probably one has to leave it
in order to see it, and I was nature itself.
"After that of the trough, the next reminiscence is one about
`Yeremeyevna.' `Yeremeyevna' was a word with which we children
were threatened, but my recollection of it is this: I am in my
little bed, happy and content as always, and I should not remember
this were it not that my nurse, or some person who formed part of
my childish world, says something in a voice new to me, and goes
away, and, besides being merry, I become afraid. And I call to
mind that I am not alone, but with some one else who is like
myself; this probably was my sister Mashenka, a year younger than
myself, whose bed stood in the same room as mine. I recall that my
bed has a curtain, and my sister and I are happy, and afraid of
something extraordinary which has happened among us, and I hide
under my pillow, both hide and watch the door, from which I expect
something new and amusing, and we laugh and hide and wait. And lo!
there appears some one in a dress and cap quite unlike anything I
have ever seen, but I recognize that it is the same person who is
always with me (whether my nurse or my aunt I do not know), and in
a gruff voice which I recognize, this some one says something
dreadful about naughty children and "Yeremeyevna." I shriek with
fear and joy, and am indeed horrified and yet delighted to be
horrified, and I wish the one who is frightening me not to know I
have recognized her. We quiet down, but then purposely begin
whispering to each other to recall `Yeremeyevna.'
"I have another recollection of `Yeremeyevna,' probably of a
later period, for it is more distinct, although it has forever
remained incomprehensible to me. In this reminiscence the chief
part is played by the German, Feodor Ivanovich, our tutor; but I
know for certain that I am not yet under his supervision; therefore
that this takes place before I am five. And this is my first
impression of Feodor Ivanovich, and it happened so early that I do
not as yet remember any one, neither my brothers nor my father.
If I have an idea of any separate person, it is only my sister, and
that simply because she is, like me, afraid of `Yeremeyevna.' With
this reminiscence is connected my first recognition that our house
has a second story. How I got up there, whether I mounted alone or
was carried up, I don't at all remember, but I remember that there
were many of us, and that we were all moving in a circle, holding
each other's hands. Among us there were women, strangers to us (I
somehow remember that they were washerwomen), and we all begin to
circle round and jump, and Feodor Ivanovich jumps, lifting his legs
too high, flinging about and making a great noise, and I feel at
one and the same moment that this is not right, and that it is
wicked, and I rebuke him, and I think I begin to cry, and
everything ceases."
The account given by Marie, Tolstoy's sister, of their childish
games belongs to this period.
"Three of us slept in the same room - I, Lyovochka, and
Dunechka2 - and we often played with one another, making a
children's party apart from our elder brothers, who lived with the
tutor downstairs.
"`Milashki' was one of our favorite games. One of us would
pretend to be the `milashki,' i.e., a child who was specially
petted by others, put to bed, fed, given medical treatment, and
generally made much fuss about. This `milashki' (favorite),
according to the rules of the game, had to submit without
complaining to all the tricks that were played with him, and to act
his part submissively.
"I remember how grieved and vexed we were during the game when
our `milashki' (generally Lev Nikolayevich) really fell asleep
after having been put to bed. According to the rules of the game,
he had to cry, then to be doctored, given medicine, rubbed, etc.
And thus his sleep put an end to our play, and called us back from
illusions to reality.
"This is all I remember till I was five years old," continues
Tolstoy. "As for my nurses, my aunts, brothers, sisters, father,
the rooms, and the playthings--of all these I remember nothing.
My definite reminiscences commence from the time when I was
transferred downstairs to Feodor Ivanovich and my elder brothers.
"With Feodor Ivanovich and the boys I experienced for the first
time, and therefore more powerfully than ever after, that feeling
which is called the feeling of duty--the feeling of the Cross,
which every man is called to bear. I was sorry to abandon what I
was used to (used to from eternity), I was sorry, poetically sorry,
to separate not so much from persons, from my sister, my nurse, and
my aunt, as from my little bed, with its curtain and the pillow,
and I was afraid of the new life into which I entered. I tried to
find what was joyful in the new life which confronted me; I tried
to believe the caressing words with which Feodor Ivanovich sought
to attract me; I tried not to see the contempt with which the boys
received me, the younger one; I tried to think that it was shameful
for a big boy to live with girls, and that there was nothing good
in the upstairs life with the nurse. But inwardly I felt
dreadfully sad, I knew that I was irretrievably losing innocence
and happiness, and only the feeling of self-respect, the
consciousness that I was fulfilling my duty, supported me. Many
times later on I had to live through such moments at the parting of
the ways in life, when I entered on a new road. I experienced a
quiet grief at the irretrievableness of what was being lost, I kept
disbelieving that it was really happening. Although I had been
told that I was to be transferred to the boys, yet I remember that
the dressing-gown, with belt sewn to the back, which was put on me,
cut me off as it were forever from upstairs, and then for the first
time I was impressed, not by all those with whom I had lived
upstairs, but by the principal person with whom I lived and whom I
did not previously understand. This was my aunt, Tatyana
Aleksandrovna. I remember a short, stout, black-haired, kind,
affectionate, solicitous woman. She put the dressing-gown on to
me, and tightened the belt while embracing and kissing me, and I
saw that she felt as I did; that it was sad--dreadfully sad--but
necessary. For the first time I felt that life was not a
plaything, but a difficult task. Shall I not feel the same when I
am dying? I shall understand that death or future life is not a
plaything, but a difficult task."3
Of this aunt, Tatyana Aleksandrovna, Tolstoy gives the
following interesting information in his Memoirs:
"The third person, after my father and mother, as regards
influence upon my life, was my `Aunty,' as we called her, Tatyana
Aleksandrovna Yergolskaya. She was a very distant relation of my
grandmother through the Gorchakovs. She and her sister Lisa, who
afterward married Count Peter Ivanovich Tolstoy, remained poor
little orphan girls after the death of their parents. There were
also several brothers whom my parents managed to get adopted. But
it was decided that one of the girls should be taken to be educated
by Tatyana Semyonovna Skuratov, powerful, important, famous in her
time and circle of the Chern district, and the other by my
grandmother. Scraps of paper were folded and put under the icons,
and after prayer they were chosen, when Lizenka fell to the lot of
Tatyana Semyonovna, and the little dark one (Tanichka) to my
grandmother. Tanichka, as we called her, was of the same age as my
father. She was born in 1795, was brought up exactly in equal
lines with my aunts, and was tenderly loved by all; and indeed it
was impossible not to love her for her firm, resolute, energetic,
and at the same time self-sacrificing character, a character very
well displayed in an incident with a ruler, about which she used to
tell us, showing the scar of a burn on her arm, almost as big as
the palm of the hand, between the elbow and the wrist. The
children had been reading the story of Mucius Scaevola, and they
disputed as to whether any of them could make up his mind to do the
same. `I will do it,' she said. `You will not,' said Yazikov, my
godfather, and also characteristically to himself he burned a ruler
on a candle, so that it became charred and smoked all over.
`There, place this on your arm,' he said. She stretched out her
white arm (at that time girls were always dressed decollete) and
Yazikov applied the charred ruler. She frowned, but did not
withdraw her arm; she groaned only when the ruler with the skin was
torn away. When the older people saw her wound and asked how it
was caused, she said she had done it herself, wishing to experience
what Mucius Scaevola had done.
"So resolute and self-sacrificing was she in everything.
"She must have been very attractive, with her crisp, black,
curling hair in its enormous plait, her jet black eyes, and
vivacious, energetic expression. V. Yushkov, the husband of my
Aunt Pelageya Ilyinishna, a great flirt, even when an old man, used
often, when recalling her, to say with the feeling with which those
who have been in love speak about the object of their previous
affections: `Toinette, oh! elle etait charmante!'4
"When I remember her she was more than forty, and I never
thought about her being pretty or not pretty. I simply loved
her--loved her eyes, her smile, and her dusky, broad little hand
with its energetic little cross vein.
"She probably loved my father and my father loved her, but she
did not marry him in youth, in order that he might marry my rich
mother, and later she did not marry him because she did not wish to
spoil her pure poetic relations with him and us. In her papers, in
a little beaded portfolio, there lies the following note, written
in 1836, six years after my mother's death:
"`16th August, 1836.--Nicolas m'a fait aujourd'hui une etrange
proposition--celle de l'epouser, de serivr de mere a ses enfants et
de ne jamais les quitter. J'ai refuse la premiere proposition,
j'ai promis de remplir l'autre tant que je vivrai.'5
"Thus she recorded, but she never spoke of this either to us or
to any one. After my father's death she fulfilled his second
desire. We had two aunts and a grandmother; they all had more
right to us than Tatyana Aleksandrovna--whom we called aunt only by
habit, for our kinship was so distant that I could never remember
it--but she, by right of love to us, like Buddha with the wounded
swan, took the first place in our bringing up. And this we felt.
"I had fits of passionately tender love for her.
"I remember how once on the sofa in the drawing-room, when I
was about five, I squeezed in behind her, and she caressingly
touched me with her hand. I caught this hand and began to kiss it
and to cry from tender love toward her.
"She had been educated like a young lady of a rich house; she
spoke and wrote French better than Russian, and played the piano
admirably, but for thirty years she did not touch it. She resumed
playing only when I had grown up and learned to play, and sometimes
in playing duets she astonished me by the correctness and
refinement of her performance. Toward the servants she was kind;
she never spoke to them angrily and could not bear the idea of
blows or flogging, yet she regarded serfs as serfs and treated them
as their superior. Notwithstanding this, all the servants
distinguished her from others and loved her. When she died and was
being borne through the village, peasants came out from all the
houses and paid for Te Deums. Her principal characteristic was
love, but how I could wish that this had not been all for one
person--for my father. Still, starting from this center her love
spread on all around. We felt that she loved us for his sake, that
through him she loved every one, because all her life was love.
"She, owing to her love for us, had the greatest right to us,
but our aunts, especially Pelageya Ilyinishna, when the latter took
us away to Kazan, had the external rights and `Auntie' submitted to
them, but her love did not thereby diminish. She lived with her
sister, the Countess L.A. Tolstaya, but in her soul she lived with
us, and, whenever possible, she would return to us. The fact that
the last years of her life, about twenty years, were passed me at
Yasnaya Polyana was a great joy to me. But how incapable we were
of appreciating our happiness, the more so that true happiness is
never loud nor manifest! I appreciated it, but far from
sufficiently. `Auntie' liked to keep sweets in her room in various
little dishes--dried figs, gingerbread, dates; she liked to buy
them and to treat me first to them. I cannot forget, and cannot
call to mind without a cruel twinge of conscience, how several
times I refused her money for the sweets, and how she, sadly
sighing, desisted. It is true I was then in straitened
circumstances, but now I cannot recall without remorse how I
refused her!
"When I was already married and she had begun to fail, she
once, having waited for the opportunity when I was in her room,
turning her face away, said to me (I saw she was ready to shed
tears): `Look here, mes chers amis, my room is a very good one and
you will require it. But if I die in it,' she went on with a
trembling voice, `the memory of that will be unpleasant, so move me
to another that I may not die here.' Such she was from the
earliest time of my childhood, when as yet I could not
understand....
"Her room was thus. In the left corner stood a worktable with
innumerable little articles valuable only to her, in the right
corner a glass cupbord with icons and one big one--that of the
Saviour--in a silver setting; in the middle the couch on which she
slept, in front of it a table. To the right a door for her maid.
"I have said that Aunty Tatyana Aleksandrovna had the greatest
influence on my life. This influence consisted first, in that ever
since childhood she taught me the spiritual delight of love. She
taught me this, but not in words: by her whole being she filled me
with love. I saw, I felt, how she enjoyed loving, and I understood
the joy of love. This was the first thing.
"Secondly, she taught me the delights of an unhurried, lonely
life.
"But about this we will speak later.
"Although this reminiscence is not of childhood but of adult
life, I cannot refrain from recalling my bachelor life with her at
Yasnaya Polyana."6
In the chapter dealing with Tolstoy's parents we have already
mentioned that his novels, Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth, are not
to be considered autobiographical; but this remark only applies to
their external facts and scenery, created by the author to give
greater completeness to his picture.
As to the description of the inner life of the child-hero, we
can say with confidence that, in one way or another the author
lived through all the experiences of his hero, and therefore we
consider that we have a right to use them as furnishing hints for
our biography.
Further, we know that certain of the characters which we meet
with in this work are copies from life. We will mention them here
as they will throw some further light on the group of persons among
whom Tolstoy's childhood was spent.
Thus, the German, Karl Ivanovich Mauer, is certainly Feodor
Ivanovich Kessel, the German tutor, who really lived in Tolstoy's
home, and whom we have mentioned before. Tolstoy speaks of him in
his Earliest Memories. He must undoubtedly have influenced the
spiritual life of the child, and we may presume that the influence
had been for good, since the author of Childhood speaks with great
love of him, where he sketches his "honest, straightforward, and
loving nature."
It is not without reason that Tolstoy begins the story of his
childhood with a description of this character. Feodor Ivanovich
died in Yasnaya Polyana, and was buried in the parish churchyard.
Another real character in Childhood is the half-crazy Grisha.
Though he is not a real person, many traits of his character are
true to life; he had evidently left a deep trace in the child's
soul. To him Tolstoy dedicates the following pathetic words
describing the evening prayer of the pilgrim, which he overheard:
"His words were incorrect, but touching. He prayed for all his
benefactors (thus he called all who received him), among them for
my mother, and for us; he prayed for himself and asked the Lord to
forgive him his heavy sins, and repeated, `O Lord, forgive mine
enemies.' He arose with groans, still repeating the same words,
prostrated himself upon the ground, and again arose, in spite of
the weight of the chains that emitted a grating, penetrating sound
as they struck the ground....
"Grisha was for a long time in this attitude of religious
ecstasy, and he improvised prayers. Now he repeated several times
in succession, `The Lord have mercy upon me,' but every time with
new strength and expression; now, again, he said, `Forgive me, O
Lord, instruct me what to do, instruct me what to do, O Lord!' with
an expression as if he expected an immediate answer to his prayer;
now, again, were heard only pitiful sobs. He rose on his knees,
crossed his arms on his breast, and grew silent.
"`Thy will be done!' he suddenly exclaimed with an inimitable
expression, knocked his brow against the floor, and began to sob
like an infant.
"Much water has flowed since then, many memories of the past
have lost all meaning for me and have become dim recollections, and
pilgrim Grisha has long ago ended his last pilgrimage; but the
impression which he produced on me, and the feeling which he
evoked, will never die in my memory.
"O great Christian Grisha! Your faith was so strong that you
felt the nearness of God; your love was so great that words flowed
of their own will from your lips, and you did not verify them by
reason. And what high praise you gave to the majesty of God, when,
not finding any words, you prostrated yourself on the ground."
Are we not entitled to regard this man as the first who taught
Tolstoy that faith of the people, which, after his fruitless
wanderings through the labyrinths of theology, philosophy, and
positive science, satisfied his soul. A faith which he in his turn
has lighted with his own light of reason, purified and intensified
in the struggle and sufferings which unavoidably accompany the
search for truth. He gives a few indications of this in his
Reminiscences.
Of other secondary characters in the novel we will mention Mimi
and her daughter Katenka, "something like the first love." Under
the name Mimi is presented the governess of a neighboring house,
and Katenka is Dunechka Temeshova, an adopted member of the tolstoy
family. Tolstoy in his Reminiscences, speaks of her thus:
"Besides my brothers and my sister, a girl of my age, Dunechka
Temeshov, grew up with us, and I must tell who she was and how she
came to be in our house. The visitors whom I remember in childhood
were my aunt's husband Yushkov, of an appearance strange to
children, with black mustaches and whiskers and wearing spectacles
(I shall yet have much to say about him); and my godfather, S.
Yazikov, a remarkably ugly man, saturated with the smell of
tobacco, his big face possessing a superfluity of skin which he
kept twisting incessantly into the strangest grimaces, and our
neighbors Ogarev and Islenev. Besides these we were also visited
by a distant relative through the Gorchakovs, a wealthy bachelor
Temeshov, who addressed my father as brother, and had a peculiarly
enthusiastic love for him. He lived forty versts from Yasnaya
Polyana, in the village Pirogovo, and once brought with him from
there some sucking pigs, with tails twisted into rings, which were
placed on a tray on the table in the servants' hall. Temeshov,
Pirogovo, and sucking pigs are blended into one in my imagination.
"Besides this, Temeshov retained a place in the memory of us
children by his playing on the piano in the hall some dancing
tune--it was all he could play--and making us dance to this music,
and when we used to ask him what dance we were to dance, he would
say that all dances could be danced to that music. And we liked to
take advantage of this.
"It was a winter evening. Tea was over, we were soon going to
be taken to bed, and my eyes were already blinking, when from the
servants' hall into the drawing-room, where we were all sitting,
and where only two candles were burning, and it was half dark,
there came suddenly and quickly through the big open door a man in
soft boots who, having reached the middle of the room, fell down on
his knees. The lighted pipe with its long stem, which he held in
his hand, struck against the floor, and the sparks flew out
lighting the face of the kneeling man--it was Temeshov. What
Temeshov told my father, while kneeling before him, I do not
remember nor indeed did I hear, but only afterward I learned that
he had fallen on his knees before my father because he had brought
with him his illegitimate daughter, Dunechka, concerning whom he
had previously spoken, and arranged that my father should accept
her and bring her up with his own children. Thenceforth a
broadfaced girl appeared among us, of the same age as myself,
Dunechka, with her nurse Eupraksiya, a tall, wrinkled old woman
with a hanging chin, like a turkey in which there was a ball which
she used to let us feel.
"The introduction of Dunechka into our house was connected with
a complicated business agreement between my father and Temeshov.
The agreement was of this sort:
"Temeshov was very wealthy. He had no legitimate children; he
only had two little girls, Dunechka and Verochka, the latter a
little hunchback, born of a former serf girl, Marfusha, who was
subsequently set free. The heirs of Temeshov were his sisters. He
made over to them all his estates except Pirogovo, in which he
lived, and this he desired to transfer to my father, on the
understanding that my father should remit to the two girls its
value of 30,000 pounds sterling. It was always said of Pirogovo
that it was as good as a gold mine, and was worth much more than
that sum. In order to arrange this matter the following method was
devised: Temeshov drew up a conveyance according to which he sold
Pirogovo to my father for 30,000 pounds, while my father gave
promissory notes to three unconcerned persons--Islenev, Yazikov,
and Glebov--to the amount of 10,000 pounds each. On Temeshov's
death my father was to take possession of the estate, and having
previously explained to Glebov, Islenev, and Yazikov for what
purpose the notes were given them, he was to pay them the 30,000
pounds which were to go to the two girls.
"Perhaps I may be mistaken in the description of the whole
plan, but I positively know that the estate of Pirogovo passed over
to us after my father's death, and that there were three promissory
notes payable to Islenev, Glebov, and Yazikov, that our guardians
redeemed these notes, and that the amount of the first two was paid
to the girls, 10,000 to each; whereas Yazikov misappropriated the
other 10,000; but about this later.
"Dunechka lived with us, and was a nice simple, quiet, but not
clever girl, and much disposed to weep. I remember how, when I had
already learned French, I was made to teach her the alphabet. At
first it went well (we were each five years old), but later she
probably became tired, and ceased to name correctly the letter I
pointed out. I insisted. She began to cry. I also. And when the
elders came we could not pronounce anything owing to our hopeless
tears. I remember another incident about her. When a plum was
found to be missing from a plate and the culprit could not be
discovered, Feodor Ivanovich, with a serious face and not looking
at us, said that its being eaten did not much matter, but that any
one who swallowed the stone might die. Dunechka could not restrain
her terror, and said that she had spat out the stone. I further
remember her tears of despair when she and my brother Mitenka got
up a game which consisted in spitting into each other's mouth a
little copper chain, and she spat so strongly, while Mitenka opened
his mouth wide, that he swallowed the chain. She cried
inconsolably until the doctor arrived and reassured everyone...."
This brief but valuable information Tolstoy gives concerning
the servants who surrounded him during his childhood. The
information forms a supplement to what is described in his
published story Childhood. We borrow this description also from
his Reminiscences:
"I have described Praskovya Issayevna fairly correctly in
Childhood. All I there wrote about her was actual truth. She was
the housekeeper, a venerable personage. I remember one of the
pleasantest impressions was that of sitting in her room after or
during a lesson and talking with and listening to her. She
probably liked to see us at these moments of specially happy and
touching expansiveness: `Praskovya Issayevna, how did grandfather
fight? On horseback?' one would ask her.
"`He fought in various ways, on horseback and on foot, and in
consequence he was General-in-Chief,' she would answer, opening a
cupboard and getting out a burning tablet which she called the
`Ochakovskiy smoke.' According to her words, it appeared that this
tablet grandfather brought from Ochakov. She would ignite a taper
at the little lamp in front of the icons, and with it would light
the tablet, which smouldered with a pleasant scent.
"Besides her devotion and honesty, I especially loved her
because, with Anna Ivanovna, she was connected in my eyes with that
mysterious side of my grandfather's life--with the `Ochakovskiy
smoke'.
"Anna Ivanovna lived in retirement, but once or twice she
visited the house, and I saw her. It was said that she was a
hundred years old, and that she remembered Pogachev.7 She had very
black eyes and one tooth. She was in that stage of old age which
inspires children with fear.
"Nurse Tatyana Filipovna, small, dusky, and with plump little
hands, was the young assistant of our old nurse Annushka, whom I
scarcely recall precisely, because at the time I was with Annushka
I was conscious of myself only. And as I did not observe myself
nor understand myself as I then was, so also I do not remember
Annushka.
"And as I did not look at myself, and don't remember how I
looked, so I cannot recall to mind Annushka, but Dunechka's nurse,
Eupraksiya, with a little ball on her neck, is well preserved in my
memory.
"Nurse Tatyana Filipovna I remember because she was afterward
the nurse of my nieces and of my eldest son. She was one of those
pathetic beings from among the people who so identify themselves
with the families of their nurslings that they transfer all their
interests to those families, and so that their own relatives see in
them only an opportunity for extortion or await the inheritance of
the money they earned. Such have always spendthrift brothers,
husbands, or sons. Such were, so far as I can remember, Tatyana
Filipovna's husband and son. I remember how he [sic?] painfully,
quietly, and meekly died in the very place where I am now sitting
writing these Reminiscences. Her brother, Nikolay Filipovich, was
a coachman, whom we not only loved, but for whom, as gentlemen's
children generally do, we felt a great reverence. He had peculiar
thick boots; he always carried with him the pleasant smell of the
stables, and his voice was tender and musical.8
"The butler, Vasiliy Trubetskoy, should be mentioned. He was
a pleasant, kindly man, who evidently loved children, and therefore
loved us, especially Seryozha, at whose house he afterward served,
and where he died. I remember the kind, one-sided smile of his
beaming face with its wrinkles, and his neck, which we saw close,
and his peculiar smell when he took us in his arms and seated us on
the tray (it was one of our great pleasures; `And me, now me!') and
carried us about the pantry--a place mysterious in our eyes, with
its strange underground passage. One poignant reminiscence
connected with him was his departure to Shcherbachovka, an estate
in the government of Kursk, inherited by my father from a relative.
This (Vasiliy's departure) happened during Yule-tide, at the time
when all the children and some of the household servants were
playing at `Rublik' in the hall. I must say a word about those
Yuletide amusements. They took place thus: all the household
servants--and there were many of them, about thirty--used to dress
up, come into the house, play various games, and dance to the
accompaniment of the fiddle of old Gregoriy, who only appeared in
the house on these occasions. It was very amusing. Those
masquerading usually represented a bear with its leader, a goat,
Turks and Turkish women, tyrolese, brigands, peasant men and women.
I remember how beautiful some of the characters appeared to me, and
especially so Masha, the Turkish woman. Sometimes Auntie dressed
us up also. Especially desirable to us was a belt with stones and
a muslin towel, embroidered with silver and gold; and I thought
myself very grand with mustaches painted with burnt cork. I
remember that looking in the mirror at my face, with black
mustaches and eyebrows, I could not refrain from a smile of
delight, though I had to assume the fierce expression of a Turk.
All these characters walked about the rooms and were treated to
various refreshments. During one of the Yule-tides of my earlier
childhood, all the Islenevs came to us dressed up: the father, who
was my wife's grandfather, with his three sons and three daughters.
They all had on costumes, which appeared most extraordinary to us;
there was a toilet, there was a boot, there was a cardboard belt,
and something else besides. The Islenevs, having driven thirty
miles, changed dress in the village, and on entering our hall
Islenev sat down to the piano and sang some verses he had invented,
to a tune which I can still remember. The verses were: `We have
come here to congratulate you on the New Year; should we succeed in
amusing you we shall be happy!' This was all very extraordinary,
and probably entertaining to the elders, but for us children the
most amusing were the household servants. Such entertainments took
place during Christmas and at New Year, sometimes even later, up to
the day of Baptism9; but after New Year few people came and the
amusements slackened. So it was on the day when Vasiliy was
leaving for Shcherbakova. I remember we were sitting in a circle
in the corner of the dimly lighted hall on home-made chairs of
imitation mahogany with leather cushions and playing at `Rublik'.
One of us was walking about searching for the ruble, while we,
passing it on from hand to hand, were singing, `Pass on Rublik,
pass on Rublik.' I remember one of the servant-girls kept singing
these words with an especially pleasant and true voice. Suddenly
the door of the pantry opened, and Vasiliy, buttoned up in an
unusual way, without his tray and china, passed along the end of
the hall into the study. Then only did I learn that Vasiliy was
going as overseer to Shcherbakova. I understood it was a
promotion, and was glad for Vasiliy, and at the same time I was not
only sorry to part from him, to know that he would no longer be in
the pantry and would no longer carry us on his tray, but I did not
even understand, did not believe, that such an alteration could
take place. I became dreadfully and mysteriously sad, and the
chant of `Pass on Rublik' grew pathetically touching. And when
Vasiliy left my aunt, and with his dear one-sided smile approached
us, and kissed us on the shoulder, I experienced for the first time
horror and fear in the presence of the inconstancy of life, and
pity and love toward dear Vasiliy. When I afterward used to meet
Vasiliy I saw in him merely a good or a bad overseer of my
brother's, a man whom I respected, but there was no longer any
trace of the former sacred, brotherly, human feeling.
"In a mysterious way, incomprehensible to the human mind, the
impressions of early childhood are preserved in one's memory, and
not only are they preserved, but they grow in some unfathomed depth
of the soul, like a seed thrown on good ground, and after many
years all of a sudden thrust their vernal shoots into God's world."
Such a seed-time in Tolstoy's early childhood were the days of
his eldest brother Nikolenka's games with the younger brothers.
His great influence on Tolstoy's life is referred to in his
Reminiscences more than once, for example, in the stories about the
Fanfaronov Hill, Ant Brothers, and the Green Wand.
"Yes, the Fanfaronov Hill is one of the earliest, pleasantest,
and most important memories. My eldest brother, Nikolenka, was
six years older than I. He was consequently ten or eleven when I
was four or five, namely, at the time when he led us on to the
Fanfaronov Hill. In our earlier youth we used to address him (I
don't know how it happened) as `you'.10 He was a wonderful boy,
and later a wonderful man. Turgenev used very truly to say about
him that but for the lack of certain faults he would have been a
great writer. For instance he was deficient in vanity; he was not
in the least interested in what people thought of him. Whereas the
qualities of a writer which he did possess were, first of all, a
fine artistic sense, an extremely developed sense of proportion, a
good-natured, gay human, an extraordinary, inexhaustible
imagination, and a truthful and highly moral view of life--and all
this without the slightest conceit. His imagination was such that
he could during whole hours narrate ghost stories or humorous tales
in the spirit of Mrs. Radcliffe without pause or hesitation, and
with such vivid realization of what he was narrating that one
forgot it was all invention. When he was not narrating or reading
(he read a great deal) he used to draw. He almost invariably drew
devils with horns and pointed mustaches, intertwined in the most
varied attitudes and occupied in the most various ways. These
drawings were also full of imagination and humor.
"Well, it was he who, when I and my brothers were, myself five
years old, Mitenka six, Seryozha seven, announced to us that he
possessed a secret by means of which, when it should be disclosed,
all men would become happy: there would be no diseases, no
troubles, no one would be angry with any one, all would love each
other, all would become `Ant brothers.' He probably meant
`Moravian brothers,' about whom he had heard and had been reading,
but in our language they were `Ant brothers.'11 And I remember
that the word Ant especially pleased us, as reminding us of ants in
an ant-hill. We even organized a game of ant brothers, which
consisted in our sitting down under chairs, sheltering ourselves
with boxes, screening ourselves with handkerchiefs, and, thus,
crouching in the dark, pressing ourselves against each other. I
remember experiencing a special feeling of love and pathos and
liking this game very much. The ant brotherhood was revealed to
us, but the chief secret as to the way for all men to cease
suffering any misfortune, to leave off quarreling and being angry,
and to become continuously happy, this secret, as he told us, was
written by him on a green stick, which stick he had buried by the
road on the edge of a certain ravine, at which spot, since my
corpse must be buried somewhere, I have asked to be buried in
memory of Nikolenka. Besides this little stick, there was also a
certain Fanfaronov Hill up which he said he could lead us, if only
we would fulfill all the appointed conditions. These conditions
were: first, to stand in a corner and not think of the white bear.
The second condition was to walk without wavering along a crack
between the boards of the floor; and the third, for a whole year
not to see a hare either alive or dead or cooked; and it was
necessary to swear not to reveal these secrets to anyone. He who
should fulfill these conditions and others more difficult which
Nikolenka was going to communicate later, would have his desire
fulfilled, whatever it might be. We had to express our desires.
Seryozha desired to be able to model horses and hens out of wax.
Mitenka desired to be able to draw all kinds of things like an
artist on a large scale. I could not devise anything but to be
able to draw small pictures. All this, as it happens with
children, was very soon forgotten and no one ascended the
Fanfaronov Hill, but I remember the profound importance with which
Nikolenka initiated us into these mysteries, and our respect and
awe in regard to the wonderful things which were revealed. But I
have especially kept a strong impression of the `Ant Brotherhood'
and the mysterious green stick connected with it destined to make
all men happy.
"As I now conjecture, Nikolenka had probably read or heard of
the Freemasons--about their aspiration toward the happiness of
mankind, and about the mysterious initiatory rites on entering
their order; he had probably also heard about the Moravian
brothers, and linking all into one by his active imagination, his
love to men, and his aptness to kindness, he invented all these
tales, enjoyed them himself, and mystified us with them.
"The ideals of ant brothers lovingly cleaving to each other,
though not beneath two arm-chairs curtained with handkerchiefs, but
of all mankind under the wide dome of the sky, has remained the
same for me. As then I believed that there existed a little green
stick whereon was written that which could destroy all the evil in
men and give them great welfare, so do I now also believe that such
truth exists, and that it will be revealed to men and will give
them all that it promises."12
Later on we shall refer to Tolstoy's memories of his brother
Dmitriy. Here we will quote another extract from his Reminiscences
concerning his brother Sergey, also relating to his early
childhood: "Mitenka was for me a companion, Nikolenka I respected,
but Seryozha I enthusiastically admired and imitated. I loved him
and wished to be like him; I admired his handsome appearance, his
singing--he was always singing--his drawing, his cheerful mirth,
and especially, however strange it may be to say so, the
spontaneity of his egotism. I always realized myself, was always
conscious of my myself; I always felt whether others' thoughts and
feelings about me were just or not, and this spoiled my joy of
life. This probably is why I especially liked in others the
opposite feature, spontaneity of egotism. And for this I
especially loved Seryozha. The word loved is not correct. I loved
Nikolenka, but for Seryozha I was filled with admiration as for
something quite apart and incomprehensible to me. It was a human
life, a very fine one, but completely incomprehensible to me,
mysterious, and therefore specially attractive.
"A few days ago he died, and in his last illness and his death
he was to me as unfathomable and as dear as in our bygone days of
childhood. In more advanced age, his latter days, he loved me
more, valued my attachment, was proud of me, wished to agree with
me, but could not, and remained the same as he had been, entirely
original, altogether himself, handsome, high-spirited, proud, and
above all and to such an extent a truthful and sincere man that I
have never seen his like. He was what he was; he concealed
nothing, and did not desire to appear anything.
"With Nikolenka I wished to associate, to talk, to think;
Seryozha I only wished to imitate. This imitation began in our
first childhood. He took to keeping his own hens and chickens, and
I did the same. This was perhaps my first insight into animal
life. I remember chickens of various breeds--gray, spotted, or
tufted, how they used to run to us at our call, how we fed them and
hated the big Dutch cock which maltreated them. Seryozha had
begged these chickens for himself; I did the same in imitation of
him. Seryozha used to draw and paint on long strips of paper (and
as it appeared to me wonderfully well) rows of hens and cocks of
various colors, and I did the same but not so well. (In this I
hoped to perfect myself by the means of the Fanfaronov Hill.)
Seryozha, when the double doors were removed in spring, had the
idea of feeding the hens through the keyhole in the door by means
of long thin sausages of black and white bread, and I did the
same."13
Let us add here a few more fragmentary reminiscences related by
Tolstoy himself, which, like most of the stories of his early
childhood, it is impossible to arrange in a chronological order,
though it would be a pity to omit them, as they give some
interesting traits descriptive of his childhood.
"One childish memory of an insignificant event left a strong
impression on me," said Tolstoy. "It was, I see it now, in our
nursery rooms upstairs. Temeshov was sitting talking to Feodor
Ivanovich. I do not remember why the good-natured Temeshov, very
quietly said: `My cook (or servant, I do not remember which) took
it into his head to eat meat during fast time. I sent him to be a
soldier.'14 The reason why I now remember this is, that at the
time it seemed to something strange and incomprehensible.
"Another event was the Perov inheritance. I remember a
caravan, with horses and carts loaded high, which arrived from
Nerucha15 when the lawsuit concerning this estate had been won,
thanks to Glya Mitrovich.
"He was a tall old man with long hair, addicted to fits of
drinking, a former serf of the owner, and a great specialist, such
as there used to be in olden times, in dealing with various cases
that might lead to litigation. He directed the case, and in return
he was kept until his death in Yasnaya Polyana.
"Other memorable impressions are: the arrival of Peter Tolstoy,
the father of my sister's husband, Valerian; he used to come into
the drawing-room in his dressing-gown; we did not understand why,
but later we learned that it was because he was in the last stage
of consumption. Another impression: the arrival of his brother,
the famous traveller in America, Feodor Tolstoy. I remember how
he drove up in a post-chaise, entered my father's study, and
ordered his special dry French bread to be brought. He did not eat
any other. At this time my brother Sergey was suffering from a
very bad toothache. He asked what was the matter, and having
ascertained, said that he could cure the pain by magnetism. He
entered the study and locked the door after him. In a few minutes
he came out with two cambrick pocket handkerchiefs--I remember they
had a fancy violet edge--and he gave the handkerchiefs, saying:
`When he puts on this one the pain will cease, and this one is for
him to sleep with.' The handkerchiefs were taken, put on Seryozha,
and we carried away and kept the impression that everything took
place as he had said.
"I remember his fine, bronzed face, shaven, save for thick
white whiskers down to the corners of the mouth and similarly white
curly hair. I should like to relate much about this extraordinary,
guilty, and attractive man!"
Here, unfortunately, these reminiscences stop short.
Let us conclude this chapter on the childhood of Tolstoy with
the poetic memory in his published story.
"Happy, happy, irrevocable period of childhood! How can one
help loving and cherishing its memories? These memories refresh
and elevate my soul and serve me as a source of my best
enjoyments....
"After the prayer I rolled myself into my coverlet, and my
heart felt light and cheerful. One dream chased another, but what
were they about? They were intangible, but filled with pure love
and hope for the bright happiness. I thought of Karl Ivanovich and
his bitter fate, of the only man whom I knew to be unhappy, and I
felt so sorry for him, and so loved him, that the tears gushed from
my eyes, and I thought: God grant him happiness, and me an
opportunity of helping him, and alleviating his sorrow; I was ready
to sacrifice everything for him. Then I stuck my favorite china
toy--a hare or a dog--into the corner of the down pillow, and I was
happy seeing how comfortable and snug the toy was there. I also
prayed the Lord that He would give happiness to everybody, and that
all should be satisfied, and that tomorrow should be good weather
for the outing, and then I turned on my other side, my thoughts and
dreams became mixed and disturbed, and I fell softly, quietly
asleep, my face wet with tears.
"Will that freshness, carelessness, need of love, and strength
of faith, which one possesses in childhood, ever return? What time
can be better than that when all the best virtues--innocent
merriment and limitless need of love--are the only incitements in
life?
"Where are all those ardent prayers, where is the best
gift--those tears of contrition? The consoling angel came on his
pinions, with a smile wiped off those tears, and fanned sweet
dreams to the uncorrupted imagination of the child.
"Is it possible life has left such heavy traces in my heart
that these tears and that ecstasy have forever gone from me? Is it
possible, nothing but memories are left?"
Notes to Chapter IV:
1. N. P. Zagoskin, "Count L.N. Tolstoy and his Student Years."
Historic Review, Jan. 1894, p. 87.
2. The governess; see concerning her further on in the following
chapter.
3. First Reminiscences (from unpublished autobiographical
sketches). Tolstoy's Complete Works, tenth Russian edition, vol.
xiii, p. 515.
4. "Toinette, oh! she was charming!"
5. "16th August 1836.--Nicholas has today made me a strange
proposal - that I should marry him, be a mother to his children,
and never desert them. I refused the first proposal, I have
promised to fulfill the other as long as I live."
6. From Tolstoy's rough Memories and uncorrected notes intrusted
to me.
7. The leader of a widespread and bloody rebellion in the reign of
Catherine II.
8. From Tolstoy's draft Reminiscences.
9. Sixth of January.
10. Instead of the singular "thou," as is usual in Russian between
near relatives or friends.
11. The word for ant in Russian is "muravey," whence the
similarity.
12. From Tolstoy's draft Reminiscences.
13. From Tolstoy's draft Reminiscences.
14. In Russia, in the days of serfdom, the enlisting of a serf
into the ranks for the fifteen years was regarded as the severest
punishment short of flogging him to death.
15. This estate of 900 acres which we received by inheritance was
sold for the purpose of feeding the starving during the great
famine of 1840.
Chapter V
Boyhood
With the beginning of Tolstoy's boyhood came the time for the
more serious education of his elder brothers, Nikolay and Sergey.
For this purpose, in autumn of 1836, the Tolstoy family moved to
Moscow, and settled down at Plushchikha, in a house belonging to
one Shcherbakov. This house is still in use, and stands back
opposite St. Mary the Virgin's Church, Smolenskiy, its facade
forming an acute angle with the direction of the street.
In this house they lived during the winter of 1836-7, and after
their father's death they remained there for the summer.
Once in the summer of 1837 Tolstoy's father went to Tula on
business, and in the street on his way to the house of one
Temeshov, a friend, all at once he staggered, fell on the ground,
and died of apoplexy. Some people said he was poisoned by his
man-servant, because, though his money disappeared, yet some
unnegotiable bonds he had on him were brought to the Tolstoys in
Moscow by an unknown beggar.
His body was taken by his sister Aleksandra and his eldest son
Nikolay to Yasnaya Polyana, in Tula, where he was buried.
His father's death was the event which left the deepest
impression on Tolstoy in his childhood. He used to say that this
death called forth in him a feeling of religious awe, bringing the
question of life and death vividly before him for the first time.
As he was not present when his father died, he would not believe
for a long time that he was no longer alive. For a long time
afterward, if he looked at the faces of strangers in the streets of
Moscow, he not only fancied, but was almost certain, that he might,
at any moment, come upon his father alive. And this mixed attitude
of hope and unbelief called forth in him a special feeling of
tenderness. After their father's death the Tolstoys remained for
the summer in Moscow, and this was the first and last time that
Tolstoy spent a summer in town.
They sometimes made excursions to places near the city in a
carriage drawn by four bay horses driven abreast, according to
custom. These occasions, on which they were unattended by a
post-boy, made a strong impression on him - attributable, it may
be, not only to the beauty of Kuntsev-Neskuchny, but in some
measure to escape from the unpleasant smells emitted by the
factories which even then were disfiguring the suburbs of Moscow.
"The death of her son quite killed my grandmother, Pelageya
Nikolayevna; she wept perpetually, and every evening ordered the
door into the next room to be opened, and said that she saw her son
there and talked with him. Sometimes she asked with horror of her
daughters: `Is it really, really true that he is no longer?' She
died at the end of nine months from a broken heart and grief."
His grandmother's death reminded Tolstoy anew of the religious
import of life and death - it may be without his being fully
conscious of it, but the impression was there, and that a strong
one. His grandmother suffered for a long time, till at last she
was seized with dropsy, and Tolstoy remembers the horror he felt
when he was admitted to take leave of her, and how she, lying in
her lofty white bed, all in white, looked round with difficulty on
her grandchildren, and without making a motion let them kiss her
white hand which had swelled up like a pillow. But, as is usual
with children, the sense of fear and pity in the presence of death
was soon succeeded by playfulness, thoughtlessness, and love of
mischief. On one holiday, little Vladimir Milyutin, a friend
Tolstoy's of the same age, came to stay in the house; it was he who
made to the Tolstoys while they were still in the gymnasium the
remarkable statement - though the information did not make a strong
impression - that there was no God.
Just before dinner the wildest and strangest merry-making was
gain on in the children's room, in which Sergey, Dmitriy, and Lev
were taking part, though Milyutin and Nikolay had more sense than
the rest and kept aloof. The fun consisted in burning paper in
pots behind a partition where the commode stood. It is difficult
to imagine where all the amusement was, but no doubt the sport was
greatly enjoyed. All of a sudden in the midst of the merrymaking,
the light-haired, wiry, and energetic little tutor, St. Thomas,
described in Boyhood as St. Jerome, came in with a quick step, and,
without paying any attention to their doings, and without scolding
them, said to them, with the lower jaw of his white face trembling:
"Votre grand'mere est morte!"
"I remember," related Tolstoy, "how at that time new jackets of
black material, bound with white braid, were made for all of us.
It was dreadful to see the undertaker's workmen hurrying about the
house, and then the coffin brought with a lid covered with glazed
brocade, and my grandmother's severe face with its crooked nose, in
a white cap, with a white kerchief on her neck, lying high in the
coffin on the table, and it was piteous to see the tears of our
aunts and of Pashenka, but at the same time the new braided jackets
and the soothing attitude taken toward us by those around gratified
us. I do not remember why we were removed to the aisle during the
funeral, and I remember how pleasant it was to me to overhear a
conversation of some gossiping female guests near us, who said:
`Completely orphans, the father has only just died, and now the
grandmother is gone too.'"
Tolstoy has mixed recollections of good and evil about Prosper
St. Thomas, the French tutor.
"I do not now remember for what," says Tolstoy in his
Reminiscences, "but it was for something utterly undeserving of
punishment that St. Thomas first locked me up in a room and
secondly threatened to flog me. Hereupon I had a dreadful feeling
of anger, indignation, and disgust, not only toward St. Thomas
himself, but toward the violence which it was intended to inflict
upon me. Very likely this incident was the cause of the dreadful
horror and repulsion toward every kind of violence which I have
experienced all my life."1
"However, the tutor, St. Thomas, watched attentively the
manifestation of gifts in his little pupil. He probably had
noticed something extraordinary in the boy, for he used to say
about him: "Ce petit a une tete, c'est un petit Moliere."2
After the death of Tolstoy's grandmother, complicated
transactions in connection with the Court of Wards making it
imperative that expenses should be cut down, part of the family
returned to estates, namely, Dmitriy, Lev, and Mariya, with their
aunt, Tatyana Aleksandrovna Yergolskaya. Here the children's
tutors were replaced by new German teachers and Russian students
from the theological seminaries. Their guardian was the Countess
Aleksandra Ilyinishna Osten-Saken.
Of this remarkable woman Tolstoy thus writes in his memoirs:
"My aunt Aleksandra Ilyinishna was very early given in marriage
in St. Petersburg to a wealthy Count Osten-Saken of the Baltic
Provinces. The match appeared very brilliant, but from the
conjugal point of view it terminated very sadly for my aunt,
although perhaps the consequences of this marriage were beneficial
to her soul. Aunt Aline, as we called her in the family, was
probably very attractive, with her large blue eyes and the meek
expression of her pale face, as she is depicted in a very good
portrait taken when she was a girl of sixteen. Soon after the
marriage, Osten-Saken went with his young wife to his great estate
in the Baltic Provinces, and there he increasingly manifested his
diseased mental condition, which at first showed itself only in a
very marked and causeless jealousy. During the very first year of
the marriage, when my aunt was already nearing childbirth, the
husband's malady increased to such an extent that spells of
complete aberration used to take possession of him, during which he
thought that his foes, desirous of carrying away his wife, were
surrounding him, and that his only way of escape was in flight.
This was in summer. Having got up early in the morning, he
announced to his wife that the only means of safety was to flee,
that he had ordered the calesh, that they were to start
immediately, and that she must get ready. And indeed the calesh
drove up, he placed my aunt inside, and ordered the coachman to
drive as quickly as possible. On the way he got two pistols out of
a box, cocked the trigger, and having given one to my aunt, told
her that if his foes found out about his flight they would catch
him up, and then they were lost, and the only thing which would
then remain for them to do would be to kill each other. My
frightened and bewildered aunt took the pistol and tried to
dissuade her husband, but he did not listen to her, and only kept
turning round, anticipating pursuit, and urging the coachman to
speed. Unfortunately, out of a lane converging upon the high-road
there appeared a carriage. He called out that all was lost, and
ordered my aunt to shoot herself, and himself shot point-blank into
my aunt's breast. Startled by what he had done, and seeing that
the carriage which had frightened him had turned in another
direction, he stopped, lifted my wounded and bleeding aunt from the
carriage, put her down on the road, and galloped away. Fortunately
for my aunt, some peasants soon came across her, raised her, and
drove her to the pastor, who bound up her wounds as well as he
could, and sent for the doctor. The wound was in the right side of
the chest, passing completely through the body (my aunt showed me
the scar remaining), but was not serious. When she was recovering,
and still lying enceinte at the pastor's house, her husband, having
come to himself, hurried to her, and after explaining to the doctor
how she was unfortunately wounded, he sought an interview with her.
This interview was dreadful. He, cunning as are all the mentally
diseased, pretended repentance for his act, and concern only about
her health. Having remained with her some time talking quite
rationally about everything, he profited by a moment when they were
left alone together to attempt to fulfill his intention. As if
concerned with her health, he asked her to show him her tongue, and
when she put it out, he caught hold of it with one hand, and with
the other brought out a razor he had in readiness, with the
intention of cutting the tongue off. A struggle ensued - she tore
herself away from him, screamed; people rushed in, seized him, and
led him away.
"Thenceforth his insanity took a thoroughly definite form, and
he lived for a long time in some institution for lunatics, having
no communication with my aunt. Soon after this, my aunt was
removed to her parents' house in St. Petersburg, and there she gave
birth to a dead child. For fear of the consequences of grief at
her child's death, she was told that it was alive, and a girl who
was at the same time born of a servant known to the family, the
wife of a court cook, was brought to her. This girl, Pashenka, who
lived with us, was already grown up when I begin myself to
remember. I do not know when the history of her birth was
disclosed to Pashenka, but when I knew her she was already aware
she was not my aunt's daughter. Aunt Aleksandra Ilyinishna, after
what had happened to her, lived first with her parents, and then at
my father's. After his death she was our guardian, but when I was
twelve she died in the convent of Optin Pustin.
"My aunt was a truly religious woman. Her favorite occupation
was reading the lives of the saints, conversing with pilgrims,
crazy devotees, monks, and nuns, of whom some always lived in our
house, while others only visited my aunt. Among the constant
residents was the nun Mariya Gerassimovna, my sister's godmother,
who had in her youth undertaken pilgrimages in the character of a
`crazy Ivanushka.' She was my sister's godmother, because my
mother had promised this to her, should she by prayer obtain from
God for my mother a daughter, a boon which my mother greatly
desired after bearing four sons. A daughter was born, and Mariya
Gerassimovna became her godmother, living partly in the Tula
convent and partly at our house.
"Aunt Aleksandra Ilyinishna was not only outwardly religious,
keeping the fasts, praying much, and associating with people of
saintly life, such as was in her time the hermit Leonid in the
Optin Pustin, but she herself lived a truly Christian life,
endeavoring not only to avoid all luxury and acceptance of service,
but also, as much as possible, to serve others. She never had any
money, because she gave away all she had to those who asked.
"The maid Gasha, who after my grandmother's death passed over
to my aunt, has related to me how during their Moscow life my aunt,
in going to Matins, used carefully to pass on tiptoe by her
sleeping maid, and herself discharged all the functions which
according to the then received custom should have been done by the
maid. In food and dress she was as simple and unexacting as it is
possible to imagine. However unpleasant it is to me to say so, I
remember from childhood the specific acrid smell connected with my
aunt, probably due to negligence in her toilet, and this was that
graceful, poetic Aline with beautiful blue eyes who used to like to
read and copy French verses, who played on the harp, and always had
great success at the biggest balls! I remember how she was always
as affectionate and kind to all the most important men and women as
to nuns and pilgrims. I remember how her brother-in-law, Yushkov,
liked to make fun of her, and how he once sent from Kazan a big box
directed to her. In the box another box was found, in that one a
third, and so on until there appeared quite a tine one, in which,
wrapped in cotton-wool, lay a china monk. I remember how my father
laughed good-naturedly, showing this parcel to my aunt. I also
remember my father relating at table how she, according to his
assertion, with her cousin Molchanova, ran after a priest whom they
reverenced that they might get his benediction. My father
described this, comparing it to coursing, saying that Molchanova
cut the priest off from the gates before the alter; he then threw
himself toward the north gates, she in pursuit made a miss, and
here it was that Aline caught him. I remember her dear,
good-natured laugh and face shining with pleasure. The religious
feeling which filled her soul was evidently so important to her, so
much higher than all the rest, that she could not be angry or
annoyed by anything, she could not attribute to worldly matters the
importance which is generally given to them. She took care of us
when she was our guardian, but all she did did not absorb her soul,
all was subdued to the service of God as she understood that
service."3
As has been stated before, the younger children, i.e., Dmitriy,
Mariya, and Lev, lived with Aunt Tatyana in the country after their
grandmother's death, and the elder, Nikolay and Sergey, remained
with their guardian, Aleksandra Ilyinishna, in Moscow. In the
summer the whole family met at Yasnaya Polyana. Thus passed the
years of 1838-9, and the year 1840 began a year of famine; the
crops were so poor that the Tolstoys had to buy corn to feed their
serfs, and the means for this purpose were obtained from the sale
of the Neruch estate which they had inherited.
The food for the horses was cut short and the free supply of
oats was stopped. Tolstoy recollects how sorry the children were
for their favorite horses, and how they secretly ran to the
peasants' field of oats and, without being aware of the crime they
were committing, plucked the oat stems, gathered the grain in their
skirts, and treated their horses to it.
In the autumn of 1840 the whole family moved to Moscow where
they spent the winter of 1840-41; for the summer they returned to
Yasnaya again. In the autumn of 1841 their guardian, the Countess
A.I. Osten-Saken, died.
She died in the convent Optina Pustin. During her stay there
the children remained in Yasnaya Polyana with their Aunt Tatyana.
But when the news reached her that Aleksandra Ilyinishna was on her
death-bed, Tatyana went to the convent.
After her death her sister, Pelageya Ilyinishna, who was then
the wife of V.I. Yushkov, a Kazan landowner, arrived at Moscow from
Kazan. Aunt tatyana and all the children came there in the autumn.
The elder brother of Tolstoy, who at that time was already a
student of the first year in the university, greeted his aunt with
the words: "Ne nous abandonnez pas, chere tante, il ne nous reste
ques vous au monde." Her eyes filled with tears and she made up
her mind "se sacrifier." What she meant by this no one knew; the
result was that she at once began preparations for a journey to
Kazan. For this purpose she ordered some boats which she loaded
with everything she could carry away from Yasnaya Polyana. All the
servants had to follow - carpenters, tailors, locksmiths, chefs,
upholsterers, etc. Moreover, to each of the four brothers Tolstoy
was attached a serf of about the same age, as man-servant. One of
these was Vanyusha, who afterward accompanied Tolstoy to the
Caucasus and who now spends his old age at his daughter's house in
Tula.
At this time Tolstoy was twelve years old. Masters and
servants started for the journey in autumn, and in numerous
carriages and other vehicles crept slowly from Tula to Kazan.
During the journey something like regular habits were maintained.
Sometimes they stopped in the fields, sometimes in the woods,
bathed, walked about and gathered mushrooms. The parting with Aunt
Tatyana Aleksandrovna was distressing, but she had never been on
friendly terms with Aunt Pelageya Ilyinishna, and, after the death
of Aleksandra Ilyinishna, she settled with her sister, Helena
Aleksandrovna Tolstaya, in the village of Pokrovskoye. The want of
a good understanding between Tatyana Aleksandrovna and Pelageya
Ilyinishna arose from the fact that the husband of the latter had
been in love with Tatyana in his youth and made her an offer of
marriage, which she rejected. Pelageya Ilyinishna could never
forgive her husband's love for the other and hated her for it,
though in public they appeared to be on thoroughly friendly terms.
Pelageya's husband , V.I. Yushkov, a retired colonel of
hussars, has left behind him in Kazan the memory of an educated,
witty, and kind-hearted man, who loved jokes and lively
conversation, and such he remained until his death.
Pelageya herself was remembered in Kazan as a very kind, but
not particularly clever woman. She was very pious, and after the
death of her husband in 1869 she retired to the convent Optina
Pustin. Later on she lived in a convent in Tula and finally moved
to Yasnaya Polyana, where she fell ill and died.
All through her long life she strictly observed all the rites
of the orthodox church; but in her eightieth year, before her
death, which she greatly feared, she declined to take the communion
and grew angry with other people on account of the misery which she
suffered herself in the presentiment of her end.
Let us now point out certain stages in the moral development of
children which we find in such of Tolstoy's novels as are
descriptive of that period of life, and which carry, in our
opinion, a real autobiographical character.
One trait often observable in children, and which perhaps
existed in Tolstoy himself in a high degree, is extreme shyness -
the outcome of self-consciousness.
People very often make a distinction between these two
characteristics - self-consciousness and shyness. They find fault
with the one and encourage the other, or vice versa, but the traits
are merely the reverse sides of the same coin, and are related to
one another as cause and effect. A man is often shy because he is
self-conscious, and as the shyness increases it intensifies his
self-consciousness. The former manifests itself on any trifling
ground, for instance in consequence of misgivings as to one's
appearance. This is how Tolstoy speaks of it in himself under the
character of Nikolenka:
"I had the oddest conceptions of beauty - I even regarded Karl
Ivanovich as the first beau in the world; but I knew full well that
I was not good-looking, and in this opinion was not mistaken.
Therefore, every reference to my looks was offensive to me....
"Moments of despair frequently came over me. I imagined that
there was no happiness in the world for a man with such a broad
nose, fat lips, and small gray eyes, as mine were. I asked God to
do a miracle, and to change me into a handsome boy, and everything
I then had, and everything I should ever have in the future, I
would gladly have given for a pretty face."4
As soon as man turns his glance upon himself, a conflict of
most varied feelings rises in him. If he is a man of intelligence
and morality, he is bound to feel dissatisfaction, and the feeling
must call forth a longing for improvement in things external, as
well as in his own heart. As he has no power to improve the
former, e.g., to make his nose more shapely, therefore it is
perhaps painful to think about the matter. But, if the mind be
strong, it will lead one to the path of inward self-perfecting, and
thereby open the way of endless progress.
This is exactly the conflict of feeling and thought which we
can follow in the child, boy, and youth presented to us by Tolstoy
in Nikolenka Irtenev. In describing his development the author
endows him with his own deep, rich inner world.
In a conversation with one of his friends, Tolstoy said that
his early youth was spent under the influence of his brother
Seryozha, and in attempts to imitate him. This brother he
specially loved and admired. In somewhat riper years he was
chiefly influenced by his brother Nikolay, whom he loved, not
indeed so passionately as he did Seryozha, but still very dearly,
and whom he respected more.5
Glancing through the novel Childhood, we find the account of a
similar feeling in the description of the love of Nikolenka Irtenev
for Seryozha Ivin.
These are the glowing words in which he depicts this affection:
"I felt unconquerably attracted by him. It was enough for my
happiness to see him, and all the powers of my soul were
concentrated upon this desire. When I passed three or four days
without seeing him, I grew lonely, and felt sad enough to weep.
All my dreams, waking and sleeping, were of him. When I lay down
to sleep, I wished that I might dream of him; when I closed my
eyes, I saw him before me, and I treasured this vision as my
greatest pleasure. I did not dare intrust this feeling to anyone
in the world, I valued it so.
"Perhaps he was tired of feeling my restless eyes continually
directed toward him, or he did not feel any sympathy for me, but he
visibly preferred to play and to talk with Volodya, rather than
with me. I was, nevertheless, satisfied, wished for nothing,
demanded nothing, and was ready to sacrifice everything for him.
"Under the name of the Ivins, I have described the Count's
Pushkin boys, one of whom, Aleksandr, has just died - the one whom
I liked so much in childhood. Our favourite game was playing at
soldiers."6
Tolstoy thus depicts the turning-point in his development, the
transition from childhood to boyhood:
"My reader, have you ever happened to notice at a certain stage
of your life how your view of things completely changed, as though
all the things which you used to know, heretofore, suddenly turned
a different, unfamiliar side to you? Some such moral
transformation took place in me for the first time, during our
journey, and from this I count the beginning of my boyhood.
"I obtained for the first time a clear idea of the fact that
we, that is, our family, were not alone in the world, that not all
interests centered about us, and there was another life for people
who had nothing in common with us, who did not care for us, and who
even did not have any idea of our existence. To be sure, I knew it
before; but I did not know it in the same manner as now - I was not
conscious of it, did not feel it."7
At an early age the child had taken up philosophic argument,
and even in his boyhood the path is foreshadowed by which his
powerful mind was to be developed to influence so many others.
"People will hardly believe what the favorite and most constant
subjects of my thoughts were during the period of my boyhood - for
they were inconsistent with my age and station. But, according to
my opinion, the inconsistency between a man's position and his
moral activity is the surest token of truth....
"At one time it occurred to me that happiness did not depend on
external causes, but on our relation to them; that a man who is
accustomed to bear suffering could not be unhappy. To accustom
myself to endurance, I would hold for five minutes at a time the
dictionaries of Tatishchev in my outstretched hands, though it
cause me unspeakable pain, or I would go into the lumber room and
strike my bare back so painfully with a rope that the tears would
involuntarily appear in my eyes.
"At another time, I happened to think that death awaited me at
any hour and at any minute, and wondering how it was people had not
seen this before me, I decided that man cannot be happy otherwise
than by enjoying the present and not caring for the future. Under
the influence of this thought, I abandoned my lessons for two or
three days, and did nothing but lie on my bed and enjoy myself
reading some novel and eating honey cakes which I bought with my
last money.
"At another time, as I was standing at the blackboard and
drawing various figures upon it with a piece of chalk, I was
suddenly struck by the idea, Why is symmetry pleasant to the eye?
What is symmetry? It is an implanted feeling, I answered myself.
What is it based upon? Is symmetry to be found in everything in
life? Not at all. Here is life - and I drew an oval figure on the
board. After life the soul passes into eternity. Here is eternity
- and I drew, on one side of the figure,, a line to the very edge of
the board. Why is there no such line on the other side of the
figure? Really, what kind of eternity is that which is only on one
side? We have no doubt existed before this life, although we have
lost the recollection of it....
"By none of these philosophic considerations was I so carried
away as by skepticism, which at one time led me to a condition
bordering on insanity. I imagined that nothing existed in the
whole world outside of me, that objects were no objects, but only
images which appeared whenever I turned my attention to them, and
that these images would immediately disappear when I no longer
thought of them. In short, I held the conviction with Schelling
that objects do not exist, but only my relation to them. There
were moments when, under the influence of this fixed idea, I
reached such a degree of absurdity that I sometimes turned in the
opposite direction, hoping to take nothingness by surprise, where
I was not."8
Boyhood ends by a description of Nikolenka Irtenev's friendship
with Nekhlyudov.9 The conclusion of this novel expresses in a
few words that ideal of man which Tolstoy has sought and followed
all his life, and which he still seeks in the sunset of his days.
"Of course, under the influence of Nekhlyudov I involuntarily
appropriated his point of view, the essence of which was an
ecstatic worship of the ideal of virtue, and the conviction that a
man's destiny is continually to perfect himself. At that time it
seemed a practicable affair to correct humanity at large, to
destroy all human vices and misfortunes - and therefore it looked
easy and simple to correct oneself, to appropriate to oneself all
virtues and be happy."10
It is evident that this tendency toward abstract thought, this
timidity and shyness, this striving after an ideal - that all these
qualities manifested in the child were the primitive elements which
gradually formed the harmonious soul of the artist-thinker. We now
see the full bloom of these spiritual germs which were planted in
Tolstoy's boyhood.
Brought up in a patriarchally aristocratic and, in its way,
religious atmosphere, Tolstoy, in his childhood, with his
responsive soul, absorbed all he could and was sincerely religious.
Hints of this we see in Childhood. But this "habitual"
religiousness fell away at the first breeze of rationalism.
He speaks thus in his Confession about his religious education,
given as it was in accordance with the views of those days:
"I was christened and educated in the faith of the Orthodox
Greek Church; I was taught it in my childhood, and I learned it in
my youth. Nevertheless, at eighteen years of age, when I quitted
the university, I had discarded all belief in everything that I had
been taught. To judge by what I can now remember, I could never
have had a very serious belief; it must have been a kind of trust
in this teaching, based on a trust in my teachers and elders, and
a trust, moreover, not very firmly grounded.
"I remember once, in my eleventh year, a boy, now long since
dead, Vladimir M---, a pupil in a gymnasium, spent a Sunday with
us, and brought us the news of the last discovery in the gymnasium,
namely, that there was no god, and that all we were taught on the
subject was a mere invention. This was in 1838. I remember well
how interested my elder brothers were in this news. I was admitted
to their deliberations, and we all eagerly accepted the theory as
something particularly attractive and possibly quite true."
But of course this rationalism could not shake the foundations
of his soul. these foundations withstood terrible life-storms and
brought him to the path of truth.
Tolstoy given interesting information concerning those literary
works which, as far as he remembers, had great influence on his
moral development during his childhood and boyhood, i.e., up to
about fourteen years of age. Here is the list of the works:
The Titles - Degree of Influence
The Story of Joseph, from
the Bible - Powerful
Thousand and One Night Tales:
The Forth Thieves, Prince
Kamaralzaman - Great
The Black Fowl,
by Pogorelskiy - Very great
Russian Legends: Dobrinya
Nikitich, Ilya Muromets,
Alyosha Popovich - Powerful
Popular Tales, Pushkin's Verses:
Napoleon - Great
We shall now give a few episodes from Tolstoy's boyhood, partly
written down from his own words, partly gathered from his
relatives, but also borrowed from other sources which have already
appeared in print, and which we have ourselves edited. In doing as
above mentioned, we shall make a selection, being guided therein by
authentic information which is in our possession. It is impossible
to arrange the stories in a chronological order.
"It was quite at the beginning of our Moscow life, during my
father's lifetime," Tolstoy once observed in describing his
reminiscences, "that we had a pair of very spirited horses of our
own breeding. My father's coachman was Mitka Kopilov. He was also
my father's groom, a good horseman, sportsman, and excellent
coachman, and, above all, an invaluable postilion. He was
invaluable in this respect that a boy cannot manage spirited horses
and an elderly man is too heavy and not suitable for a postilion,
so that Mitka combined the rare qualities necessary for the
purpose, which were: small stature, lightness, strength, and
agility. I remember once the phaeton was brought to the door for
my father, and the horses bolted out of the yard gate. Some one
shouted, `The Count's horses have run away!' Pashenka was
overcome. My aunts rushed to my grandmother to reassure her, but
it turned out that my father had not yet entered the carriage, and
Mitka cleverly arrested the horses and returned into the yard.
"Well, it was this same Mitka who, after the reduction of our
expenses, was given freedom on ransom. Rich merchants competed in
endeavoring to engage his services, and would have given him a big
salary, as he already flaunted silk shirts and velvet jackets. It
so happened that the turn came for his brother to be enlisted as a
soldier, and his father, already aged, summoned Mitka home to do
laborer's work for the master. And this small-sized, elegant
Dmitriy in a month's time became transformed into a modest peasant,
in bast shoes, working for the landlord, and cultivating his own
two allotments, mowing, ploughing, and, in general, doing all the
heavy peasant's task of that time. And all this was done without
the slightest murmur, with the consciousness that this should be
so, and could not be otherwise."
This was one of the events that fostered that love and respect
for the people which Tolstoy used to feel even in childhood.
Here are two episodes which Tolstoy related to me, and which,
according to his words, planted in his youthful mind germs of doubt
and dissatisfaction - with the injustice and cruelty of those very
people whom he still regarded as his "elders," and who always
appeared to him as invested with a certain kind of authority. The
authority of these people was being undermined even then.
While still a child, he was shown the unfairness, the worship
of appearances, and the fashionable contempt for everything that is
modest, the exhibition of which is so painful to childhood and
directs the little ones especially to serious thoughts and promotes
the development of their spiritual perception.
One illustration of the above was furnished by an incident
connected with the Christmas-tree at Shipov's to which the Tolstoy
children were invited, as they were related to the family. They
had just lost their father and their grandmother and were orphans,
cared for by an aunt who was in rather poor circumstances, and
hence they did not possess much attraction or importance in
fashionable society.
To the same Christmas-tree were invited the princes Gorchakov,
nephews of the then Minister of War, and the Tolstoys observed with
annoyance the difference which was made in the choice of presents
for them and for the other more honored guests; the Tolstoys
received presents of cheap wooden things, while the others had
magnificent and expensive toys.
Another case took place in Moscow.
Once they went for a walk with their German tutor. Tolstoy,
who was then nine or ten years old, his brothers and a girl named
Yuzenka, a daughter of the French governess, who lived with their
neighbors, the Islenevs, were among the children. Yuzenka was a
very good-looking and attractive girl. While walking along
Bolshaya Bronaya Street, they found themselves near a garden gate
leading to Polyakov's house. The gate was not shut and they
entered with some hesitation, not knowing what would happen; the
garden seemed to them of an unusual beauty. There were a pond with
boats, flags, and flowers, small bridges, paths, bowers, etc.; they
walked round the garden as if it was enchanted, till they were met
by a gentleman who appeared to be Astashov, the owner of the place.
He greeted them affably and invited them to look round, gave them
a row in a boat, and was so amiable that they thought their
presence actually gave pleasure to the owner of the garden.
Encouraged by their good fortune, they decided to visit this garden
again in a few days. When they entered the gate they were stopped
by an old man who asked whom they wanted to see. They gave their
surname and begged to be announced to the master. Yuzenka was not
with them. The old man returned with the answer that the garden
belonged to a private individual and the public was forbidden to
enter. They went away disappointed, and were unable to understand
why their friend's pretty face should have made so great a
difference in the attitude of strangers toward them.
Here are a few stories which indicate the originality, not to
say eccentricity, of his boyish character.
"We were once assembled at dinner," said Mariya (Tolstoy's
sister) to me; "it was in Moscow, during their grandmother's
illness, when etiquette was adhered to and everybody had to appear
in good time before grandmother came, and wait for her, so that all
were surprised to see that Lyovochka was not there. When all were
seated at the table, the grandmother, who had noticed his absence,
asked St. Thomas, the tutor, what was the reason of it, and whether
Leo had been punished. The tutor declared with some confusion that
he did not know, but that he was certain that Leo would appear in
a minute, but that he was probably detained in his room getting
ready for dinner. The grandmother was put at her ease, but, before
long, the assistant tutor entered and whispered something to St.
Thomas, who immediately jumped up and hurriedly left the room.
This was so unusual, considering the strict etiquette observed at
dinner, that everybody concluded that some great misfortune had
taken place; as Lyovochka was absent, every one was sure that he
was the person who had met with a misfortune, and all anxiously
awaited the return of St. Thomas.
"Soon the matter was cleared up and we learned what happened.
"For some unknown reason, Lyovochka (as he now tells us
himself, simply to do something extraordinary and surprise the
others) had conceived the idea of jumping from a second-story
window, a height of several yards. And in order not to have this
achievement hindered, he remained in the room alone when everybody
else went to dinner. He climbed up to the open window in the attic
and jumped into the yard. In the basement was the kitchen, and the
cook was standing by the window, when, before she realized what was
happening, Lyovochka struck the ground with a thud. We then
informed the steward, and, stepping outside, they found Lyovochka
lying in the yard in a state of unconsciousness. Luckily no bones
were broken, and the injury was limited to a slight concussion of
the brain; unconsciousness changed into sleep; he slept eighteen
hours at a stretch and woke up quite sound. You may imagine what
fear and anxiety were caused by the queer little fellow's
unpremeditated act.
"Once the idea struck him that he would clip his eyebrows; and
he carried it out, thus disfiguring a face which was never
strikingly beautiful and causing himself a great deal of grief.
"Another time," related Mariya, "we were driving in a troika
from Pirogovo to Yasnaya. During a pause in our journey, Lyovochka
got down and walked on on foot. When he carriage was ready to set
off again, he could not be found. Soon, however, the coachman
beheld from his seat his disappearing figure on the road ahead of
him, so the party started, believing he had gone on only with the
intention of resuming his seat as soon as the troika caught him up;
but this was a mistake. As the carriage approached, he quickened
his pace, and when the horse was made to trot he began to run,
apparently not desiring to take his seat. The troika advanced at
a rapid pace and he also ran as hard as he could, and kept on
running for about three versts, till at last he was tired out and
gave it up. They got him to take his seat; but he was gasping for
breath, perspiring, and broken down with fatigue."
Sofya Andreyevna, Tolstoy's wife, has many a time busied
herself with putting down particulars of his life, asking him
questions about his childhood, and listening to stories told by his
relations. Unfortunately these notes are incomplete, but
nevertheless they are very valuable. We quote a few extracts from
them, availing ourselves of the kind permission of their writer.
"Judging by tales of old aunts who have told me a few things
about my husband's childhood, and also by what my grandfather
Islenev has said (he was very friendly with Nikolay Ilyich,
Tolstoy's father), little Lyovochka was a peculiar child, in fact
quite an odd little fellow. For instance, he once entered the
saloon and made a bow to everybody backward, bending his head and
courtesying.
"When I asked Tolstoy himself and also others if he studied
well, I was answered that he 'did not.'"
S.A. Bers, Tolstoy's brother-in-law, relates the following in
his reminiscences:
"P.I. Yushkova, Tolstoy's late aunt, declared that in his
boyhood he was very frolicsome, and as a boy he was marked for his
oddity, sometimes also for his impulsive acts, as well as for a
noble heart.
"My mother related to me that in describing his first love in
his work Childhood he omitted to say that, being jealous, he pushed
the object of his love off the balcony. This was my mother, nine
years old, who had to limp for a long time afterward. He did this
because she was not talking to him but to somebody else. Later on,
she used to laugh and say to him: `Evidently you pushed me off the
terrace in my childhood that you might marry my daughter
afterward.'"11
Tolstoy himself used to relate in the family circle, in my
presence, that when he was a child of seven or eight years, he had
an ardent desire to fly. He imagined that it was quite possible if
you sat down on your heels and hugged your knees, and that the
harder the knees were clasped the higher you could fly.
Several stories by Tolstoy, published in his Books for Reading,
are autobiographical. We reproduce some characteristic passages
from them.
In the tale, The Old Horse, Tolstoy relates how he and his
three brothers got permission to have a ride. They were only
allowed to ride on a quiet old horse called Voronok. The three
elder brothers, after riding to their hearts' content and
exhausting the horse, handed it over to him.
"When my turn came, I wanted to surprise my brothers and to
show them how well I could ride, so I began to drive Raven
[Voronok] with all my might, but he did not want to get away from
the stable. And no matter how much I beat him, he would not run,
but only shied and turned back. I grew angry at the horse, and
struck him as hard as I could with my feet and with the whip. I
tried to strike him in places where it would hurt most; I broke the
whip, and began to strike his head with what was left of the whip.
But Raven would not run. Then I turned back, rode up to the valet,
and asked him for a stout switch. But the valet said to me:
"`Don't ride any more, sir! Get down! what use is therein
torturing the horse?'
"I felt offended, and said:
"`But I have not had a ride yet. Just watch me gallop!
Please, give me a good-sized switch! I will heat him up.'
"Then the valet shook his head and said:
"`Oh sir, you have no pity; why should you heat him up? He is
twenty years old. The horse is worn out; he can barely breathe,
and is old. He is so very old! Just like Pimen Timofeyich.12 You
might just as well sit down on Timofeyich's back and urge him on
with a switch. Now, would you not pity him?'
"I thought of Pimen, and listened to the valet's words. I
climbed down from the horse and, when I saw how his sweaty sides
hung down, how he breathed heavily through his nostrils, and how he
switched his bald tail, I understood that it was hard for the
horse. I felt so sorry for Raven that I began to kiss his sweaty
neck and to beg his forgiveness for having beaten him."
In the tale, How I was Taught to Ride Horseback, Tolstoy
recalls how together with his brothers he went to a riding-school.
"Then they brought a pony. It was a red horse, and his tail
was cut off. He was called Ruddy. The master laughed and said to
me:
"`Well, young gentleman, get on your horse!'
"I was both happy and afraid, and tried to act in such a manner
as not to be noticed by anybody. For a long time I tried to get my
foot into the stirrup, but could not do it because I was too small.
Then the master raised me up in his hands and put me on the saddle.
He said:
"`The young master is not heavy; about two pounds in weight,
that is all.'
"At first he held me by my hand, but I saw that my brothers
were not held, and so I begged him to let go of me. He said:
"`Are you not afraid?'
"I was very much afraid, but I said that I was not. I was so
much afraid because Ruddy kept dropping his ears. I thought he was
angry with me. The master said:
"`Look out, don't fall down!' and let go of me. At first Ruddy
went at a slow pace, and I sat up straight. But the saddle was
smooth, and I was afraid I should slip off. The master asked me:
"`Well, are you fast in the saddle?'
"I said, `Yes, I am.'
"`If so, go at a slow trot!' and the master clicked his tongue.
"Ruddy started at a slow trot, and began to jog me. But I kept
silent, and tried not to slip to one side. The master praised me.
`Oh, a fine young gentleman, indeed!'
"I was very glad to hear it.
"Just then the master's friend went up to him and began to talk
with him, and the master stopped looking at me.
"Suddenly I felt that I had slipped a little to one side on my
saddle. I wanted to straighten myself up, but was unable to do so.
I wanted to call out to the master to stop the horse, but I thought
it would be a disgrace if I did it, and so kept silence. The
master was not looking at me, and Ruddy ran at a trot, and I
slipped still more to one side. I looked at the master and thought
that he would help me, but he was still talking with his friend,
and, without looking at me, kept repeating, `Well done, young
gentleman!'
"I was now altogether on one side, and was very much
frightened. I thought I was lost, but I felt ashamed to cry.
Ruddy shook me up once more, and I slipped off entirely and fell to
the ground. Then Ruddy stopped, and the master looked at the horse
and saw that I was not on him. He said, `I declare, my young
gentleman has dropped off!' and walked over to me.
"When I told him that I was not hurt, he laughed and said, `A
child's body is soft.'
"I felt like crying. I asked him to put me again on the horse,
and I was lifted on. After that I did not fall down any more."
Thus developed this remarkable child, thoughtful,
impressionable, shy, affectionate, very lonely owing to the immense
power of inner life in him which found no response in his
surroundings.
Notes to Chapter V:
1. An interpolation by Tolstoy when looking through the MS.
2. From Countess S.A. Tolstaya's Reminiscences.
3. From Tolstoy's draft Reminiscences.
4. In Childhood.
5. From a private letter.
6. Interpolation by Tolstoy in the MS. of this work.
7. Boyhood.
8. Boyhood.
9. The material for the description of this friendship I owe to my
later friendship with Dyakov, during the last year of my university
life at Kazan.
10. Boyhood.
11. S.A. Bers, Reminiscences of Count L.N. Tolstoy.
12. A man ninety years old.
Chapter VI
Youth
Tolstoy and his brothers had spent five years at Kazan. In the
summer the whole family, accompanied by Pelageya Ilyinishna, used
to move to Yasnaya Polyana, and every autumn they returned to
Kazan.
Tolstoy spent the greater part of his youth in Yushkov's home.
The brothers Tolstoy moved there in 1841. The elder brother,
Nikolay, who left Moscow University for the one in Kazan, had in
1841-42 been already for the second year in the second division of
the same faculty of philosophy in which he graduated in 1844. The
next two brothers, Sergey and Dmitriy, had chosen the same division
of the faculty of philosophy which now is the same thing as the
faculty of mathematics.
Both matriculated in 1843, and graduated in the spring of 1847.
Tolstoy had chosen the faculty of Oriental languages, probably
having the diplomatic service in view. To enter this faulty he
worked very hard during the years 1842-44, for the entrance
examinations were not easy, as one had to know the Arabic and
Turko-Tartar languages, which at that time were taught in the Kazan
gymnasium. The difficulties were successfully overcome by Tolstoy.
In the archives of the Kazan University are kept all the
documents relating to Tolstoy's entrance and stay in that
university as well as his departure from it.
All these papers are carefully collected and printed in the
Reminiscences of Zagoskin. We will present here only the more
interesting.
The petition of Tolstoy at entering the university.
"A Petition
"To His Excellency the Rector of the Imperial Kazan University, the
Councillor of State, and Cavalier Nikolay Ivanovich Lobachevskiy.
"Desiring to enter as a student of the Oriental Section
(Turko-Arab category) of Kazan University, I beg your Excellency to
allow me to appear before the Board of Examination. My papers: the
certificate of birth from the Tula Theological Consistory under N
252, and the certificate of my noble origin from the Tula
noblemen's Board of Deputies under N 267, I have the honor to
present herewith.--Count Lev Tolstoy."
In reply to this petition he was allowed to come up for the
examinations, which, however, did not come off quite
satisfactorily, as appears from the following statement of his
marks.
Here are the marks received by Tolstoy at his preliminary
examinations for the university.
Religion . . . . . . . . . . . 4
History, general and Russian . 1 "I knew nothing."--
Remark by Tolstoy
Statistics and geography . . . 1 "Still less." --Remark
by Tolstoy
Mathematics . . . . . . . . . 4
Russian literature . . . . . . 4
Logic . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Latin . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
French . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
German . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Arabic . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Turco-Tartar . . . . . . . . . 5
English . . . . . . . . . . . 4
"I remember I was questioned concerning France, Pushkin, the
curator, who was present, examining me. He was a caller at our
house and evidently wanted to assist me. "`Please name the
seaports in France.' I could not name a single one." Tolstoy's
note.
In the minutes of the Board of Examination relating to
Tolstoy's entrance at the university it is stated that Count
Tolstoy "has been examined upon the section of Oriental literature,
but was not admitted into the university." It was added: "His
papers to be returned."
This happened in the spring of 1844. Tolstoy resolved to
appeal for another examination to take place in the autumn in those
subjects for which he had received unsatisfactory marks.
Accordingly, in the beginning of August, in the same year,
1844, another petition reached the Rector of the university,
written in Tolstoy's own hand.
"Petition.
"To His Excellency the Rector of the Imperial University of Kazan,
Professor N.I. Lobachevskiy, from Count L.N. Tolstoy.
"In the month of May of the present year, together with the
pupils of the first and second Kazan gymnasiums, I underwent an
examination for the purpose of becoming a student of the kazan
University in the department of Arabo-Turkish languages. But at
this examination I failed to show sufficient knowledge in history
and statistics. I humbly beg your Excellency to allow me to be now
re-examined in these subjects. Herewith I have the honor to
present the following documents: (1) My birth certificate from the
Consistory of Tula; (2) A copy of the resolution of the Tula Board
of Deputy Noblemen, Aug. 34d, 1844. To this petition the
above-named petitioner, L.N. Tolstoy has put his hand."
On this petition the following remark was made:
"Presented on Aug. 4, 1844. To be allowed to come to the
supplementary examinations. Aug. 4, 1844.
"Rector Lobachevskiy."
Precisely when or how Tolstoy passed these additional
examinations no one knows. But this time all ended well, for at
the bottom of his petition was written the following memorandum:
"Tolstoy to be admitted to the university as an extern student
in the section of Turco-Arabic literature."
Thus Tolstoy entered the university. But he spent there only
the hours taken up with lectures. For the rest of his time he
moved in the social circle of his aunt, Mrs. Yushkova, in whose
house he lived. What were these surroundings, and how were they
likely to influence a youth?
In Zagoskin's reminiscences of Tolstoy's life as a student it
is stated that the surroundings in which he moved in the kazan
society were demoralizing, and that Tolstoy must have instinctively
felt repelled, but he, having seen the manuscript, remarked that
this was not the case.
"I did not feel any repulsion," he says, "but very much liked
to enjoy myself in the Kazan society, at that time very good." []
Enumerating further on in his article the different unfavorable
circumstances in Tolstoy's life, Zagoskin is amazed at the moral
power shown by him in overcoming all these temptations. On this
Tolstoy himself made the following remark:
"On the contrary, I am very thankful to fate for having passed
my first youth in an environment wherein a young man could be young
without touching upon problems beyond his grasp, and for living,
although an idle and luxurious life, yet not an evil one." []
The winder season of 1844-45, when Tolstoy began as a "young
man" to appear in society, was still more gay than previous
seasons. Balls, now at the house of the governor of the province,
not given by the chief of the nobility, now at the Rodinovsky
Institute for the young ladies of nobility (balls which were
particularly favored by the matron of the Institution, Mme. E.D.
Zagoskin), private dancing soirees, masquerades in the Hall of the
Nobles, private theatricals, tableaux-vivants, concerts--all these
followed one another in an endless chain. As a titled young man of
good birth, with good local connections, the grandson of the
ex-governor of Kazan, and an eligible match, Tolstoy was welcome
everywhere. The old inhabitants of Kazan remember him as being
present at all the balls, soirees, and aristocratic parties, a
welcome guest everywhere, and always dancing, but, unlike his
high-born fellow-students, far from being a ladies' man. He was
always distinguished by a strange awkwardness and shyness; he
evidently was ill at ease in the part which he had to play and to
which he was involuntarily bound by the detestable surroundings of
his life in kazan. All this was sure to do harm to his studies,
and the first half-yearly examination gave rather a poor result, as
is seen by the examination sheet of the archive of the Kazan
University, produced by Zagoskin:
Tolstoy, Lev
Progress Application
The Church bibl. history . . . . . . . 3 2
The history of general literature . . (did not appear)
Arabic language. . . . . . . . . . . . 2 2
French language. . . . . . . . . . . . 5 3
This failure did not change his habits. He continued his gay
worldly life, and at Shrovetide, together with his brother Sergey,
took part in two private theatrical performances with a charitable
aim.
The end of all was that Tolstoy did not pass his examinations,
and regularly this would have obliged him to follow the same course
of study for another year. This is his own account of this
unfortunate examination:
"The first year Ivanov, Professor of Russian History, prevented
me from being passed to the second course, notwithstanding the fact
that I had not missed a single lecture and knew Russian history
quite well, because he had a quarrel with my family. Besides, the
same professor gave me the lowest mark--1--for German, thought I
knew the language incomparably better than any student in our
division."
But Tolstoy did not care to stay another year, and presented a
petition for leave to take another faculty, that of Jurisprudence,
which was given him.
After having entered the faculty of law, Tolstoy gave up
studying altogether, and plunged with greater zest into the
gaieties and distractions of fashionable Kazan society, which were
at this time in full swing. The winter season of 1845-46 opened
with a fete on the occasion of a two days' visit of Duke Maximilian
of Leichtenberg, and an enthusiastic reception was given in his
honor.
"Notwithstanding this," Tolstoy remarks, "at the end of this
year I began for the first time to study seriously, and even found
a certain pleasure in so doing. Among the university subjects the
Encyclopedia of Law and Criminal Law were of interest to me;
moreover, the German Professor Vogel arranged discussions at the
lectures, and I remember that I was interested by one on capital
punishment; but besides the university or faculty subjects, Meyer,
Professor of Civil law, set me a task, viz., a comparison between
Montesquieu's Esprit des Lois and Catherine's Code, and this work
greatly absorbed me."
The May examinations of 1846 went off well for Tolstoy. His
marks were as follows: Logic and psychology, five each;
encyclopedia of law, history of Roman law, and Latin, four each;
universal and Russian history, theory of rhetoric and German, three
each; deportment in each of the three terms, five each. The
average mark received was three, and thus Tolstoy passed on to his
second year's course.
The same year he was punished by the university authorities.
He was put under lock and key. This episode has been described by
a student, a fellow-sufferer with Tolstoy, Nazaryev, in his
reminiscences. His version is far from true, though what he gives
as their conversation corresponded to what really happened. With
the help of Tolstoy's remarks we hope to reproduce the incident as
it occurred.
Tolstoy was locked up, not in a lecture hall, according to
Nazaryev, but in a punishment cell (prison room), with its arches
and iron gates; he and his comrade were both there. Tolstoy
carried with him a candle and candlestick secreted in his boot, and
they spent a day or two very pleasantly.
The coachman, trotter, man-servant, and so on existed in
Nazaryev's imagination only. But their conversation as reproduced
by him is plausible, and we therefore take it from Nazaryev's
article as follows:
"I remember," says Nazaryev, "noticing Lermontov's Demon.
Tolstoy made an ironical remark about verses in general, and then
turning to the Karamzin's History lying at my side, he attacked
history as the dullest subject and an almost useless one.
"`History,' he declared curtly, `is nothing but a collection of
fables and useless details, sprinkled with a quantity of
unnecessary dates and proper names. The death of Igor, the snake
that stung Oleg, what are these but fairy tales? And who wants to
know that the second marriage of John with the daughter of Temryuk
took place on August 21, 1562, and the fourth with Anna Alekseyevna
Koltorskaya, in 1572? Yet they expect me to learn all this, and,
if I don't know it, I get mark one! And how is history written?
All is fitted in according to a certain plan invented by the
historian. Ivan the Terrible (about whom Professor Ivanov is at
present lecturing), in 1560, from a virtuous and wise man, suddenly
changes into a stupid, cruel tyrant. How and why, you need not
ask....' This was my companion's strain more or less throughout.
I was greatly puzzled by such sharp criticism, the more so as
history was my favorite subject.
"This time the (to me) irresistible force of Tolstoy's doubts
fell upon the university and the teaching of universities
generally. `The temple of science' was continually on his lips.
While himself remaining quite serious, he made such caricatures of
our professors, that in spite of my endeavor to appear uninterested
I simply roared with laughter."
"`Yet,' concluded Tolstoy, `we both have a right to expect that
we shall leave this temple useful men, equipped with knowledge.
But what shall we carry from the university? Think a little and
answer your conscience. What shall we take from this temple when
we return home to the country, what shall we know how to do, to
whom shall we be necessary?' So he proceeded, addressing the
question to me.
"In conversation of this kind we spent the whole night.
MOrning had hardly dawned when the door opened, and the sergeant
entered. He saluted us and explained that we were free and could
retire to our respective homes.
"Tolstoy pulled his cap over his eyes, wrapped himself in his
cloak with beaver collar, slightly nodded to me, once more abused
`the temple,' and then disappeared accompanied by his servant and
the sergeant. I, too, was in a hurry to be gone. After leaving my
companion, I gave a sigh of relief to be in the open frosty air in
the midst of the silent street, just beginning to stir.
"My head was heavy and full of doubts and questions brought
before me for the first time in my life by this strange and utterly
incomprehensible companion in my captivity." []
The beginning of the academic year 1846-47 brought certain
changes in the life of the brothers Sergey, Dmitriy, and Lev
Tolstoy. They left the house of their aunt, Pelageya Ilyinishna
Yushkova, and settled in private rooms in the house belonging then
to Petondi, and now occupied by Lozhkin's Public charitable Home.
There they had five rooms on the upper floor of the brick lodge,
which still remains in the court-yard of this house and is used as
one of the wards of the home.
In January 1847, Tolstoy once more appeared on the day of the
half-yearly examinations, but did not enter for all of them, and he
evidently treated the whole affair as a hollow formality. Probably
the plan of leaving the university was already forming in his mind.
Indeed, soon after the Easter holidays, he presented a petition to
be allowed to leave the university. It was as follows:
"PETITION.
"To His Excellency the Rector of the Imperial Kazan University, the
State Councillor, and Cavalier Ivan Mikhaylovich Simonov, from an
extern undergraduate in the second year of the faculty of law,
Count Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy.
"Prevented from continuing my studies in the university on
account of ill-health and family affairs, I humbly beg your
Excellency to issue an order authorizing the omission of my name
from the roll of university students and the return of all my
documents."
To this petition is added in his own handwriting the signature
of the student Count Lev Tolstoy, April 12, 1847.
After this comes the resolution of the administration of the
university authorizing "Tolstoy's name to be struck off the roll of
students, and a memorandum to be made of the time for which he
remained in the university."
In the archives of the university there still exists the
duplicate of the testimonial given to Count L.N. Tolstoy. This
testimonial is very curious in its way, for it has been so edited
as to smooth down Tolstoy's university failures, and to say nothing
of the causes which hindered his moving up into his second year's
course while he was a student in the division of Oriental
languages. It runs as follows:
"The bearer of this, Count Lev, the son of Nikolay Tolstoy,
having received a private education and passed an examination in
all the subjects contained in the gymnasium curriculum, was
admitted as a student at the Kazan University in the Division of
Turko-Arab literature for the first year, but what progress he made
during this year is not known, as he did not present himself for
the examinations at the end of the year, and had therefore to
remain in the same class. By the permission of the Director of the
Educational Department of Kazan, dated September 13, 1845, he was
transferred under N 3919 from the Division of Turko-Arab literature
to the faculty of Law, where he made progress which, in logic and
psychology, was excellent; in comparative jurisprudence, history of
Roman law, and Latin - good; in universal and Russian history,
theory of rhetoric and German - tolerably good; he was then moved
to the second year's course, but what progress he made while there
is not known, as the yearly examinations have not yet taken place.
Tolstoy's conduct while at the university was excellent. Now in
compliance with his petition, presented on the 12th instant of
April, he is on the ground of ill-health and family affairs
discharged from the university. Not having taken a degree, he
cannot enjoy the privileges reserved to graduates, but in virtue of
paragraph 590, Volume III of the Civil Code (edition 1842), on
entering civil service, he will be entitled to the same privileges
as to promotion as those who have passed through the gymnasium
course of instruction, and will have the same rank as the civil
service officials of the second class. In witness hereof this
testimonial is given to Count Lev Tolstoy by the administration of
the University of kazan, duly signed and sealed with the official
seal, in accordance with the Imperial Charter granted to Kazan
University, on ordinary paper."
"Tolstoy," writes Zagoskin in his reminiscences, "was in a
great hurry to leave Kazan, and did not even wait for the final
university examinations which his brothers had to pass. The day
came when he was to set out for Moscow, which lay on his way to
Yasnaya Polyana. In the rooms of the Counts Tolstoy in the wing of
Petondi's house, a small party of students gathered to celebrate
his departure on a journey which was not free from difficulty in
those days of imperfect communications over great distances. One
of those present who related to me the incident is still living in
Kazan. In accordance with the custom, all drank the traveler
health, and wished him every good fortune. They accompanied him to
the ferry across the river Kazanka, which had then overflowed its
banks, and for the last time the friends exchanged the farewell
kisses."
Few traces are now left of Tolstoy's stay at Kazan.
Prince D. D. Obolensky, who recently paid a visit to the
university, told me that in the lecture hall he saw the signature
"Count L. N. Tolstoy," undoubtedly cut by himself on the iron bar
of his seat during his attendance at the lectures. This, it seems,
is the only record of Tolstoy's presence in the Kazan University.
Tolstoy's German biographer, Loewenfeld, while at Yasnaya
Polyana, asked him why, considering his inherent thirst for
knowledge, he left the university prematurely.
The Count's answer was: "This was perhaps the chief reason why
I left it. I was little interested in what our Professors read at
Kazan. I first worked a year at Oriental languages, but with
little success, though I threw myself enthusiastically into what I
did. I read innumerable books, but all in one and the same
direction. When any subject interested me, I did not deviate from
it either to the right or the left, and I endeavored to become
acquainted with everything which might throw a light on this
particular subject. So it was with me at Kazan." []
"There were two reasons for my leaving the university," says
Tolstoy; "first that my brother had finished his course and was
leaving; and secondly, however strange it may be to say so, that
the work on the Nakaz and the Esprit de Lois (I have still got it)
opened out to me a new sphere of independent mental work, whereas
the university with its demands far from aiding such work, only
hindered it." []
Calling to mind his brother Dmitriy, Tolstoy gives interesting
details of student life in Kazan, so we insert these reminiscences
here.
"Mitenka was a year older than I. Big, black, grave eyes. I
hardly remember him as a boy. I only know by hearsay that as a
child he was very capricious; it was said that such moods used to
seize him that he was angry and cried at his nurse's not looking at
him, and next got into a rage and screamed because she was looking
at him. I know by what I have been told that my mother had much
trouble with him. He was nearest to me by age, and I played with
him oftenest, but I did not love him as much as I loved Seryozha,
nor as I loved and respected Nikolenka. He and I lived together
amicably. I do not recollect that we quarreled. Probably we did,
and may even have fought; but, as it happens with children, these
fights did not leave the slightest trace, and I loved him with a
simple instinctive love, and therefore did not remark it and do not
remember it. I think, nay, I actually know, that according to my
experience, especially in childhood, love for human beings is a
natural state of the soul, or rather a natural attitude toward all
men, and, as it is such, one does not remark it. This changes only
when one dislikes, when one does not love but is afraid of
something, as I was afraid of beggars, and was afraid of one of the
Volkonskys who used to pinch me, and, I think, of no one else - and
when one loves some one exceptionally, as I loved my aunt Tatyana,
my brother Seryozha, Nikolenka, Vasiliy, my nurse Issayevna, and
Pashenka. As a child I remember nothing special about Mitenka,
except his childish merriment. His peculiarities became manifest,
and are memorable to me from the time of our life at Kazan, whither
we removed in the year '40 when he was thirteen. Till then, in
Moscow, I remember that he did not fall in love as did Seryozha and
I, did not particularly like dancing, nor military pageants, about
which I will speak later, but studied well and strenuously. I
remember that a student teacher named Poplonsky, who used to give
us lessons, defined the attitude of us three brothers to our
studies thus: Sergey both wishes and can, Dmitriy wishes but
cannot (this was not true), and Lev neither wishes nor can. I
think this was perfectly true.
"So that my real memories concerning Mitenka begin with Kazan.
At Kazan I, who had always imitated Seryozha, began to grow
depraved (I will relate this later). Not only at Kazan, but even
earlier, I used to take pains about my appearance. I tried to be
elegant, comme il faut. There was no trace of anything of the kind
in Mitenka. I think he never suffered from the usual vices of
youth; he was always serious, thoughtful, pure, resolute, though
hot-tempered, and whatever he did he did to the best of his
ability. It happened once that he swallowed a bit of chain; but as
far as I can remember, he was not particularly troubled about the
consequences. But as for myself, I remember what terrors I
underwent when I swallowed the stone of a French plum which my aunt
had given me, and how solemnly, as if in the face of death, I
announced the mishap to her. I also remember how, as children, we
used to toboggan down a steep hill by the farm yard, and how some
traveler, in order to drive his troika along the road, drove it up
this hill. I think Seryozha, with a village boy, had launched down
the hill, and being unable to stop his sleigh, got under the
horses. The boy climbed out without injury. The troika ascended
the hill. We were all absorbed in the event, thinking how they got
out from under the horses, how the center horse got frightened,
etc., whereas Mitenka (a boy of nine) went up to the traveler and
began to upbraid him. I remember how it astonished and displeased
me when he said that, in order to keep people from driving where
there was no road, it would be necessary to send them to the
stables, which, in the language of the time, implied a flogging.
"At Kazan his peculiarities began; he studied well and
regularly, and wrote verses with great facility. I remember how
admirably he translated Schiller's Der Jungling aus Lorche, but he
did not devote himself to this occupation. I remember that once he
merrily romped, and how the girls were delighted with it, and how
I was envious, and reflected that this was because he was always so
serious. And I desired to imitate him in this. Our aunt and
godmother had the silly idea of making each of us the gift of a
boy, who was eventually to become our devoted servant. To Mitenka
was given Vanyusha (he is still living). Mitenka often treated him
badly, and I think even beat him. I say I think, because I do not
remember it, but only remember his repentance for something done to
Vanyusha, and his humble prayers for forgiveness.
"Thus he grew up, associating little with others, always,
except in moments of anger, quiet and serious, with thoughtful,
grave, large hazel eyes. He was tall, rather thin, and not very
strong, with long big hands and round shoulders. His peculiarities
began at the time of entering the university. He was a year
younger than Sergey, but they entered the university together, in
the mathematical faculty, solely because the elder brother was a
mathematician. I do not know how or by what he was so early
attracted toward a religious life, but it began with the very first
year of his university life. His religious aspirations naturally
directed him to Church life, and he devoted himself to it as
thoroughly as he did to everything. He began to fast, he attended
all the Church services, and became especially strict in his
conduct.
"In Mitenka there must have existed that valuable
characteristic which I believe my mother to have had, and which I
knew in Nikolenka, and of which I was altogether devoid - the
characteristic of complete indifference to other people's opinion
about oneself. Until quite lately I have always been unable to
divest myself of concern about people's opinion, but Mitenka was
quite free from this. I never remember on his fact that restrained
smile which involuntarily appears when one is praised. I always
remember his serious, quiet, sad, sometimes severe, large,
almond-shaped hazel eyes. Only from the kazan days did we begin to
pay particular attention to him, and that merely because, while
Seryozha and I attached great importance to what was comme il faut
- to the external - he was careless and untidy, and for this we
condemned him. He did not dance, and did not wish to learn
dancing. As a student he did not go into society; he wore a
student's suit with a tight tie, and from his very youth he had the
habit of jerking his head as if freeing himself from this tie. His
peculiarity first revealed itself in our first preparation for
communion. He made his devotions, not in the fashionable
university church, but in the church of the prison. We lived in a
house belonging to a Mr. Gortalov opposite the jail. The prison
chaplain of that time was a specially pious and devout man, who,
contrary to the ordinary usage of priests, went through the whole
of the appointed readings in the Gospels for Passion Week, as was
officially required, which made the services last a very long time.
Mitenka used to stand them out, and made the priest's acquaintance.
The jail church was so arranged that the public was separated from
the place where the convicts stood only by a glass partition with
a door. Once one of the convicts wished to pass something to one
of the vergers - either a candle, or money to buy one; no one in
the church cared to undertake the commission, but Mitenka, with a
serious expression on his face, immediately took it and passed it
on. It turned out that it was forbidden, and he was reprimanded,
but, as he thought it was right, he did it again.
"We others, especially Seryozha, kept up acquaintance with our
aristocratic comrades and other young men. Mitenka, on the
contrary, out of all our comrades, selected a piteous-looking,
poor, shabbily dressed student, Poluboyarinov (whom a humorous
comrade of ours used to call Polubezobedov, [] and we
contemptible lads thought this amusing, and laughed at Mitenka).
he consorted only with Poluboyarinov, and with him prepared for his
examinations.
"We were living in the upper floor, which was divided in two by
an inner balcony over the ball-room. In the nearest half on this
side of the balcony lived Mitenka, in the room on the other
Seryozha and myself. We two were fond of small knick-knacks, we
decorated our rooms as grown-up people do, and trifling articles
used to be given us for this purpose. Mitenka kept no ornaments at
all. The only thing he had taken from our father's things was a
collection of minerals: he classified them, ticketed them, and
placed them in a case under glass. As we brothers, and even aunt,
looked down upon Mitenka with a certain contempt for his low tastes
and associations, the same attitude was assumed by our light-minded
comrades. One of the latter, a very unintelligent man, an
engineer, one E., a friend of ours - not so much by our choice as
because he stuck to us - once, on passing through Mitenka's room,
took notice of these minerals, and questioned Mitenka about them.
E. was not sympathetic, not natural, and Mitenka answered
unwillingly. E. moved the box and jerked the minerals. Mitenka
said, `Leave them alone.' E. paid no attention, but made some joke
and called him Noah. Mitenka flew in a rage, and with his big
hands hit E. in the face. E. ran away and Mitenka after him. As
they rushed into our quarters we locked the doors, but Mitenka
declared that he would thrash him when he went back. Seryozha and,
I think, Shuvalov went to persuade Mitenka to let E. pass, but he
took a broom and declared that he would certainly beat him. I
don't know what might have happened had E. passed through his room,
but E. himself requested us to get him out some other way, and we
led him out, almost crawling, by some way through the dusty garret.
"Such was Mitenka in his moments of anger. But this is what he
was when nothing put him out. To our family had attached herself
(she was taken in from pity) a most strange and piteous being,
Lyubov Sergeyevna, a girl; I don't know what surname was given her.
She was the fruit of an incestuous connection. How she came into
our house I do not know. I have been told that she was pitied and
caressed, and that they wished to find her a situation, or even to
have her married to Feodor Ivanovich, but nothing of this
succeeded. Then she was taken by my aunt to Kazan, and lived with
her, so that I came to know her at Kazan. She was a pitiful, meek,
oppressed being. She had a little room of her own, and a girl
attended her. When I made her acquaintance she was not only
pitiful but repulsive to look at. I don't know what her disease
was, but her face was all swollen, as faces are when they have been
stung by bees. Her eyes appeared in two narrow slits, between
swollen chining cushions without brows; similarly swollen and
gleaming were her cheeks, nose, lips, and mouth, and she spoke with
difficulty, probably having the same swelling within her mouth. In
summer flies settled on her face without her feeling it, and it was
especially unpleasant to see this. Her hair was still black but
scanty, barely concealing the scalp. Vasiliy Yushkov, my aunt's
husband, a sarcastic man, did not conceal his repugnance for her.
She always had a bad smell about her, and in her room, where
neither window nor ventilator was ever open, the atmosphere was
oppressive. Well, it was this Lyubov Sergeyevna who became
Mitenka's friend. He used to go to her room, listen to her, talk
to her, read to her. And strange to say, we were morally so dense
that we only laughed at this, whereas Mitenka was morally so high,
so independent of concern about people's opinion, that he never
either by word or by hint showed that he regarded what he was doing
as something good. He simply did it.
"This was not a passing impulse, but continued the whole time
we lived at Kazan.
"How clear it is to me that Mitenka's death did not destroy
him, that he existed before I came to know him, before he was born,
and that, having died, he still is!"
Let us take a glance at Tolstoy's inner life at this period, so
far as we have the materials.
The critical age of man - youth - leads him into the abyss of
passion. To an ordinary man it is a period in life when he is
carried away by various sensations and passions, when he searches
for an ideal; a period of dreams, expectations, and, generally, of
unfulfilled hopes. One can imagine the mental excitement through
which such a many-sided and powerful nature had to pass, as
Tolstoy's was and remains. His soul was tossed to and fro on
divers blasts. The wings of vision lifted him to unattainable
heights, from which he plunged downward, carried away by the lower
impulses of a powerful animal nature.
References are to be found to the tumultuous inner life of this
youthful period in two works of Tolstoy's - Youth and My
Confession. In the first we meet with autobiographical traits in
Nikolenka Irtenev's reflections. The thoughts taken from Youth are
chiefly of an ideal character, and expressed in a beautiful poetic
form. here we bring forward only the more important of them.
"I have said that my friendship with Dmitriy had opened up to
me a new view of life, its aims and relations. The essence of this
view consisted in the conviction that it was man's destiny to
strive after moral perfection, and that this perfection was easy,
possible, and eternal....
"But a time came when these ideas burst upon my reason with
such a fresh power of moral discovery that I became frightened at
the thought of how much time I had spent in vain, and I wished
immediately, that very second, to apply all those ideas to life,
with the firm intention of never being false to them.
"This time I regard as the beginning of my youth.
"I was then finishing my sixteenth year. Teachers still came
to the house, St. Jerome looked after my studies, and I was
preparing myself with an effort, and against my will, for the
university.
. . . . . . . .
"At that date, which I regard as the extreme limit of boyhood
and beginning of youth, the basis of my dreams consisted of four
sentiments. The first was the love for her, an imaginary woman, of
whom I dreamed ever in the same way, and whom I expected to meet
somewhere at any minute....my second sentiment was the love of
love. I wanted everybody to know and love me. I wanted to tell my
name, and have every one struck by the information, and surround me
and thank me for something. The third sentiment was a hope for
some unusual vain happiness - such a strong and firm hope that it
passed into insanity....My fourth and chief sentiment was my
self-disgust and repentance, but a repentance which was so closely
welded with the hope of happiness, that there was nothing sad in
it....I even found pleasure in my disgust with the past, and tried
to see it blacker than it was. The blacker the circle of my
memories of the past, the brighter and clearer stood out from it
the bright and clear point of the present, and streamed the rainbow
colors of the future. This voice of repentance and passionate
desire for perfection was the main new sensation of my soul at that
epoch of my development, and it was this which laid a new
foundation for my views of myself, of people, and of the whole
world.
"Beneficent, consoling voice, which since then has so often
been heard suddenly and boldly against all lies, in those sad
moments when the soul in silence submitted to the power of deceit
and debauchery in life, which has angrily accused the past, has
indicated the bright point of the present, causing one to love it,
and has promised happiness and well-being in the future -
beneficent, consoling voice! will you ever cease to be heard?"
Fortunately for Tolstoy himself and for all of us, we know that
that voice was never for a moment silent, and that this beneficent
voice still calls to him and to us, guiding us toward a bright and
infinite ideal.
Sometimes these dreams vividly expressed the principles of that
idealistic naturalism which became the base of the greater part of
Tolstoy's works.
"And the moon rose higher and higher, and stood brighter and
brighter in the heavens, the rich sheen of the pond, evenly
growing, like sound, became more and more distinct, the shadows
became blacker and blacker, and the light ever more transparent;
and as I looked at it all and listened, something told me that she,
with her bared arms and passionate embraces, was very far from
bearing all the happiness in the world, that the love for her was
very far from being all its bliss; and the more I looked at the
full moon up on high, the higher did true beauty and goodness
appear to me, and the purer and nearer to Him, the source of all
that is beautiful and good, and tears of an unsatisfied but
stirring joy stood in my eyes.
"And I was all alone, and it seemed to me that mysterious,
majestic nature, the attractive bright disc of the moon, which had
for some reason stopped in one high undefined spot in the pale blue
sky, and yet stood everywhere and, as it were, filled all the
immeasurable space - and myself, insignificant worm, defiled
already by all petty, wretched human passions, but with all the
immeasurable might power of love - it seemed to me in those minutes
that Nature and the moon and I were one and the same." []
It is interesting to note the literary works which influenced
Tolstoy and helped the development of his views during his youth,
that is to say, from about fourteen to twenty-one years.
Titles of the books/Degree of their influence.
The New Testament (Gospel of St. Matthew); The Sermon on the Mount:
Powerful.
Sterne: Sentimental Journey: Very great.
Rousseau: Confession: Powerful.
Rousseau: Emile: Powerful.
Rousseau: Nouvelle Heloise: Very great.
Pushkin: Eugene Onegin: Very great.
Schiller: Die Rauber: Very great.
Gogol: The Overcoat; Iv. Iv. and Iv. Nik.; Nevsky Prospect; Vy;
Dead Souls: Great.
Turgenev: Memoirs of a Sportsman: Very great.
Druzhinin: Polinka Sax: Very great.
Grigorovich: Anton Goremika: Very great.
Dickens: David Copperfield: Powerful.
Lermontov: Hero of Our Times; Taman: Very great.
Prescott: The Conquest of Mexico: Great.
At the same time Tolstoy had to put up with the worry of the
conventionalities to which his life, as one of the gentry, was
subjected; to one of which, the so-called comme il faut, he
dedicates a whole chapter in Youth. We will quote from it only the
more essential passages.
"I feel myself constrained to devote a whole chapter to a
conception that was one of the most disastrous and false ideas with
which I was inoculated by education and society.
"My chief and favorite classification at the time of which I am
writing was into people comme il faut and comme il ne faut pas.
The second division was subdivided into people more particularly
not comme il faut, and into the common people. I respected people
comme il faut, and considered them worthy of being on an equality
with me; I pretended a contempt for the second, but in reality
hated them, cherishing against them a feeling of being personally
offended; the third for me did not exist - I disregarded them
entirely. My comme il faut consisted, first and foremost, in the
use of excellent French, more especially in pronunciation. a man
who pronounced French badly immediately provoked a feeling of
hatred in me. `Why do you attempt to speak as we do, if you do not
know how?' I asked him mentally, with a venomous smile. The
second condition for comme il faut consisted in long, manicured and
clean nails. The third was the ability to courtesy, dance, and
converse. The fourth - and this was very important - was an
indifference to everything, and a constant expression of a certain
elegant, supercilious ennui....
"It is terrible to think how much invaluable time of my
seventeenth year I wasted on the acquisition of this temper of
mind....
"But it was not the loss of the golden time, which was employed
on the assiduous task of preserving all the difficult conditions of
the comme il faut, to the exclusion of every serious application,
nor the hatred and contempt for nine-tenths of the human race, nor
the absence of any interest in all the beauty that existed outside
that circle of comme il faut, that was the greatest evil which this
conception caused me. The greatest evil consisted in the
conviction that comme il faut was an independent position in
society, that a man need not have to try to be an official, or a
carriage-maker, or a soldier, or a learned man, if he was comme il
faut; that, having reached that position, he had already fulfilled
his purpose, and even stood higher than most people.
"At a certain period of his youth, every man, after many
blunders and transports, generally faces the necessity of taking an
active part in social life, chooses some department of labor, and
devotes himself to it; but this seldom happens with the man who is
comme il faut. I know many, very many, old, proud, self-confident
people, sharp in their judgments, who to the question which may be
asked them in the next world, `Who are you? and what have you been
doing there?' would not be able to answer otherwise that `Je fus un
homme tres comme il faut.'
"This fate awaited me."
As we know from the conversation of Tolstoy with his German
biographer, Loewenfeld, along with his university studies (on the
whole uninteresting to him) he showed capacity for independent
intellectual research. This was called forth by the university
inviting an essay comparing the Esprit de Lois of Montesquieu and
the Instruction of the Empress Catherine II.
The diaries of Tolstoy relating to this period are full of
thoughts, notes, and commentaries concerning this essay. A swarm
of ideas crowded his brain, as if the hitherto sleeping intellect
suddenly awoke and began to work actively in all directions.
In March, 1847, Tolstoy was laid up in the Kazan hospital.
During his illness, being alone in the hospital, he found time to
think of the significance of Reason. Society is but part of the
world. Reason must be in harmony with the world, with the whole,
so by studying its laws one may become independent of the past, of
the world. We see from this remark that this youth of eighteen
years had already in him the germ of the future idea of anarchy.
Having observed in himself signs of a passion for knowledge,
Tolstoy checks himself at once, and fearing to go too far in
theory, he tries to solve the questions of science applied to
practice, but chiefly those of the moral ideal and moral conduct.
Among others, he made the following entry in his diary (March
1847):
"I have greatly changed, but still have not attained that
degree of perfection (in my occupations) which I would like to
attain. I do not fulfill that which I set myself to do and what I
do fulfill I do not fulfill well, I do not exercise my memory. For
this purpose I here put down some rules, which, as it seems to me,
would greatly help if I followed them.
"(1) To fulfill despite everything that which I set myself.
"(2) To fulfill well what I do fulfill.
"(3) Never to refer to a book for what I have forgotten, but to
endeavor to recall it to mind myself.
"(4) Continually to compel my mind to work with the utmost
power it is capable of.
"(5) To read and think always aloud.
"(6) Not to be ashamed of telling those who interrupt me that
they hinder me; at first let them only feel it, hit if they do not
understand (that they are hindering me), then apologize and tell
them so."
His university essay leads him to the conclusion that there are
two principles in Catherine's Instruction: that of the
revolutionary ideas of modern Europe and that of Catherine's
despotism and vanity, the latter principle being predominant. The
republican ideas are borrowed by her from Montesquieu. In the end
Tolstoy comes to the conclusion that the Instruction brought with
it more glory to Catherine than advantage to Russia.
Having resolved to leave the university and settle in the
country, Tolstoy determined that he would study Latin, the English
language, and Roman law, the subjects which, in his own opinion, he
knew least about.
But as the time of departure drew nearer, the plans and dreams
of his new life widened, and finally he wrote this in his diary of
April 17, 1847:
"A change must take place in my way of life, but it is
necessary that this change should be the result of the soul, and
not of external circumstances."
Further:
"The object of life is the conscious aspiration toward the
many-sided development of all that exists.
"The object of life in the country during two years:
"(1) To study the whole course of law necessary for the final
university examination. (2) To study practical medicine and a part
of the theory. (3) To study these languages: French, Russian,
German, English, Italian, and Latin. (4) To study agriculture,
both theoretically and practically. (5) To study history,
geography, and statistics. (6) To study mathematics, gymnasium
course. (7) To write my university essay. (8) To attain the
highest possible perfection in music and painting. (9) To write
down the rules of conduct. (10) To acquire some knowledge of the
natural sciences. And (11) to compose essays on all the subjects
I shall study."
All the subsequent life of Tolstoy in the country is full of
such dreams, good beginnings, and serious and sincere struggles
with himself after perfection.
With incomparable sincerity he notes down any digression, every
lapse from the rule he intended to follow, and again gathers
strength for a new battle.
His relation with women began to disturb him even then, and
this is the interesting advice he gave himself:
"Look upon the society of women as upon a necessary
unpleasantness of social life, and as much as possible keep away
from them.
"Indeed, from whom do we get sensuality, effeminacy, frivolity
in everything, and many other vices, if not from women? Who is to
blame that we lose out innate qualities of boldness, resolution,
reasonableness, justice, and others, if not women? Women are more
receptive than men, therefore in virtuous ages women were better
than we, but in the present depraved and vicious age they are worse
than we."
In all this we already see hints of his later views of life.
His first philosophical essays also belong to this period, and
it was at this time, while reading Rousseau, that he wrote
commentaries to his Discourses. We also meet his original
philosophic article, written in 1846-47, when he was eighteen years
old. The title of the article is, "On the Aim of Philosophy."
Philosophy is thus defined:
"Man aspires - i.e., man is active. To what is his activity
directed, how is his activity to be set free? In this consists
philosophy in its true sense. In other words, philosophy is the
science of life."
Besides these, he wrote essays on various subjects, such as:
"On Reasoning Concerning Future Life," "Definition of Time, Space,
and Number," "Methods," "Division of Philosophy," etc.
The following incident, noted down by the Countess Tolstoy,
occurred about this time:
"During his student days Tolstoy was struck by the idea of
symmetry, and wrote a philosophical article on the subject in an
argumentative form. The article was lying on the table in his room
when Shuvalov, a friend of the brothers Tolstoy, came in with
bottles in all his pockets, and was going to drink, when he caught
sight of the article and read it. He was interested in it, and
asked Tolstoy what he had copied it from. Tolstoy replied, with
some hesitation, that he had written it himself. Shuvalov laughed
and said that was not true, it could not be, the article was too
deep and clever for such a youth. Nothing would convince him of
it, and he went away with his conviction unchanged." []
This little incident shows how much Tolstoy's intellectual
standard already differed from that of those about him, and how
superior to them he was.
His Confession reveals to us his inner world of that period
from another point of view - the religious one.
"I remember, also, that when my elder brother, Dmitriy, then at
the university, gave himself up to a passionate faith, with the
impulsiveness natural to his character, began to attend the Church
services regularly, to fast, and to lead a pure and moral life, we
all of us, as well as some older than ourselves, never ceased to
hold him up to ridicule, and for some incomprehensible reason gave
him the nickname of Noah. I remember that Mussin-Pushkin, then
curator of the University of Kazan, having invited us to a ball,
tried to persuade my brother, who had refused the invitation, by
the jeering argument that even David danced before the ark.
"I sympathized then with these jokes of my elders, and drew
from them this conclusion - that I was bound to learn my catechism,
and go to church, but that it was not necessary to think of my
religious duties more seriously. I also remember that I read
Voltaire when I was very young, and that his tone of mockery amused
without disgusting me. The gradual estrangement from all belief
went on in me, as it does, and always has done, in those of the
same social position and culture as myself. This falling off, as
it seems to me, for the most part takes place as follows: People
live as others do, and their lives are guided, not by the
principles of the faith which is taught them, but by their very
opposite; belief has no influence on life, nor on the relations
between men - it is relegated to some other sphere, where life is
not; if the two ever come into contact at all, belief is only one
of the outward phenomena, and not one of the constituent parts of
life.
"By a man's life, by his acts, it was then, as it is now,
impossible to know whether he was a believer or not. If there be
a difference between one who openly professes the doctrines of the
Orthodox Church and one who denies them, the difference is not to
the advantage of the former. An open profession of the orthodox
doctrines is mostly found among persons of dull intellects, of
stern character, who are much impressed with their own importance.
Intelligence, honesty, frankness, a good heart, and moral conduct
are oftener met with among those who are disbelievers. A schoolboy
of the people is taught his catechism and sent to church; from the
grown man is required a certificate of his having taken the Holy
Communion. But a man belonging to our class neither goes to school
nor is bound by the regulations affecting those in the public
service, and may now live through long years - still more was this
the case formerly - without being once reminded of the fact that he
lives among Christians, and calls himself a member of the Orthodox
Church.
"Thus it happens that now, as formerly, the influence of early
religious teaching, accepted merely on trust and upheld by
authority, gradually fades away under the knowledge and practical
experience of later life, which is opposed to all its principles,
and a man often believes for years that his early faith is still
intact, while all the time not a particle of it remains in him.
"The belief instilled in childhood gradually disappeared in me,
as in so many others, but with this difference, that I was
conscious of my own disbelief. At fifteen years of age I had begun
to read philosophical works. From the age of sixteen I ceased to
pray, and ceased also to attend the services of the Church with
conviction, or to fast. I no longer accepted the faith of my
childhood, but I had a vague belief in something, though I did not
think I could exactly explain what. I believed in a God, or rather
I did not deny the existence of God, but anything relating to the
nature of the Deity I could not have described; I denied neither
Christ nor His teaching, but wherein that teaching consisted I
could not have said.
"Now, when I think over that time, I see clearly that all the
faith I had, the only belief which, apart from mere animal
instinct, swayed my life, was a belief in a possibility of
perfection, though what it was in itself, or what would be its
results, I was unable to say. I endeavored to reach perfection in
intellectual attainments; my studies were extended in every
direction of which my life afforded me a chance; I strove to
strengthen my will, forming for myself rules which I forced myself
to follow; I did my best to develop my physical powers by every
exercise calculated to give strength and agility, and, by way of
accustoming myself to patient endurance, subjected myself to many
voluntary hardships and trials of privations. All this I looked
upon as necessary to obtain the perfection at which I aimed. At
first, of course, moral perfection seemed to me the main end, but
I soon found myself contemplating instead of it an ideal of
conventional perfectibility; in other words, I wished to be better,
not in my own eyes, nor in those of God, but in the sight of other
men. This feeling again soon led to another - the desire to have
more power than others, to secure for myself a greater share of
fame, of social distinction, and of wealth."
Further on begins the terrible confession by which Tolstoy, in
denouncing his own sins, denounces our also at the same time, for
most of us have been through the same depths of vice, though we may
not have plunged into so gigantic an abyss, or the consciousness of
our evil lives may not have been so real.
"At some future time I may relate the story of my life, and
dwell in detail on the pathetic and instructive incidents of my
youth. Many others must have passed through the same experiences.
I honestly desired to make myself a good and virtuous man; but I
was young, I had passions, and I stood alone, altogether alone, in
my search after virtue. Every time I tried to express the longings
of my heart for a truly virtuous life, I was met with contempt and
derisive laughter; but directly I gave way to the lowest of my
passions, I was praised and encouraged. I found ambition, love of
power, love of gain, lechery, pride, anger, vengeance, held in high
esteem. I gave way to these passions, and becoming like my elders,
felt that the place which I filled in the world satisfied those
around me. My kindhearted aunt, a really good woman, used to say
to me, that there was one thing above all others which she wished
for me - an intrigue with a married woman: `Rien ne forme un jeune
homme, comme une liaison avec une femme comme il faut.' Another of
her wishes for my happiness was, that I should become an adjutant,
and, if possible, to the Emperor. The greatest happiness of all
for me she thought would be that I should find a wealthy bride who
would bring me as her dowry an enormous number of serfs.
"I cannot now recall those years without a painful feeling of
horror and loathing.
"I put men to death in war, I fought duels to slay others. I
lost at cards, wasted the substance wrung from the sweat of
peasants, punished the latter cruelly, rioted with loose women, and
deceived men. Lying, robbery, adultery of all kinds, drunkenness,
violence, and murder, all were committed by me, not one crime
omitted, and yet I was not the less considered by my equals to be
a comparatively moral man. Such was my life for ten years.
"During that time I began to write, out of vanity, love of
gain, and pride. I followed as a writer the same path which I had
chosen as a man. In order to obtain the fame and the money for
which I wrote, I was obliged to hide what was good and bow down
before what was evil. How often while writing have I cudgelled my
brains to conceal under the mask of indifference or pleasantry
those yearnings for something better which formed the real problem
of my life! I succeeded in my object, and was praised. At
twenty-six years of age, on the close of the war, I came to St.
Petersburg and made the acquaintance of the authors of the day.
"I met with a hearty reception and much flattery."
This tumultuous period of ten years' duration began in this
country.
To this time belong more or less Tolstoy's attempts to arrange
the affairs of his estates on new principles, and especially his
endeavors to establish reasonable and friendly relations with the
peasants. These attempts fell flat, and their failure is vividly
pictured in his tale, A Russian Proprietor. This tale gives us so
much autobiographical material, in the psychological sense, that we
consider it as a chapter of his biography, though the incidents
related do not agree with the facts of his life.
From it we quote the letter of "Prince Nekhludov" to his aunt:
"Dear Aunty: I have made a resolution on which the fate of my
whole life must depend. I will leave the university in order to
devote myself to country life, because I feel that I was born for
it. For God's sake, dear aunty, do not laugh at me! You will say
that I am young; and, indeed, I may still be a child, but this does
not prevent me from feeling what my calling is, and from wishing to
do good, and loving it.
"As I have written you before, I found affairs in indescribable
disorder. In trying to straighten them out, and to understand
them, I discovered that the main evil lay in the truly pitiable,
poverty-stricken condition of the peasants, and that the evil was
such that it could be mended by labor and patience alone. If you
could only see two of my peasants, David and Ivan, and the lives
which they lead with their families, I am sure that the mere sight
of these unfortunates would convince you more than all I might say
to explain my intention to you.
"Is it not my sacred and direct duty to care for the welfare of
these seven hundred men, for whom I shall be held responsible
before God? Is it not a sin to abandon them to the caprice of rude
elders and managers for their plans of enjoyment and ambition? And
why should I look in another sphere for opportunities of being
useful and doing good when such a noble, brilliant, and immediate
duty is open to me?
"I feel myself capable of being a good landed proprietor; and
in order to be one, as I understand this word, one needs neither a
university diploma nor rank, which you are so anxious I should
obtain. Dear aunty, make no ambitious plans for me! Accustom
yourself to the thought that I have chosen an entirely different
path, which is nevertheless good, and which, I feel, will bring me
happiness. I have thought much, very much, about my future duty,
have written out rules for my actions, and, if God will grant me
life and strength, shall succeed in my undertaking."
If Tolstoy did not really write this letter in his own person,
such thoughts and desires agitated his young soul, and gave
direction to his life.
Tolstoy's attempts - as we know them from the tale - ended in
failure. It could not be otherwise. Tolstoy's sincerity of
character could not bear a position in which he posed as benefactor
to his serfs, i.e., to men wounded in the most precious thing they
possessed - their moral dignity.
Tolstoy revolted against this contradiction: to become a "cool
and stern man," as his aunt advised him in her answer to his
letter, he could not, and at the first possible opportunity he
changed his way of life.
In the autumn of the year 1847, after having spent the summer
in yasnaya Polyana, Tolstoy removed to St. Petersburg, and at the
beginning of 1848 he entered upon his examinations for a university
degree.
"In 1848 I went to pass my examination as a candidate at the
St. Petersburg University, knowing literally nothing, and having
prepared myself for one week only. I did not sleep for nights, and
received candidates' marks in civil and criminal law."
To Lowenfeld, Tolstoy thus speaks about this time:
"It was very pleasant to live in the country with my aunt
Yergolskaya, but a vain thirst for knowledge again called me away.
It was in 1848, and still I did not know what to undertake. In St.
Petersburg two roads were open to me. I might enter the army, and
take part in the Hungarian campaign, or I might finish my
university studies in order afterward to get a post as a Government
official. But my thirst for knowledge conquered my ambition, and
I again resumed my studies. I even passed two successful
examinations in criminal law, but after that all my good intentions
fell to the ground. Spring came on, and the delights of country
life again attracted me to the estate." []
This period of his Petersburg life we can follow through his
letters to his brother Sergey. From these we quote one passage
bearing a general interest. On February 13, 1848, he wrote to his
brother:
"I am writing you this letter from St. Petersburg, where I
intend remaining forever. All are urging me to remain and serve,
except Ferzen and lev. So I have decided to remain here for my
examination and then serve; and if I do not pass (everything may
happen), then I shall begin to serve, were it even in the
fourteenth rank. I know many Government officials of this second
category who serve no worse than we of the first. In a word, I
will tell you that Petersburg life has a great and good influence
on me; it accustoms me to activity, and involuntarily takes the
place of a curriculum. Somehow one cannot be idle; all are
occupied, all are busy; indeed, one cannot find a man with whom one
could lead a disorderly life, and one can't do it by oneself.
"I know that you will not believe that I have altered; that you
will say: `This is already the twentieth time, and still no good
comes of you; you are the most frivolous fellow - ' No, I have
altered in quite a different way from what I did. Then I used to
say to myself, `Well, now, I shall change.' But now I see that I
have changed, and I say, `I have changed.'
"Above all, I am now fully convinced that one cannot live by
abstract speculation and philosophy, but that it is necessary to
live positively, i.e., to be a practical man. This is a great step
forward and a great change. This has never once happened with me
before. And if one wishes to live and is young, then in Russia
there is no other place but St. Petersburg. Whatever tendency any
one may have, there all may be satisfied, and all may be developed,
and that without any trouble. As to the means of life - for a
bachelor life here, it is not at all expensive, and, on the
contrary, it is cheaper and better than at Moscow, except lodging.
"Tell all our folk that I love and greet all, and that in
summer I shall perhaps be in the country, but perhaps not. I
summer I want to take leave of absence, and visit the neighborhood
of St. Petersburg; also I want to go to Helsingfors and Revel. For
God's sake, write to me for once in your life. I should like to
know how you and all ours will receive this news. As for me, I am
afraid of writing to them; I have been so long without writing that
they are probably angry, and especially am I ashamed before Tatyana
Aleksandrovna; ask her to forgive me."
Alas, these good intentions were not to be realized all at
once. Strange as it may seem now, yet at that time Tolstoy's
brother had a certain right to call him a "frivolous fellow," as
Tolstoy himself confessed to him.
Thus in his letter of May 1, 1848, he wrote:
"Seryozha! I think you are already saying I am a most
frivolous fellow. And saying the truth. God knows what I have
been up to! I went to st. Petersburg without any reason; there I
have done nothing necessary, only spent a heap of money and run up
debts. Stupid! Insufferably stupid! You can't believe how it
torments me. Above all, the debts, which I must pay and as quickly
as possible, because if I do not soon pay them, I shall, besides
the money, lose my reputation too. Before I get my next year's
income I absolutely require 3,500 rubles; 1,200 for the Guardians'
Council, 1,600 to pay my debts, 700 for my current expenses. I
know you will exclaim - but what is to be done? Such stupidity is
accomplished once in a lifetime. I had to do penance for my
freedom (there was no one th thrash me, and this was my chief
misfortune) and for philosophy, and so I have paid premium. Be so
kind as to arrange to get me out of the false and odious position
in which I now am, without a penny at my disposal and in debt all
round.
"You probably know that our troops are all starting for the
campaign, and that a part of the Second Corps have crossed the
frontier and, so they say, are already in Vienna.
I had begun to attend my examinations as `candidate' for my
degree, and have, in fact, successfully passed two, but I have now
altered my mind and want to enter the Horse Guards as a volunteer.
I am ashamed of writing this to you because I know you love me, and
will be grieved over all my silly actions and reckless behavior.
Even while writing this letter I have several times got up and
blushed, as you also will do on reading it--but what is to be done?
"Please God I will also some day amend myself and become a
respectable man; more than all I rely upon the service as
volunteer, it will teach me practical life, and--nolens volens--I
shall have to serve up to an officer's rank. With luck, i.e., if
the Guards should be in action, I may be promoted even before the
end of the two years' term. The Guards start for the campaign at
the end of may. Now I can do nothing, first because I have no
money--I do not need much (again in my own opinion)--and, secondly,
my two certificates of birth are at Yasnaya; get them sent as soon
as possible. Please do not be angry with me--as it is I feel my
nothingness too much--but quickly do what I ask. Good-by. Do not
show this letter to Aunty, I do not wish to give her pain."
Soon after, these plans too were dismissed. In one of his
subsequent letters to his brother, Tolstoy says:
"In my last letter I wrote you a lot of nonsense, of which the
chief was that I intended to enter the Horse Guards; I shall stick
to this plan only if I do not succeed in passing the examinations
and the war should be a serious one."
He probably did not consider the war sufficiently "serious,"
for he did not enter military service.
In the spring he came back to Yasnaya Polyana accompanied by a
clever German musician, who was, however, fond of drink. He met
him first at the house of his friends, the Perfilyev, and since
then had given himself up to music. The German's name was Rudolph.
Up to the time of his departure to the Caucasus in 1851,
Tolstoy lived partly in Moscow, and partly in Yasnaya Polyana.
During this time he developed a phase of asceticism, but varied
with outbreaks of feasting, sports, card-playing, visiting gypsies,
etc.
During these three years of his life Tolstoy tasted of
everything which a passionate and energetic young man could seize.
At the same time he neglected his diary, for want of time.
Only in the middle of 1850 did he recover himself and begin his
diary, with confession and self-accusation and expressions of a
desire to write down frankly his reminiscences of these
"disgracefully spent three years of his life."
In his wish to begin a regular life he made out a program of
each day from morning to night: estate affairs, bathing, diary,
music, meals, rest, reading.
But of course the program and the rules were not adhered to,
and in the diary there was again an entry recording how little he
was pleased with himself.
This period of struggle would last for whole months, then
suddenly a wave of unrestrained passion would break out and bear
down all external restraints.
Like a drowning man who clings to a straw, he would, when
carried away by his passion, catch at various feelings which might
keep him from ruin. One of these was self-respect.
"Men whom I consider morally beneath me can do wicked things
better than I do," he wrote in his diary, whereupon the wicked
things would then become odious to him and he would give them up.
Quiet life in the country often helped him to subdue his
passions.
It is remarkable that in such everyday occupations as
card-playing, his noble and generous nature would assert itself.
It was probably one of his most powerful passions, but still he
kept himself within limits by making it a rule of honor to play
only with the rich, his object being that such gain as he made
should not cause material loss, or humiliate and ruin his partner.
Often, not being able to control himself, he would have a fit
of despair, and then again would recover himself and write in his
diary:
"I am living a completely brutish life, although not an utterly
disorderly one. I have abandoned almost all my occupations and
have greatly fallen in spirit."
Being at one time in straitened circumstances, he actually
intended to start a business of some kind, thinking he would run
the mail post in Tula. It was at the end of 1850. Fortunately
this enterprise was not carried out, and he thus avoided many
disappointments which would have ensued from such uncongenial
occupations. Thinking of his failures he once made the following
note in his diary:
"These are the causes of my failures:
"(1) Irresolution, i.e., want of energy. (2) Self- deception.
(3) Haste. (4) Fausse-honte [False shame, i.e., French expression
for being ashamed of that which is not shameful.] (5) A bad frame
of mind. (6) Instability. (7) The habit of imitation. (8)
Fickleness. (9) Thoughtlessness."
The greater part of the winter of 1850-51 he passed in Moscow,
from which city he often wrote to his aunt in Yasnaya, and told her
various details of his life. In one of the letters he thus
describes his lodging and environment:
"It consists of four rooms--a dining room, where I already have
a piano which I have hired; a drawing-room furnished with
arm-chairs and tables in walnut, and covered with red cloth and
decorated with three large mirrors; a study where I have my
writing-table, desk, and arm-chair--which always reminds me of our
disputes about this last piece of furniture; and a room big enough
to be both bedroom and dressing-room, and besides all this a small
anteroom.
"I dine at home on shchi and kasha, with which I am quite
content. I am only waiting for the confections and home-made wines
in order to have everything in accordance with my country habits.
"For forty rubles I have bought a sleigh of a style which is
now very fashionable--Sergey must know the kind. I have bought all
that is necessary for the harness, which at the present moment is
very elegant."
Evidently his aunt felt great fears about his behavior in
Moscow; in fact she gave him advice and warned him against bad
acquaintances, for in the next letter he writes to her:
"Why are you so set against Islenyev? If it is in order to
warn me against him, that is unnecessary, as he is not at Moscow.
All you say on the subject of the evil of gambling is very true,
and I often recall it, and consequently I think that I will play
cards no more. `I think,' but I soon hope to tell you for certain.
"All you say about society is true, as is everything you say,
especially in your letters, first because you write Madame de
Sevigne, and secondly because I cannot dispute it in my usual way.
You also say much that is kind about myself. I am convinced that
praises do as much good as evil. They do good because they
maintain one in the good qualities which are praised, and they do
evil because they increase vanity. I am sure that yours can only
do me good, being dictated by sincere friendship. It goes
without saying that this is so, so far as I deserve them.
"I think I have deserved them during all the time of my sojourn
in Moscow--I am satisfied with myself."
He also called at Yasnaya, from which place he again went to
Moscow in March 1951; after his return from this trip, he wrote in
his diary that, in coming to Moscow, he had three ends in
view--card-playing, marriage, and securing an official situation.
However, he did not obtain even one of these objects. He conceived
a dislike for gambling, because he had become conscious of the
vileness of this passion; he put off marrying because the three
things which he recognized as conducing to marriage --love,
reason, and destiny--were not present. He could not secure an
appointment, as he had not at hand certain papers which were
necessary for this purpose.
During the above-mentioned sojourn in Moscow he wrote to his
aunt Tatyana, March 8th:
"Lately, in a book I was reading, the author said that the
first symptoms of spring generally act upon men's morals. `With
the new birth of nature one would like to feel oneself also being
born again, one regrets the past, the time badly employed, one
repents of one's weakness, and the future appears as a bright spot
before one; one becomes better--morally better.' This, as far as
I am concerned, is perfectly true. Since I have begun to live
independently spring has always put me in a good disposition, in
which I have persevered for a period more or less extended, but it
is always the winter that is a stumbling-block for me--I always
then go wrong.
"However, in comparison with past winters, the last is without
doubt the pleasantest and most rational I have passed. I have
amused myself, have gone out into society, have laid up pleasant
impressions, and, at the same time, have not deranged my finances,
though, it is true, neither have I arranged them."
The following letter was written by him after his brother
Nikolay returned from the Caucasus; he writes:
"The arrival of Nikolay has been an agreeable surprise for me,
as I had almost lost all hope of his coming here. I have been so
glad to see him that I have even somewhat neglected my duties, or
rather my habits.
"I am now once more alone and literally alone--I go nowhere and
receive no one. I am making plans for spring and summer--do you
approve of them? Toward the end of May I shall come to Yasnaya; I
will pass a month or two there, and will endeavor to keep Nikolay
there as long as possible, and then I will go with him for a tour
in the Caucasus."
In the midst of these disturbing scenes of worldly pleasure,
card-playing, sensual indulgence, carousals with gypsies and sport,
there would come periods of remorse and humiliation. Thus he would
write a sermon while preparing for sacrament, but his sermon
remained unread.
At the same time began attempts at serious artistic writing.
Up to 1850 he intended to write a novel of gypsy life. Another
plan of the same time was worked out on the lines of the
Sentimental Journey of Sterne.
"He once sat at the window reflecting and observing all that
took place in the street.
"There goes a constable. Who is he and what is his life? And
that carriage that went by, who is in it?--and where is he going
and what is he thinking about? And who live in this house? What
is their inner life?...How interesting it would be to describe all
this! What an interesting book could be written upon it."
This changeable and dangerous period of life was cut short by
his sudden departure for the Caucasus.
PART III
Military service (1851-1857)
CHAPTER VII
The Caucasus
The unsuccessful attempt to keep house, the impossibility of
establishing good relations with the peasants, and the passionate,
perilous life, full of all kinds of excesses, which was mentioned
in the previous chapter, induced Tolstoy to search for a means of
changing his mode of life.
According to his own testimony, his life was so insipid and
dissipated that he was ready for any change in it. For instance,
his brother-in-law, Valerian Petrovich Tolstoy, being engaged, was
going back to Siberia to arrange some business matters there before
his marriage, and, as he was leaving the house, Tolstoy jumped into
his tarantas [Russian traveling cart], without a hat, and in his
blouse only; and it seems as if the only reason why he did not join
in the journey to Siberia was simply that he found there was no hat
on his head.
At last a serious incident took place that induced a change of
life. In April, 1951, Nikolay, Tolstoy's eldest brother arrived
from the Caucasus; he was an officer in the Caucasian army and on
leave of absence, and had shortly to return. Tolstoy seized this
opportunity, and in spring, 1951, started with him for the
Caucasus.
They left Yasnaya Polyana on April 20, and spent two weeks in
Moscow, and from there he wrote to his aunt Tatyana at Yasnaya:
"I have been to the promenade at Sokolniki during detestable
weather, and therefore have not met any of the society ladies I
wish to see. As you assert that I am a man of resources, I went
among the plebians in the gypsy tents. You can easily imagine the
inner struggle which there took place for and against. However, I
came out victorious, i.e., having given nothing but my blessing to
the merry descendants of the illustrious Pharaohs. Nikolay has
made the discovery that I should be a very agreeable traveling
companion, were it not for my cleanliness. He gets irritated over
my changing my underclothing, as he says, a dozen times a day. For
my part I find him a very pleasant companion, were it not for his
uncleanliness. I don't know which of us is right."
From Moscow they passed through Kazan, where they visited V. T.
Yushkov, their guardian-aunt's husband, with whom they had lived in
Kazan, and also saw Madame Zagoskin, a friend of this aunt's, the
directress of the Kazan Institute, an eccentric and clever woman.
In Zagoskin's house Tolstoy met Z. M., an ex-pupil of the
Institute, and conceived for her a sentimental kind of love, which,
as usual, owing to his bashfulness, he could not make up his mind
to express, and which he took away with him to the Caucasus.
In Madame Zagoskin's house, as that lady always secured the
young men who were the most comme il faut, he met and almost made
friends with a young lawyer, the procurator Ogolin, and took a
journey with the latter into the country to pay a visit to V. [J.]
Yushkov. Ogolin was a new type of the official of that late
period.
Tolstoy used to relate how Yushkov was--being accustomed to see
a procurator as a grave, respectable, and hoary personage in a
uniform, with a cross on his breast and a star--when he beheld
Ogolin, and got acquainted with him, under circumstances of ease
and freedom.
"When Ogolin and I had arrived and approached the house,
opposite which was a group of young birch trees, I suggested to
Ogolin that, while the servant was announcing our arrival, we
should compete as to which of us would climb these birches best and
highest. When Yushkov came out and saw the procurator climbing up
a tree, he could not recover himself for a long time."
Tolstoy, as he told me himself, was in his most stupid and
worldly mood during this trip. He related to me how his brother
made him feel his stupidity in Kazan. They were walking about the
town when a gentleman drove past them in a dolgusha [a kind of
jaunting-car on four wheels], leaning with ungloved hands on a
stick resting on the step of the carriage.
"How evident it is that this man is some sort of `scallywag,'"
said Lev Tolstoy, addressing his brother.
"Why?" asked Nikolay.
"Why, because he has not no gloves."
"Why should he be good-for-nothing because he has no gloves?"
asked Nikolay, with his hardly noticeable, kind, clever, and
mocking smile.
Nikolay always thought and did everything, not because others
thought and did so, but because he himself believed it to be right,
and he always thought and did what he believed to be right. Thus
he planned to go to the Caucasus not via Voronezh and through the
territory of the Don Cossacks, as was the rule, but on horseback to
Saratov, from Saratov in a boat down the Volga to Astrakhan, and
from Astrakhan in a post-chaise to the Stanitsa, and this plan he
put in execution.
They hired a fishing-boat, placed the tarantas in it, and being
assisted by a pilot and two oarsmen, sailed here and there,
sometimes rowing, sometimes carried by the current. The trip
lasted about three weeks, when they reached Astrakhan. From then,
Lev wrote to his aunt:
"We are at Astrakhan, and on the point of leaving it, thus
having still a journey of 400 versts to do. I have passed a most
agreeable week at Kazan. My journey to Saratov was disagreeable,
but, as compensation, the passage from there to Astrakhan in a
little boat was very poetical and full of charm, owing to the
novelty of the locality, and for me even from the very method of
traveling. Yesterday I wrote a long letter to Marie, in which I
tell her about my sojourn at Kazan. I do not tell you anything
about it, for fear of repeating myself, although I am sure you will
not confuse the two letters. So far as it has gone, I am
exceedingly satisfied with my journey. There are many things which
make me think, and then the very change of locality is pleasant.
In passing through Moscow, I subscribed to a lending-library, so
that I have plenty of reading, which I do even in the tarantas,
and, besides, as you can well imagine, Nikolay's society greatly
contributes to my enjoyment. I do not cease to think of you and of
all ours; sometimes I even reproach myself for having abandoned the
life which your affection rendered so sweet; but it is merely a
postponement, and I shall have only the more pleasure in seeing you
again. Were I not pressed, I would write to Sergey; but I put this
off until I shall be quietly settled down. Embrace him on my
behalf, and tell him that I greatly repent of the coldness which
there was between us before my departure, and for which I blame
myself alone."
A few words must be said as to what the Caucasus is, to make
the reader understand the facts of Tolstoy's Caucasian life, as
well as his Caucasian tales.
When the kingdom of Moscow became so strong as to be able to
make head against the Tartar tribes, it gradually pushed them to
the southeast, and, having conquered the kingdoms of Kazan and
Astrakhan, it came into conflict with wild tribes of mountaineers,
who inhabited the northern slopes of the Caucasian mountains. To
keep them in check, the Russian Government had, about the beginning
of the nineteenth century, erected a whole line of Cossack outposts
on the left bank of the Terek and the right bank of the Kuban.
On the other hand, the Georgian kingdom, which lies on the
southern slope of the Caucasian mountains, and which was up to that
time independent, had, with its King Heraclius II, become subject
to Russia in the beginning of the nineteenth century. The
subjugation of the mountain tribes between Georgia and Russia
became indispensable on political grounds, and the struggle went on
for over fifty years.
From the Cossack posts along the banks of the Terek and the
Kuban, the Russians gradually pushed on farther to the very edge of
the mountains. But they confined themselves chiefly to making
raids: a military detachment attacked the villages in the
mountains, destroyed pastures, drove off cattle, captured as many
inhabitants as possible, and with such booty returned to their
posts. The mountaineers in their turn made reprisals: they
pursued the detachments on their way back, and with their
well-aimed carbine shots inflicted on them great losses; they would
hide behind the ramparts in the woods and narrow ravines, and
sometimes even appear suddenly at the very posts, where they
massacred many, and carried off men and women to the mountains.
From time to time the struggle abated, but became fiercer when,
taking advantage of our ill fortune, there arose leaders who
managed to unite under their command the more powerful and warlike
tribes. The fanaticism of the latter was them kindled by the
preaching of a holy war against the infidels. The Russians had to
encounter great difficulties, and suffered heavy losses from the
most warlike of the Caucasian tribes, the Chechens, who live on the
forest-clad plains of the right bank of the Terek, near its
tributaries Sunzha, Agurniy [sp], and others, and higher up in the
mountain gorges of Ichkeriya [sp]. Our spirit of enterprise grew
stronger or slackened, according to the talent and energy of the
commander who happened to be directing the military operations.
The appointment in 1856 of Prince Baryatinskiy as governor of
the Caucasus, events took a decisive turn. Profiting by his
personal influence over the Emperor Aleksandr II, he summoned an
army of 200,000 men, a greater one than was ever before seen in the
Caucasus. A considerable part of this army he directed against
Checheniya, Ichkeriya, and Dagestan, then under the leadership of
the well-known Shamyl.
The talent and energy of this leader, and the fanaticism of the
mountaineers, who recognized him as their Imaum, were all crushed
under the weight of this powerful army led by Yevdokimov, whom
nothing could stop. In 1857 Shamyl's residence, the village Vedeno
in the center of Ichkeriya, capitulated, and in 1859, Shamyl
himself surrendered to Prince Baryatinskiy in his new Dagestan
stronghold--Guniba [sp].
At the beginning of the fifties, before his appointment as
governor of the Caucasus, Prince Baryatinskiy appeared in the
Northern Caucasus as commander of the left wing of the Russian
army.
Just about this time Tolstoy arrived in the Caucasus, and the
events described in his Caucasian tales, The Invaders, The
Cossacks, a Wood-Cutting Expedition, and An Old Acquaintance, took
place about this time and in this locality.
From Astrakhan both brothers traveled in a post-chaise through
Lizliar to the village of Starogladovskaya, where the eldest
brother was stationed. Tolstoy came to the Caucasus in a private
capacity and settled down with his brother.
The first impression which the Caucasus made on him was not a
profound one. Shortly after he reached the country he thus
describes it in a letter to his aunt:
"I have arrived well and whole, but am now, toward the end of
may, at the Starogladovskaya. I am feeling rather sad. I have
here seen at close quarters the kind of life Nikolay is leading,
and I have made the acquaintance of the officers who form the local
society. The kind of life led here is not very attractive as it
has at first presented itself to me, for the country, which I had
expected to find very fine, is not at all so. As the village is
situated on low land there is no outlook, and besides the lodgings
are bad, as well as everything that constitutes the comfort of
life. As to the officers, they are, as you can imagine, people
without education, but at the same time very good fellows, and,
above all, they are very much attached to Nikolay.
"Alekseyev, the commander, is a little chap, with light hair
approaching red, with mustaches and whiskers, and a piercing voice,
but an excellent Christian, somewhat reminding one of Volkov, but
not canting like him. Then B---, a young officer, childish and
good-natured, reminding one of Petrusha. Then an old captain,
Bilkovskiy of the Ural Cossacks, an old soldier, simple but noble,
brave and good. I will confess to you that at first many things in
this society shocked me, but I have become accustomed to it,
without, however, becoming intimate with the gentlemen. I have
found a happy medium in which there is neither pride nor
familiarity. In this, however, I had merely to follow Nikolay's
example."
However, he did not stay very long in Starogladovskaya.
He and his brother moved to Stariy Yurt, a fortified camp, to
shelter the sick in Goryachevodsk, where, shortly before, hot
springs possessing strong healing virtues had been discovered.
Again we quote the description of this place from Tolstoy's letter
to his aunt, written on his arrival there in July 1851.
"Nikolay left a week after his arrival, and I followed him, so
that we have been here for almost three weeks, and we live in a
tent, but, as the weather is fine and I am somewhat adapting myself
to this kind of life, I am feeling very well. Here there are
beautiful views. To begin with the place where the springs are.
It is an enormous mountain of rocks lying one upon the other, some
of which have become detached, forming a sort of grotto, others
remain suspended at a great at a great height. They are all
intersected by torrents of warm water, which in some places fall
with much noise, and, especially in the morning, cover all the
elevated part of the mountain with a white vapor which is
continually rising from this boiling water. The water is so hot
they can boil eggs hard in it in three minutes. In the middle of
the valley, on the chief torrent, there are three watermills, one
above the other, constructed in a peculiar and very picturesque
way. All day the Tartar women keep coming to wash their clothes
above and beneath these mills. I should mention that they wash
them with their feet. It's like an ant heap in continual motion.
The women are for the most part handsome and well built. The
costume of Oriental women is graceful, notwithstanding their
poverty; the picturesque groups formed by the women, together with
the savage beauty of the place, make a truly beautiful sight. I
sometimes remain for hours admiring the landscape. Then the view
from the top of the mountain is still finer and of quite another
kind, but I am afraid of boring you with my descriptions.
"I am very glad to be at the waters, as I benefit by them. I
take mineral baths, and I no longer feel pain in my feet. I always
have rheumatism, but during my journey on the water I think I took
cold. I have seldom felt so well as now, and notwithstanding the
great heat I take much exercise.
"Here the type of officers is the same as that of which I have
already spoken to you. There are many of these, I know them all,
and my relations with them are the same."
According to Tolstoy, Yurt was a large village with a
population of 1,500 and remarkable for its beautiful mountain
situation. In the mountains above the village rose a hot sulfur
spring. Its temperature was so high that, according to Tolstoy,
his brother's dog after falling into the spring scalded himself so
much that he died from the effects. The spring divides itself into
many small brooklets which run down the mountain-side. These
brooklets were so small that it was easy to bank them up. The
inhabitants of the village used them for working watermills. The
properties of the spring are superior to those of Pyatigorsk.
From this village Tolstoy joined in a raid as a volunteer.
Here he had glorious moments of youthful poetical enthusiasm.
Especially memorable to him was one night, which he has
described in his diary in terms of unique spiritual beauty.
"Stariy Yurt, 11th June 1851.
"Yesterday I hardly slept all night. Having written in my
diary, I began to pray to God. It is impossible to convey the
sweetness of the feeling which I experienced during prayer. I
repeated the prayers I generally say: Our Father, to the Virgin,
to the Trinity, `the gates of mercy,' the appeal to the guardian
angel, and then I still remained at prayer. If one were to define
prayer as petition or thanksgiving, then I did not pray. I longed
for something sublime and good, but what, I cannot convey, although
I was clearly conscious that I desired it. I wished to blend into
unity with the all-enfolding Being. I asked Him to pardon my
crimes; yet no, I did not ask this, for I felt that He had given me
this blissful moment. He had pardoned me. I asked and at the same
time felt that I had nothing to ask, that I could not and did not
know how to ask. I thanked Him, but not in words, not in thoughts.
I combined all in one feeling, both petition and thanksgiving. The
feeling of fear completely vanished. None of the feelings - Faith,
Hope, and Love - could I have disengaged from the general feeling.
No, here it is, the feeling which I experienced yesterday - it was
love to God, an elevated love combining in itself all that is good,
and repudiating all that is evil. How dreadful it was for me to
look at all the trivial and vicious side of my life. I could not
comprehend how it was this had attracted me. How I prayed God from
a pure heart to accept me into His bosom. I did not feel the
flesh, I was...but no, the carnal, trivial side again asserted
itself, and an hour had not passed before I almost consciously
heard the voice of vice, of vanity, and of the empty side of life.
I knew whence this voice came, I knew it had ruined my bliss; I
struggled, yet yielded to it. I fell asleep in dreams of fame and
of women. But it was not my fault, I could not help it. Eternal
bliss here is impossible. Suffering are necessary. Why? I do not
know? But how dare I say, I do not know? How dared I think it was
possible to knew the ways of Fate? It is the source of reason, and
the reason wishes to fathom it!...
"The mind is lost in these depths of wisdom and emotion, and is
afraid of insulting Him. I thank Him for the moment of bliss which
showed me both my insignificance and my greatness. I wish to pray,
but I do not know how. I wish to attain comprehension, but dare
not - I surrender myself to Thy will.
"Why have I written all this? How flabbily, how lifelessly,
even how senselessly have my feelings found expression; and yet
they were so elevated."
These outbursts of religious emotion were often succeeded by
periods of depression and apathy. Thus on the 2nd of July, while
yet living in the Stariy Yurt, he put down the following thoughts:
"I am just now meditating, recalling all the unpleasant moments
of my life, which in times of depression alone creep into one's
mind....No, there is too little delight - man is too capable of
imagining happiness and too often in one way or another Fate
strikes him, painfully, very painfully catching his tender chord -
for us to love life, and, besides, there is something specially
sweet and great in indifference to life, and I delight in this
feeling. In face of everything, how strong I appear to myself in
this firm conviction that there is nothing to expect here except
death....Yet at this very moment I am thinking with delight about
a saddle I have ordered in which I will ride in Circassian attire,
and about how I will flirt with Cossack girls, and feel despair
that my left mustache is higher than the right one, and I shall
spend two hours arranging it."
Thus Tolstoy often had to change his abode. The headquarters
and the staff-battery, where his brother served, were at
Starogladovskaya, but he was often sent to the outposts, to which
Tolstoy accompanied him.
These wild Cossack and Caucasian villages were destined to
become historic. Here the artistic forms of Tolstoy's works were
conceived, and the first fruit of his creative power came forth.
The wonderful scenery of the Northern Caucasus, its mountains, the
river Terek, and the Cossack bravery, and the almost primitive
simplicity of life - all this in one harmonious whole served to
cradle these early creations, and to point out the work of the
world-wide genius, who was to struggle for an ideal, to search for
truth and the meaning of human life.
Here we give a description of Tolstoy's arrival at Stariy Yurt,
taken from his novel The Cossacks, in which he so very vividly
depicts the impression made on him by the majesty of the Caucasian
Mountains.
"It was a very clear morning. Suddenly he saw, some twenty
steps from him, as he thought at first, pure white masses, with
their delicate contours, and the fantastic and sharply defined
outline of their summits, against the distant sky. And when he
became aware of the great distance between him and the mountains
and the sky, and of the immensity of the mountains, and felt the
immeasurableness of that beauty, he was frightened, thinking that
it was a vision, a dream. He shook himself, in order to be rid of
his sleep. The mountains remained the same.
"`What is this? What is it?' he asked the driver.
"`The mountains,' the Nogay answered, with indifference.
"`I have been looking at them myself for a long time,' said
Vanyusha. `It is beautiful! They will not believe it at home!'
"in the rapid motion of the vehicle over the even road, the
mountains seemed to be running along the horizon, gleaming in the
rising sun with their rosy summits. At first they only surprised
Olenin, but later they gave him pleasure. And later, as he gazed
longer at this chain of snow-capped peaks, which were not connected
with other black ones, but rose directly from the steppe, he began
by degrees to understand their full beauty, and to `feel' them.
"From that moment everything he saw, everything he thought,
everything he felt, assumed for him a new severely majestic
character, that of the mountains. All the Moscow reminiscences,
his shame and remorse, all the trite dreams of the Caucasus,
everything disappeared, and never returned again. `Now it has
begun,' a solemn voice said to him. And the road, and the distant
line of the Terek, and the villages, and the people, all that
appeared to him no longer so many trifles.
"He looked at the sky, and he thought of the mountains. He
looked at himself, and at Vanyusha - and again at the mountains.
There, two Cossacks rode by, and their muskets in cases evenly
vibrated on their backs, and their horses intermingled their
chestnut and gray legs - and the mountains. Beyond the Terek was
seen the smoke in a native village - and the mountains.
"The sun rose and glistened on the Terek beyond the reeds - and
the mountains. From the Cossack village came a native cart, and
women, beautiful women, walking - and the mountains. `Abreks
[mountain braves] race through the steppes, and I am traveling, and
fear them not: I have a gun, and strength, and youth' - and the
mountains."
In August he is again at Starogladovskaya.
From the story The Cossacks, which bears an autobiographical
character, we can form an approximate idea of how he passed his
time in the Cossack Village. His attempt to come more in touch
with the people - Cossacks, sport, the contemplation of the
beauties of nature, and the incessant inner strife which never
abandoned this man, and is vividly expressed in his works, such was
Tolstoy's life of that period.
"`Why am I happy, and why have I lived before?' he thought.
`How exacting I used to be! How I concocted and caused nothing but
shame and woe for myself!' And suddenly it seemed that a new world
was open to him. `Happiness is this,' he said to himself:
`happiness consists in living for others. This is clear. The
desire for happiness is inborn in man; consequently it is
legitimate. In attempting to satisfy it in an egotistical manner,
that is, by seeking wealth, glory, comforts of life, and love, the
circumstances may so arrange themselves that it is impossible to
satisfy these desires. Consequently these desires are
illegitimate, but the need of happiness is not illegitimate. Now,
what desires are these that can always be satisfied, in spite of
external conditions? What desires? Love, self-sacrifice!"
He was so rejoiced and excited when he discovered this truth,
which seemed to be new, that he leaped up and impatiently began to
look around for some one to sacrifice himself for, to do good to,
and to love. "I do not need anything for myself," he proceeded in
his thought; "then why should I not live for others?"
Already then the voice of love touched a powerful chord in the
soul of the young man, who had hardly entered the life of social
activity.
But outward events were still running their course, carrying
the strong animal nature of man along its customary path.
The life of the passionate young man in the Cossack village was
not devoid of romance. The story of his love is described in the
tale The Cossacks.
All the stages of this unreturned affection are vividly
pictured in that story, and even still better presented in a letter
to his Moscow friends. That letter shows the author's love of wild
nature, his passionate desire to live in perfect harmony with her,
and his sufferings from inability to do so. He knew his life in
civilized surroundings had torn him away from nature and created
between them an abyss impossible to overcome. Here is the most
striking and essential part of this letter:
"How contemptible and pitiable you all appear to me! You do
not know what happiness nor what life is! You have first to taste
life in all its artless beauty; you must see and understand what I
see before me each day: the eternal, inaccessible snows of the
mountains, and majestic woman in her pristine beauty, as the first
woman must have issued from the hands of her Creator - and then it
will be clear who it is that is being ruined, and who lives
according to the truth, you or I.
"If you only knew how detestable and pitiable you are to me in
your delusions! The moment there rise before me, instead of my
cabin, my forest, and my love, those drawing-rooms, those women
with pomaded hair, through which the false locks appear, those
unnaturally lisping lips, those concealed and distorted limbs, and
that prattle of the drawing-rooms, which pretends to be
conversation, but has no right to be called so - an insufferable
feeling of disgust comes over me. I see before me those dull
faces, those rich, marriageable girls, with an expression on the
face which says, `That's all right, you may--. Just come up to me,
even thought I am a rich, marriageable girl'; that sitting down and
changing of places; that impudent pairing of people, and that
never-ending gossip and hypocrisy; those rules - to this one your
hand, to that one a nod, and with that one a chat; and finally,
that eternal ennui in the blood, which passes from generation to
generation (and consciously even then, with the conviction of its
necessity). You must understand, or believe it. You must see and
grasp what truth and beauty are, and everything which you say and
think, all your wishes for your own happiness and for mine, will be
dispersed to the winds. Happiness consists in being with Nature,
in seeing it, and holding converse with it. `The Lord preserve him,
but he will, no doubt, marry a Cossack woman, and will be entirely
lost to society,' I imagine them saying about me, with genuine
compassion, whereas it is precisely this that I wish; to be
entirely lost, in your sense of the word, and to marry a simple
Cossack woman; I dare not do it, because that would be the acme of
happiness, of which I am unworthy.
"Three months have passed since I for the first time saw the
Cossack maiden, Maryanka. The conceptions and prejudices of the
society from which I had issued were still fresh in me. I did not
believe then that I could fall in love with this woman. I admired
her, as I admired the beauty of the mountains and of the sky, nor
could I help admiring her, for she is as beautiful as they. Then
I felt that the contemplation of this beauty had become a necessity
of my life, and I began to ask myself whether I did not love her;
but I did not find in myself anything resembling the feeling such
as I had imagined it to be. This sentiment resembled neither the
longing for solitude nor the desire for matrimony, not platonic
love, still less carnal love, which I had experienced. I had to
see and hear her, to know that she was near, and I was not exactly
happy, but calm. After an evening party which I had attended with
her, and at which I had toucher her, I felt that between this woman
and myself existed an indissoluble, thought unacknowledged bond,
against which it would be vain to struggle. But I did struggle.
I said to myself: `Is it possible for me to love a woman who will
never comprehend the spiritual interests of my life? Can I love a
woman for her mere beauty, and I love a statue of a woman?' I
asked myself, and I was loving her all the time, though I did not
trust my own sentiment.
"After the party, when I had spoken to her for the first time,
our relations were changed. Before that time she was to me a
foreign, but majestic, object of external Nature; after the party
she became a human being for me. I have met her and spoken with
her; and I have been with her father at work, and have passed whole
evenings in their company. And in these close relations she has
remained to my thinking, just as pure, inaccessible, and majestic.
To all questions she has answered in the same calm, proud, and
gaily indifferent manner. At times she has been gracious, but for
the most part every glance, every word, every motion of hers, has
expressed the same, not contemptuous, but repressing and enticing
indifference.
"Each day I tried, with a feigning smile on my lips, to
dissemble, and, with the torment of passion and of desires in my
heart, I spoke jestingly to her. But she saw that I was
dissembling, and yet looked gaily and simply at me. This situation
grew intolerable to me. I did not wish to tell lies before her,
and wanted to let her know everything I thought and everything I
felt. I was very much excited; that was in the vineyard. I began
to tell her of my love in words that I am ashamed to recall. I am
ashamed to think of them, because I ought never to have dared to
tell her that, and because she stood immeasurably above the words
and above the feeling which I intended to express to her. I held
my tongue, and since that day my situation has been insufferable.
I did not wish to lower myself by persisting in the former jocular
relations, and I was conscious that I was not yet ripe for
straightforward, simple relations with her. I asked myself in
despair, `What shall I do?'
"In my preposterous dreams I imagined her now as my mistress
and now as my wife, and I repelled both thoughts in disgust. It
would be terrible to make a mistress of her. It would be still
worse to make a lady of her, the wife of Dmitriy Andreyevich
Olenin, as one of our officers has made a lady of a Cossack girl of
this place, whom he has married. If I could turn Cossack, become
a Lukashka, steal herds of horses, fill myself with red wine, troll
songs, kill people, and, when drunk, climb through the window to
pass the night with her, without asking myself who I am and why I
am - it would be a different matter; then we could understand each
other, and I might be happy."
But he could not become another Lukashka, and could not
therefore find happiness in that direction.
In September he writes a letter to his aunt, through which the
future writer can already be clearly seen. It is his serious
attitude in the expression of thought that particularly strikes
one; probably by that time numberless thoughts and images were
overcrowding in his mind, and he chose only those which he could
set forth on paper. He thus expresses this sensation:
"You have told me several times that you are not in the habit
of writing drafts of your letters; I follow your example, but I
don't manage it as well as you do, for it very often happens that
I tear up my letters after rereading them. I do not do so from
vanity - a mistake in spelling, a blot, a sentence badly turned do
not trouble me, but it is that I cannot manage to learn to direct
my pen and my ideas. I have just torn up a letter to you which I
had finished, because I had said in it many things I did not wish
to say to you, and nothing of what I did wish to say. perhaps you
will think that this is dissimulation, and you may say that it is
wrong to dissimulate with those one loves and by whom one knows one
is loved. I agree, but you will also agree that one says
everything to a person toward whom one is indifferent, but that the
more a person is dear to one, the more things there are one would
like to conceal from him."
Feeling an excess of youthful energy, and having no outlet for
it. Tolstoy often risked his life in taking part in dangerous
excursions.
Thus, in company of his friend, the Cossack Epishka (described
in The Cossacks as Yeroshka), he once went to the village
Hossaf-Yurt, in the mountains. The journey was a dangerous one,
for the mountaineers sometimes attacked travelers.
On his safe return from the excursion Tolstoy met the
commander-in-chief of the left wing, Prince Baryatinskiy,
accompanied by his own relation, Ilya Tolstoy. The latter invited
Tolstoy to join their company, and this gave him a chance of
getting well acquainted with the commander-in-chief. He expressed
on one occasion his satisfaction and praise at Tolstoy's cheerful
and brave appearance, which he noticed on seeing him once after a
raid. Then and there he advised him to enter military service at
once, as Tolstoy still remained a civilian, but took part in all
the expeditions as a volunteer. The flattering opinion of the
commander-in-chief and the advice of his relations induced Tolstoy
at last to hasten his decision and send in his petition to join the
army.
He remained at Starogladovskaya during August and September.
In September he went with his brother Nikolay to Tiflis. His
brother soon returned, but Tolstoy stayed on in Tiflis to pass his
examinations and enter the service.
"We did indeed leave on the 25th, and after a seven days'
journey, very dull owing to the want of horses at almost every
posting-house, and very agreeable owing to the beauty of the
country through we passed, we arrived on the first of the present
month.
"Tiflis is a very civilized town, which to a great extent apes
St. Petersburg, and greatly succeeds in the imitation. The society
is choice and rather numerous; there is a Russian theater and an
Italian Opera, of which I avail myself as much as my restricted
means allow. I am living in the German colony. It is a suburb,
but has for me two great advantages, one of being a very pretty
place surrounded by gardens and vineyards, so that one feels more
in the country than in town. It is still very warm and very fine,
and up to the present there is neither snow nor front. The second
advantage is that for two tolerably clean rooms I pay five rubles
a month, whereas in town one could not have similar apartments for
less than forty rubles a month. Into the bargain I get practice in
the German language for nothing, have books, occupations, and
leisure, since no one comes to disturb me, so that on the whole I
am not dull.
"Do you remember, good Aunt, some advice you gave me in bygone
days - that I should write novels? Well, I am following your
advice, and the occupations I am speaking of consist in literary
work. I do not know whether what I write will ever see the light,
but it is work which amuses me, and in which I have persevered too
long to abandon it."
This letter is interesting, because it shows us with what
modesty this great talent was developing its unsuspected
excellence. He was ailing and doctoring himself for two months,
and wrote his first story, availing himself of occasional leisure
and solitude. Besides, part of his time was occupied with attempts
to get an official appointment, which was a difficult matter owing
to the want of the necessary papers.
December 23, 1851, he writes the following letter to his
brother Sergey, giving characteristic details concerning life in
Tiflis and the village:
"In a few days the long-desired announcement is to be gazetted
of my nomination as volunteer private in the 4th Battery, and I
shall have the pleasure of saluting and following with my eyes
passing officers and generals. Even here, when walking about the
streets in my fashionable overcoat and opera hat, which I bought
here for ten ruble, despite all my splendor in this attire, I have
become so accustomed to the idea of putting on a gray soldier's
coat that my hand involuntarily wishes to seize my hat by the
springs and flatten it down. However, if my nomination takes
place, on that very day I will leave Stargladovskaya and proceed
thence immediately for the front, where I will walk or ride in a
soldier's cloak or a Sackashan coat and will, according to my
powers, contribute, by the aid of the cannon, to the slaughter of
the wild, rebellious Asiatics.
"Seryozha.--You see by my letter that I am at Tiflis, where I
arrived as long ago as the 9th of November, so that I have had time
to hunt a little with the dogs I bought there (Stargladovskaya),
but the dogs that have been sent here I have not yet seen. Sport
here (i.e., in Sackashan village) is splendid: open fields, marshy
ground, full of hares, clusters, not of trees, but of rushes, in
which foxes find cover. I have been out hunting nine times in all,
about ten or fifteen versts from the village, with two dogs, of
which one is excellent and the other a good-for-nothing. I caught
two foxes and upward of sixty hares. In course of time I shall
attempt to hunt deer. I have more than once been present in
shooting expeditions for wild boar and stags, but have killed
nothing myself. This sport is also very pleasant, but, after
becoming accustomed to hunt with greyhounds, one cannot care for
it. Even as he who has become accustomed to smoke Turkish tobacco
cannot care for the common zhukov, although one may argue that the
latter is the best.
"I know your weakness. You will probably wish to know who have
been and are my acquaintances here and in what relations I stand
toward them. I must tell you here that this point does not in the
least interest me, but I will hasten to satisfy you. In battery
here there are not many officers; I am therefore acquainted with
all of them, but very superficially, although I enjoy their general
cordiality, as Nikolenka and myself always have brandy, wine, and
refreshments for visitors. On these same principles my
acquaintance has been made and maintained with officers of other
regiments with whom I had occasion to become acquainted at Stariy
Yurt, a watering-place where I lived in summer, and during the
expedition in which I took part. There are among them some more or
less decent fellows, yet, as I always have more interesting
occupations than talking to officers, I remain with all of them in
good relations. Lieutenant-Colonel Alekseyev, commander of the
battery I enter, is a very kind and very vain man. by this latter
weakness of his I have, I confess, profited and thrown some dust
unintentionally in his eyes--I need him. But this also I do
involuntarily and repent of it. With vain people one becomes vain
oneself.
"Here at Tiflis I have three acquaintances. I did not make
more, first, because I did not wish, and secondly because I had not
the opportunity - I have been ill almost all the time and it is
only since last week that I have been out. My first acquaintance
is Bagration of st. Petersburg (Ferzen's comrade). The second,
Prince Baryatinskiy. I made his acquaintance during the expedition
I took part in under his command and, later, spent a day with him
in a fort with Ilya Tolstoy whom I met here. This acquaintance
naturally does not afford me much recreation, for you understand on
what footing a volunteer private may be acquainted with a general.
My third acquaintance is an apothecary's assistant, a Pole reduced
to the ranks - a most amusing creature. I am sure Prince
Baryatinskiy never imagined that he could in any kind of list
whatever stand by the side of an apothecary's assistant, but so it
has happened. nikolenka is on a very good footing here; the
commanders and fellow-officers love and respect him. He enjoys,
moreover, the reputation of a brave officer. I love him more than
ever, and when I am with him I am completely happy, and without him
I feel dull.
"If you want to boast of news from the Caucasus you may
announce that the second personage after Shamil, a certain
Hadji-Murat, gave himself up the other day to the Russian
Government. He was the first horseman and hero in all Checheniya,
but committed a base act. You may further relate with grief that
the other day the well-known brave and clever general, Sleptsov,
was killed. If you wish to know whether it hurt him--I cannot tell
you."
January 6, 1852, Tolstoy writes a remarkable letter from Tiflis
to his aunt, which is full of tenderness and love for his guardian.
"I have just received your letter of 24th November, and I am
answering you immediately, as is now my custom. Lately, I wrote
you that your letter made me shed tears, and I attributed this
weakness to my illness. I was wrong. For some time back all your
letters have produced the same effect on me. I have always been a
cry-baby. Formerly I was ashamed of this weakness, but the tears
I shed in thinking of you and your love for us are so sweet that I
let them flow without any scruples or false shame. Your letter is
too full of sadness for it not to produce the same effect upon me.
It is you who have always given me advice, and although,
unfortunately, I have not always followed it, I would wish to act
all my life only according to your views. For the present allow me
to tell you what effect your letter had on me, and the thoughts
that came to me upon reading it. If I speak too frankly, I know
you will pardon it in view of the love I have for your. In saying
that it is your turn to leave us, in order to join those who are no
more, and whom you have so loved; in saying that your pray God to
put a limit to your existence, which seems to you so insupportable
and isolated, pardon me, dear Aunt, but it seems to me, in saying
this, you offend God and me and all of us who so love you. You ask
God for death, i.e., the greatest misfortune which could happen to
me. (this is not a phrase; God is witness that the two greatest
misfortunes which could happen to me would be your death or that of
Nikolay - the two persons I love more than myself.) What would
remain for me were God to fulfill your prayer? To give pleasure to
whom would I desire to become better, to be virtuous, to have 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 that you will be satisfied with me. When I
act badly, what I most fear is to pain you. Your love is
everything for me, and you ask God to separate us! I cannot tell
you the feeling I have toward you, speech does not suffice to
express it, and I am afraid you will think I am exaggerating, and
yet I am weeping with burning tears in writing to you. It is to
this painful separation I am indebted for knowing what a friend I
have in you and how much I love you. But am I the only one who has
this feeling for you? and you ask of God to die! You say you are
isolated. Although I am separated from you, yet, if you believe in
my love, this idea might counterbalance your pain. As for myself,
wherever I am, I shall not feel isolated, as long as I know I am
loved by you as I am.
"However, I know that is a bad feeling that dictates these
words to me; I am jealous of your grief."
Further on, in the same letter, he relates an incident as
interesting for its practical as for its psychological bearing:
"Today one of those things happened to me which would have made
me believe in god, did I not already, for some time past, firmly
believe in Him.
"I was at Stariy Yurt. All the officers who were there did
nothing but play and at rather high stakes. As it is impossible
for us when living in camp not to see each other often, I have very
often taken part in card-playing, and, notwithstanding the
importunity I was subject to, I had stood firm for a month, but one
day for fun I placed a small stake: I lost. I began again: I
again lost. I was in bad luck; the passion for play had awakened,
and in two days I had lost all the money I had and that which
Nikolay had given me (about 250 rubles), and into the bargain 500
rubles for which I gave a promissory note payable in January, '52.
I must tell you that near the camp there is a native village
inhabited by the Chechens. A young lad from there, Sado, used to
come to the camp and play, but, as he could not count or write,
there were rascals who cheated him. For this reason I have never
wished to play against Sado, and I have even told him that he
should not play because he was being cheated, and I have myself
offered to play for him. He was very grateful to me for this and
made me a present of a purse, it being the custom of these people
to give each other mutual presents. I gave him a worthless gun I
had bought for eight rubles. I must tell you that in order to
become a `Kunak,' which means friend, it is customary to make each
other presents and then to have a meal in the house of the `Kunak.'
After this, according to the ancient custom of this people (which
now exists almost only by tradition), you become friends for life
and death, i.e., if I demand of him his money or his wife or his
arms, or all that is most precious to him, he must give it to me,
and I also must refuse him nothing. Sado had engaged me to come to
him and become his `Kunak.' I went, and, after having regaled me
in the native manner, he offered to let me choose anything in his
house I wished - his arms, his horse, all....I wished to choose
what was of the least value there, and I took a horse bridle
mounted in silver, but he told me that I offended him and compelled
me to take a sword which cost at least a hundred rubles. His
father is rather a rich man, but one who keeps his money buried and
does not give a penny to his son. The son, in order to have money,
goes and steals horses and cows from the enemy; sometimes he has
risked his life twenty times over in order to steal something not
worth ten rubles, but it is not through greed he does it, but by
fashion. The greatest thief is highly esteemed and called
`Dzhighit,' `plucky fellow.' At one moment Sado has a thousand
rubles, at another not a penny. After a visit to him I made him a
present of Nikolay's silver watch, and we became the best of
friends in the world. Several times he has proved his devotion to
me in exposing himself to dangers for me; but this for him is
nothing - it has become a habit and a pleasure.
"When I left Stariy Yurt and Nikolay remained there, Sado used
to go to him every day saying he did not know what to do without me
and that he felt terribly dull. By letter I communicated to
Nikolay that, my horse being ill, I begged him to find one at
Stariy Yurt. Sado, having learned this, made haste to come to me
and to give me his horse, notwithstanding all I did to decline it.
"After my silly action of playing cards at Stariy Yurt I had
not touched cards, and I was continually moralizing to Sado, who
had a passion for gambling, and although he does not know the game
has wonderfully good luck. Yesterday evening I occupied myself in
considering my financial affairs and my debts. I was thinking what
I could do to pay them. Having thought over these things, I saw
that, if I do not spend too much, all my debts would not embarrass
me and might be covered little by little in the course of two or
three years; but the 500 rubles I had to pay this month threw me
into despair. It was impossible for me to pay them, and at that
moment they embarrassed me much more than did previously the 4,000
of Ogorev. The stupidity, after having contracted those debts in
Russia, of coming here and making new ones cast me into despair.
That evening, during my prayers, I begged God to extricate me from
this disagreeable position, and prayed with much fervor. `But how
can I get out of this business?' I thought on going to bed.
`Nothing can happen which can give me any chance of meeting this
debt.' I already represented to myself all the unpleasantness I
should have to go through in consequence - how my creditor would
present the note for payment, how the military authorities would
demand an explanation why I do not pay, etc. `God help me,' I
said, and fell asleep.
"The next day I received a letter from Nikolay, together with
yours and several others. He wrote:
"`the other day Sado came to see me, he won your notes from
Knoring and brought them to me. He was so glad of this prize, so
happy, and kept asking so repeatedly, "What do you think? Your
brother will be glad I have done this," that I was inspired with a
great affection for him. This man is indeed attached to you.'
"Is it not astonishing to see one's desire fulfilled the very
next day, i.e., is there anything so astonishing as the divine
goodness for a being who deserves it so little as I? and is not
this feature of attachment in Sado admirable? He knows I have a
brother, Serge, who loves horses, and as I have promised to take
him to Russia when I return, he told me that, were it to cost him
his life a hundred times over, he would steal the best horse to be
found in the mountains and would bring it to him.
"Please get a six-chambered revolver purchased at tula and send
it to me, also a little musical-box, if this does not cost too
much; they are things which will give him much pleasure."
This story is especially interesting because it shows what
ground Tolstoy has traveled over in his spiritual development. It
reaches from his naive mystical belief in God's interference with
his gambling and monetary affairs, to the perfect religious freedom
confessed by him now.
Finally, a few days after this letter was written and his
official matters arranged, Tolstoy returned to Starogladovskaya.
On his journey from Mozdok station, probably while waiting for
horses, he wrote a long letter to his aunt, full of the most
profound religious thoughts and, as usual, overflowing with
tenderness to this beloved relative, and with visions and plans
concerning a future of simple family happiness.
"Here are the thoughts which occurred to me. I will try to
express them to you, as I was thinking of you. I find myself
greatly changed morally, and this has been the case so very often.
However I believe such is every one's fate. The longer one lives
the more one changes: you who have got the experience tell me, is
not this true? I think that the defects and the good qualities -
the background of one's character - will always remain the same,
but the say of regarding life and happiness must change with age.
A year ago I thought I should find happiness in pleasure, in
movement; now, on the contrary, rest, both physical and moral, is
the state I desire. But I imagine that the state of rest without
worry, and with the quiet enjoyments of love and friendship, is the
acme of happiness for me! But one feels the charm of rest only
after fatigue, and of the enjoyment of love only after being
without it. Here I am deprived for some time both of the one and
of the other; this is why I long for them so keenly. I must be
deprived of them yet longer - for how long, God knows. I cannot
say why, but I feel that I must. Religion and the experience I
have of life, however small this be, have taught me that life is a
trial. In my case, it is more than a trial, it is also the
expiation of my mistakes.
"I have an inkling that the seemingly frivolous idea I had of
going for a journey to the Caucasus was an idea inspired in me from
above. It was the hand of God which guided me - I do not cease to
be thankful for it. I feel I have become better here (though that
is not saying much, since I had been very bad), and I am firmly
persuaded that that can happen to me here will only be for my good,
since it is God Himself who has willed thus. Perhaps the idea is
too presumptuous. Nevertheless I have this conviction. for this
reason I bear the fatigues and the privations of which I speak
(they are not physical privations - such do not exist for a young
man of twenty-three who is in good health) without suffering from
them, even with a kind of pleasure in thinking of the happiness
awaiting me.
"This is how I represent it to myself:
"After an indefinite number of years, neither young nor old, I
am at Yasnaya, my affairs are in order, I have no anxieties, no
worries. You are also living at Yasnaya. You have become a little
older, but are still fresh and in good health. We lead the life we
have led; I work in the morning, but we see each other almost all
the day. We dine. In the evening I read to you something which
does not weary you, then we talk - I relate to you my life in the
Caucasus, you relate your memories of my father and my mother, you
tell those `dreadful' stories which we used to listen to with
frightened eyes and open mouth. We remind each other of those who
have been dear to us and are with us no longer; you weep, I shall
do the same, but these tears shall be sweet; we will talk about my
brothers, who will come to see us from time to time; of dear Marie,
who will also pass some months of the year with her children at
Yasnaya, which she so likes. We shall have no acquaintances - no
one will come to bore us and to gossip. It is a fine dream, but it
is not yet all I allow myself to dream of. I am married. My wife
is a sweet, good, loving person; she has the same affection for you
as I have; we have children who call you Grandmamma; you live in
the big house upstairs in the same room which Grandmother occupied
in past times. All the house is arranged in the same way as it was
in Papa's time, and we recommence the same life, only changing our
parts. You take the character of Grandmamma, but you are yet
better; I take the character of Papa, but I despair of ever
deserving it; my wife the place of Mamma, the children ours; Marie
the role of the Aunts, their misfortunes excepted; even Gasha takes
the role of Praskovya Ilyinishna. But some one will be wanted to
take the part which you have played in our family - never will
there be found a soul so beautiful, so loving as yours. You have
no successor. There will be three new personages who will appear
from time to time on the scene, the brothers, especially the one
who will often be with you; Nikolas, an old bachelor, bald, retired
from service, always as good as he is noble.
"I can imagine how he will, as in the old days, tell the
children stories of his own invention, how the children will kiss
his greasy hands (but which are worthy of it), how he will play
with them, how my wife will take pains to prepare his dish for him,
how he and I will talk over common memories of days long past, how
you will sit in your customary place and listen to us with
pleasure; how you will call us old men, but, as of yore, Lyovochka
and Nikolenka, and will scold me for eating with my fingers and him
for his hands not being clean.
"Were I to be made Emperor of Russia, or were some one to give
me Peru--in a word, were a fairy with a wand to come and ask me
what I would like to have, with my hand on my heart I should
answer, I only desire that this dream might become a reality. I
know you do not like to forecast, but what harm is there in it?
And it gives so much pleasure. I am afraid I have been egotistical
and have made your portion of happiness too small. I am afraid
that misfortunes which have passed, but have left too tender chords
in your heart, will hinder you from enjoying this future which
would have made my happiness. Dear Aunt, tell me, would you be
happy? All I have said may happen, and hope is such a delicious
thing.
"I am weeping again. Why do I weep when I think of you? They
are tears of happiness; I am happy to know I love you. Were all
calamities to afflict me, I should never call myself quite unhappy
as long as you existed. Do you remember our parting in the chapel
of Uverskaya when we left for Kazan? Then, as if by inspiration,
at the moment of leaving you, I understood all you were to me, and
although yet a child, I was able to make you understand what I felt
by my tears and a few incoherent words. I have never ceased to
love you, but the feeling I experienced in that chapel and the one
I now have for you are quite different; this one is much stronger,
more elevated than I have had at any other time. I must confess to
you something which makes me feel ashamed, but which I must tell
you in order to free my conscience. Formerly, on reading your
letters, in which you spoke to me of the feelings you had for us,
I thought I saw some exaggeration, but only now, on reading them,
do I understand you - your unlimited love for us and your elevated
soul. I am sure that any one else but you on reading this letter
and the last one would have cast the same reproach on me; but I am
not afraid of your doing this, you know me too well, and you know
that perhaps sensibility is my only virtue. It is to this quality
that I owe the happiest moments of my life. At all events this is
the last letter in which I shall allow myself to express such
high-flown sentiments, high-flown in the eyes of the indifferent,
but you will be able to appreciate them."
In January 1852, Tolstoy returned to Starogladovsk already a
non-commissioned officer, and in the following February he took
part as a gunner in a campaign.
In March he was again in Starogladovsk. It is interesting to
note the few thought written down by him in his diary of that time.
He realized that three passions were hindering him on his way
toward the moral idea which he placed before himself. These
passions were card-playing, sensuality or lust, and vanity. He
thus defined and characterized these respective passions:
"(1) Passion for gambling is a greedy passion which gradually
develops a craving for strong excitement. But it is possible to
resist it.
"(2) The indulgence of sensual passion is a physical need, a
need of the body excited by the imagination; abstinence increases
the desire and makes it very difficult to contend with. the best
method is labor and occupation.
"(3) Vanity: this passion is the one by which we do least
injury to others and the most to ourselves."
Further on are the following reflections:
"For some time back I have been greatly tormented by regrets at
the loss of the best years of my life. It may be interesting to
describe the progress of my moral development ever since I have
begun to feel that I could have done something good; but I will use
no more words, even thought itself is insufficient.
"There are no limits for a great thought, but writers have long
ago reached the absolute limits of its expression....There is
something in me which compels me to believe that I am not born to
be like every one."
These last words represent his first vague consciousness of his
vocation. It should be observed that they were written before he
had finished "Childhood," and therefore before he had been praised
and congratulated on a successful literary performance. It was
rather an internal independent consciousness of that mysterious
power he had which has since placed him so high as one of the best
representatives of the moral consciousness of humanity.
In the month of May [1852] he got leave of absence and went to
Pyatigorsk, to drink the waters and to be treated for rheumatism.
From there he writes a letter to his aunt which gives a picture
of his spiritual growth, and points to the incessant activity of
his inner life.
"Since my journey and stay at Tiflis my way of life has not
changed; I endeavor to make as few acquaintances as possible, and
to avoid intimacy with those whose acquaintance I have made.
People have become accustomed to my manner, they no longer
importune me, and I am sure they say he is a `strange' or a `proud'
man.
"It is not from pride that I behave thus, but it has come of
itself. There is too great a difference between the education, the
sentiments, and the point of view of those whom I meet here and my
own for me to find any pleasure in their society. It is Nikolay
who has the talent, notwithstanding the enormous difference there
is between him and all these gentlemen, to amuse himself with them
and be liked by all. I envy him this talent, but feel I cannot do
the same. It is true that this kind of life is not adapted for
one's amusement, and for a very long time I have not thought about
pleasures. I think about being quiet and contented. some time ago
I began to appreciate historical reading (it was a point of
contention between us, but I am at present quite of your opinion);
my literary occupations also advance in their little way although
I do not yet contemplate publishing anything. I have written three
times over a work I had begun a very long time ago, and In intend
rewriting it once more in order to be satisfied with it. Perhaps
the task will be like that of Penelope, but that does not deter me,
I do not write from ambition, but because I enjoy it; I find
pleasure and profit in working, and I work. Although I am far from
amusing myself, as I have told you, I am also very far from being
dull, as I have got something to do; besides this, I enjoy a
pleasure sweeter and more elevated than any that society could have
given me -- that of feeling at rest in my conscience; of knowing
myself, of understanding myself better than I did formerly, and of
feeling good and generous sentiments stirring within me.
"There was a time when I was vain of my intelligence, of my
position in this world, and of my name, but now I know and feel
that if there is anything good in me, and if I have to thank
Providence for it, it is a kind heart, sensitive and capable of
love, that it has pleased God to give me and to keep for me.
"It is to this alone that I owe the brightest moments I have,
and the fact that, notwithstanding the absence of pleasures and
society, I am not only at my ease but often happy."
In a letter of June 24, 1852, to his brother Sergey, he gives
characteristic details of his life in Pyatigorsk:
"What shall I tell you about my life? I have written three
letters, and in each have described the same thing. I should like
to tell to you the spirit of Pyatigorsk, but it is as difficult as
it is to tell to a stranger in what Tula consists, which we
unfortunately understand very well. Pyatigorsk is also something
of a Tula, but of a special kind -- the Caucasian; for instance,
here the chief feature is family houses and public promenades.
society consists of landowners (this is the technical term for all
visitors to the place), who look down upon the local civilization
and of officers, who look upon the local pleasures as the height of
bliss. along with me there arrived from headquarters an officer of
our battery. You should have seen his delight and excitement when
we entered the town! He had already told me a great deal about the
distractions of watering-places, how everyone walks up and down the
boulevards to the sound of music, and then, as he declared, all go
to the pastry cook's, and there make acquaintance even with family
houses. There is the theater, there are the clubs, every year
marriages take place, duels, etc.... -- in one word, it is quite a
Parisian life. the moment we got out of our traveling cart, my
officer put on blue trousers with fearfully tight riding-straps,
boots with enormous spurs, epaulets, and so got himself up and went
for a walk along the boulevard to the sound of music, then to the
pastry cook's, the theater, and the club, but, so far as I know,
instead of an acquaintance with family houses, and a bride who
owned 1,000 serfs, he -- in the course of a whole month -- only
made acquaintance with three shabby officers who emptied his
pockets to the last penny at cards, and with one family house, in
which, however, two families live in one room, and tea is served
with little scraps of sugar to put in one's mouth. This officer,
moreover, spent in one month about 20 rubles on porter and sweets,
and purchased a bronze mirror for the adornment of his toilet
table. Now he is walking in an old jacket without epaulets, is
drinking brimstone water as hard as he can, and appears to be
taking a serious cure; but he is astonished that, although he waked
every day on the boulevard, frequented the pastry cook's and did
not spare money on the theater, as well as on cabs and gloves, he
could not get acquainted with the aristocracy (here in every little
fort there is an aristocracy), while the aristocracy, as if to
spite him, arranges rides and picnics, and he is not admitted
anywhere. Almost all the officers who come here suffer a like
fate, but they pretend they came only for `treatment', so they limp
on crutches, wear slings and bandages, get drunk, and tell strange
stories about the Cherkessi. Yet at headquarters they will again
tell people how they were acquainted with family houses, and amused
themselves tremendously; and every season they go to the
watering-places in crowds to amuse themselves."
As is evident from his letter to his aunt, Tolstoy continued
writing "Childhood" in Pyatigorsk. At the same time his
self-scrutiny never stopped. On June 29th [1852] he wrote in his
diary a thought which might well serve as a short expression of his
present view of life:
"Conscience is our best and surest guide, but where are the
marks distinguishing this voice from the other voices?...The voice
of vanity speaks no less powerfully. For instance -- an unrevenged
offense.
"The man whose object is his own happiness is bad; he whose aim
is to get the good opinion of others is bad too, he is weak; one
whose object is the happiness of others is virtuous; he whose
object is god is great."
This again is a thought which we find further developed in his
later works:
"Justice is the least measure of virtue to which every one is
bound. Anything higher than justice shows an aspiration to
perfection, anything lower is (no better than) vice."
July 2nd [1852] Tolstoy finished "Childhood," and in a few days
sent the manuscript to the editor of "The Contemporary" in St.
Petersburg.
The original title of his first literary work was "the Story of
My childhood." It was signed with the three letters LNT, and the
editor for a considerable time did not know the name of the author.
In Pyatigorsk Tolstoy saw his sister and her husband. Marya
was undergoing treatment for rheumatism at the watering-place.
According to her account, Tolstoy was then carried away by
spiritualistic experiments such as the turning of tables; he even
carried this on in the boulevard, taking chairs for it from the
cafe.
On August 5th [1852], Tolstoy left Pyatigorsk and returned to
his outpost.
On his journey he wrote down the following interesting thought,
which is one of the leading principles of his present view of life:
The future occupies us more than the present. This is a good
thing if we think of a future in another world. To live in the
present, i.e., to act in the best way in the present -- that is
wisdom."
On August 7th [1852] he arrived in Starogladovsk, and on
returning to his beloved and familiar patriarchal surroundings of
Cossack life, he wrote in his diary:
"Simplicity -- that is the virtue I desire above all others to
acquire."
On August 28th [1852] he at last received the long-expected
letter from the editor of "The Contemporary." "It made me silly
with joy," he noted in his diary.
Here is the celebrated letter of Nekrasov, who was the sponsor
of the newly born talent:
"Sir--I have read your manuscript (Childhood). It is so far
interesting, and I will print it. It seems to me, though I cannot
say positively, not having seen the continuation, that the author
is a man of talent. At any rate, the author's tendencies, the
simplicity and lifelike character of the story are incontestable
merits. If the following parts contain (as one may expect they
will) more vivacity and movement, it will turn out a very good
novel. Please forward the continuation. Your novel and your
talent interest me. I would advise you not to conceal your
identity under initials, but to appear with your full name at once,
if only you are not a casual visitor in the domain of literature.
I hope to hear from you. Accept my best respects,
"N. Nekrasov."
[Footnote: Literary supplement to the magazine "Niva," February
1898, p337.]
After this, in a month's time, followed a second letter.
"St. Petersburg, September 5, 1852.
"Sir--I wrote to you about your novel, and now I consider it my
duty to add a few more words. I sent it to be printed in the ninth
number of `The contemporary,' and, after reading it carefully, this
time not in manuscript but in proof form, I came to the conclusion
that the novel is much better than it appeared to me at first. I
can positively say that the author is a man of talent. It is most
important for you yourself to be convinced o this now, when you are
a beginner. The number of `The Contemporary' with your
contribution in it will appear tomorrow in St. Petersburg, but you
will only get it in three weeks' time, not before. I will send it
on to your address. I have omitted some parts of your novel, but
very little; however...I have not added anything. I will write
again before long in detail, but I am busy just now. I expect your
answer, and beg you to forward me the continuation, if ready for
the press.
N. Nekrasov.
P.S.--Though I believe I have guessed the name of the author,
still I beg you to inform me of it. In fact i must know it,
because of the rules of our censorship."
Of this letter Tolstoy wrote in his diary, "September 30,
Received a letter from Nekrasov, but no money."
He was in need of money at that time, and expected his
honorarium for his first literary work. He probably wrote about it
to Nekrasov, for he received a third letter from him, of which the
contents were as follows:
"St. Petersburg, October 30, 1852.
"Dear Dir--I beg to be excused for my delay in answering your
last letter--I was very busy. As to the money matter, I said
nothing about it in my previous letters for the following reason;
our best periodicals have long made it a custom not to pay anything
for the first novel to a commencing author, who is first introduced
to the public by the periodical itself. All who began their
literary career in `The Contemporary,' such as Goncharov,
Druzhinin, Ardeyev, and others, had to submit to this custom. When
it came out, my own first work, as well as one of Panayev's, had to
submit to the same custom. I propose to you to do the same thing,
and you can make it a condition that for your subsequent works I
will pay you the best honorarium, which is given only to our
best-known (very few) novel writers, that is to say, fifty rubles
for sixteen pages of printed matter. I should add that I put off
writing to you, because I could not make such an offer before
verifying my impression by the judgment of the reading public.
This judgment turned out very favorable to you, and I am very glad
to make no mistake in my estimate of your first work, so I offer
you now with pleasure the above-mentioned conditions of payment.
"Please let me know what you think about it. In any case I can
guarantee that we will come to an agreement on this point. As your
novel has had so much success, we should be very glad soon to get
your second work. Please send what you have now ready for print.
"I wanted to send you the ninth number of `The Contemporary,'
but unfortunately I forgot to order extra copies to be printed, and
the whole of this year's issues are sold out. However, if you
like, I can send you one or two reprints of your novel -- this can
be done by making use of the defective copies.
"Once more allow me to ask you to send us a novel, or a tale of
some kind. I remain, in expectation of your answer, yours truly,
N. Nekrasov.
"P.S.--We are bound to know the names of all the authors whose
works we publish, so please give me exact information concerning
this point. If you wish it, no one but the publishers shall know
it."
Thus, judging by Nekrasov's letter, on the 6th of September,
1852, an event of great significance occurred in this history of
Russian literature: Tolstoy's first work appeared in print that
day.
Tolstoy mentions this episode, with his usual modesty, in a
letter to his aunt Tatyana, dated October 28, 1952.
"On my return from the baths I passed a month rather
disagreeably owing to the review which the general was going to
hold. Marching and discharging different kinds of guns are not
very pleasant, especially as the exercise interferes with any
settled habits of my life. Fortunately it did not last long, and
I have again resumed my way of life, consisting in sport, writing,
reading, and conversations with Nikolay. I have taken to shooting,
and as I have turned out to be a tolerably good shot, this
occupation takes up two or three hours a day. In Russia they have
no idea how much and what excellent game is to be found here. A
hundred yards from where I live I find pheasants, and in half an
hour I bag two, three or four. Besides the pleasure, the exercise
is good for my health, which, in spite of the waters, is not in
first-rate condition. I am not ill, but I very often suffer from
colds, at one time from a bad throat, at another from toothache,
which I have still got; at times from rheumatism, so that at least
for two days a week I keep my room. Do not think I am concealing
anything from you: I am, as I have always been, of a strong
constitution, but of weak health. In intend passing next summer
again at the waters. If I am not cured by them, I am sure they
have done me good--`there is no evil without good.' When I am
indisposed, I can work, with less fear of being distracted, at
another novel which I have begun. The one I sent to St. Petersburg
is published in the September number of the "Sovremennik" for 1852
under the title of "Childhood". I have signed it LNT and no one
except Nikolay knows who is the author. I should not like it to be
known."
Marya, Tolstoy's sister, told me about the impression which
this thing produced in the family circle. They lived on their
estate, not far from that of Turgenev - Spasskoye, who used to
visit them. On one occasion Turgenev arrived at their place with
the latest number of "The Contemporary," and read out a novel by an
unknown author which he praised highly. Marya heard with surprise
the story of events of her own family, wondering who could be aware
of the intimate details of their life. How little idea they had
that their own Lyovochka might be the author of this novel was
shown by the fact of Nikolay Nikolayevich being suspected to have
written it; the fact was he had manifested literary inclinations
from his childhood, and was a splendid story-teller. Evidently his
devoted aunt Tatyana knew how to keep the secret entrusted to her,
and it probably leaked out only on Tolstoy's arrival from the
Caucasus.
In her reminiscences Mme. Golovachov-Panayev gives an
interesting description of the impression made by the first novel
of Tolstoy on both readers and authors.
"On all sides praises were showered upon the hew author by the
reading public, and everybody wanted to know his name. as to the
men of letters, they treated the newly born talent more or less
indifferently, with the exception of Panayev, who was so delighted
with `The History of My Childhood' that he read it aloud every
evening to some of his friends. Turgenev laughed at Panayev to his
face, and said that his friends, when meeting him at the Nevsky
Prospect, hid themselves for fear lest he should start reading
passages from the new novel, which he had already managed to learn
by heart.
"The literary critics were slow to notice Tolstoy. At least in
Zelinsky's volume of literary criticisms upon Tolstoy -- a
carefully written book -- the first critical review is mentioned as
having appeared in 1854. It was printed in the monthly serial,
"Memoirs of the Fatherland," in November of that year, that is to
say more than two years after "Childhood" appeared in print. The
article was written a propos of the publication of "Boyhood," and
both novels were reviewed in it."
We quote here the short but striking critique of Tolstoy's
first work:
"`Childhood' -- an immense chain of various poetical and
unconscious conceptions of the surroundings, enabled the author to
view country life in the same poetical light. He selected from
this life all that strikes the mind and imagination of the child,
and with the author's powerful talent this life is presented just
as the child sees it. Of the environment he introduces into his
story as much as strikes the imagination of the child; that is why
all the chapters of the novel, though apparently disconnected, have
a perfect unity: they show the child's standpoint of the world.
But the great talent of the author is further seen in what follows.
It might be thought that in depicting the world from the
impressions of a child one could hardly present life and mankind
from other than a childish point of view. We are the more
surprised to find after reading these tales, that they leave in the
imagination the lifelike portraiture of father, mother, nurse, and
tutor, in short the whole family, and all represented in the most
poetical colors." [Footnote: "Memoirs of the Fatherland, 1854, No.
11 (Journalism).]
In proportion to the growing circulation of "The Contemporary"
grew the interest of the reading public in the newly rising talent.
When copies of "The Contemporary" containing the stories
"Childhood" and "Boyhood" reached Dostoyevsky in Siberia they
deeply impressed him. In a letter to one of his friends in
Semipalatinsk he insisted on being told who this mysterious LNT
was.
But the mysterious LNT, as if of set purpose, declined to
reveal his identity, and only watched from the outside the
sensation he had made.
In October, while living in the village Starogladovsk, he
sketched the plan for a work, "The Novel of a Russian Landlord," of
which the fundamental idea was as follows:
"The hoer seeks for the realization of his ideal of happiness
and justice in the conditions of country life. Not finding it, he
is disillusioned and searches for it in family life. His friend
suggests to him the idea that happiness does not consist in any
ideal, but in one's continual work with the happiness of others for
its object."
Unfortunately the plan was not realized, but the same ideas are
developed in many of his following works.
In spite of his prominent position, a military career proved
not to his taste. It was evidently a burden to him, and he only
waited to get his commission in order to be allowed to leave.
But this promotion was slow n coming, and it looked as if the
delay was intentional. When he entered the service he expected to
be promoted in about eighteen months, but after nearly a year's
service he received at the end of October [1852] a notice informing
him that he must first serve three more years.
The reason for the delay turned out to be his negligence in
sending in his papers.
In the memoirs of countess S. A. Tolstoy we read the following:
"The promotion of Tolstoy as well as his service had been full
of great difficulties and failures. Before his departure for the
Caucasus he lived in Yasnaya Polyana with his aunt Tatyana. He
often met his brother Sergey, who at that time was very much
interested in gypsies and their singing. The gypsies used to come
to yasnaya Polyana, and would sing, and turn the heads of the two
brothers. When Tolstoy realized that this might lead to some
foolish action, he suddenly, without warning to any one, left for
the Caucasus and took no papers with him."
This carelessness, or rather hatred of all kinds of business
documents, more than once caused a great deal of embarrassment to
Tolstoy.
In his impatience he sent a complaint to his aunt P. Yushkova,
who wrote to certain high officials, and so managed to hasten his
promotion to the rank of officer.
On December 24th of the same year [1852] he finished his tale
"The Invaders," and two days later sent it to the editor of "The
Contemporary."
In January 1853, Tolstoy's battery had to march Shamyl.
In the history of the 20th Artillery Brigade, in the
description of this campaign, we find the following passage:
"At one of the guns of the chief detachment at No. 4 Battery
there acted as gunner Count L. Tolstoy, afterward author of the
immortal works `A Wood-Cutting Expedition,' `The Cossacks,' `War
and Peace,' etc."
The detachment was settled in the fortress Groznaya where,
according to Tolstoy, card-playing and carousals constantly went
on.
"January 18, as stated in the history of the brigade, the
detachment returned from Kurinskoye. during the last three days
the seven guns of the column discharged about 800 volleys, and of
these about 600 were discharged by five guns of the Battery No. 4
of the Brigade No. 20, which were under the command of Lieutenant
Maklinskiy and Sub-Lieutenants Sulimovskiy and Ladizhenskiy, under
whose authority count L. Tolstoy served as gunner of the 4th
Division. On January 19 he was despatched with a howitzer to the
fort and village of Gerzel." [Footnote: Yanzhul, "The History of
the Artillery Brigade No.20."]
Tolstoy also took part n the engagement of February 18th, when
he was exposed to great danger, being only a hair's breadth from
death. As he was sighting a gun, the enemy's shell broke the
gun-carriage and burst at his feet. Fortunately, it did him no
harm.
On April 1st he returned with his detachment to Starogladovsk.
From the first steps of his literary activity Tolstoy had to
come into contact with the senseless cruelty of that irresponsible
power, which has now for more than a century been obstructing
without intermission the free development of Russian thought. I
mean what is called the censorship.
In a letter to his brother Sergey of May 1853, Tolstoy writes:
"I am writing in a hurry so please excuse this letter being
short and disorderly. `Childhood' has been spoiled by the
censorship, and the `Expedition' has quite perished under it. All
that was good in them is deleted or mutilated. I have handed in my
resignation, and one of these days, i.e., in about six weeks, I
hope to go as a free man to Pyatigorsk and so on to Russia."
But getting leave of absence was no such easy matter, and in
the summer of 1853, Tolstoy was again in a dangerous position, and
with great difficulty was saved from being taken prisoner.
We take the description of this incident from the Memoirs of
Poltoratsky:
"On June 13, 1853, I joined the 5th and 6th squads of Kurinsky
and a company of battalion of the line with two guns, and we set
out on an expedition for which we were drafted off [footnote 2:
During the war with the mountaineers, military expeditions were
very dangerous. Such operations usually took place under the
protection of a strong convoy of soldiers. Naturally, all kinds of
errands for those in service were combined with these movements,
which for that reason were called "occasions".] to the fortress of
Groznaya. After a halt at Yermolov's Knoll, the column started in
marching order. When I came up to the middle of the column, which
stretched out along the road, I suddenly noticed, not far from the
advanced guard, to the left of the upper plain between Khan Kale
and the Tower of Groznaya, a party of from twenty to twenty-five
Chechen horsemen heedlessly galloping down the incline and across
the line of our column.
"I rushed onward to the advanced guard and soon heard a volley
of gun-shots, but before I had time to reach the 5th Company I saw
at a distance of about forty yards the gun unlimbered and the
linseed over it. "Put it back, put it back, our men are there!" I
shouted at the top of my voice, and fortunately succeeded in
stopping the discharge, which was aimed at the group of horsemen
huddled together, among whom were evidently some of our men. Upon
my order the 3rd platoon rushed forward, but they hardly made a few
steps when the Chechens turned to flight down the plain to Argun,
and then two shells were discharged in their pursuit. At the same
time, from the spot where the conflict took place, Baron Rosen,
deadly pale and very shaky, rode up to the column. He was almost
immediately followed by a horse without a saddle, which was
recognized as belonging to a platoon officer. At that moment, from
behind the short bushes growing on the road, there appeared the
artillery ensign Scherbachov. this young, ruddy-complexioned man
of nineteen summers, who only a few months before had left the
artillery school and struck everybody by his appearance of good
health and his extraordinary frame and strength, at this moment
shocked us all.
"He came up with deliberate but firm steps, without limping or
groaning, and only when he calmly came quite near did we see how
badly he had been hurt by the Chechens. Blood was spouting like a
fountain from bullet wounds in his chest and both his legs, from a
grape-shot wound in the abdomen, and a slash on the neck from a
sabre. There was not doctor and no medical assistant with the
column, so the barbers of the company had to do what they could,
and one of them skillfully and quickly dressed the wounds.
Meanwhile, Rosen, who had recovered a little from his fright,
explained that five of them rode on in advance of the column and,
at the moment of the attack by the mountaineers, Count Lev Tolstoy,
Pavel Poltoratskiy and the Tartar Sado probably escaped to
Groznaya, while he and Sherbachov turned their horses back to the
column which was moving up behind them. `Your honor,' interrupted
an artillery soldier lying on a high pile of hay, `there is another
man lying on the road, and I believe he is moving.' I shouted to
the third platoon, `Forward, double quick!' and rushed down the
road. At a distance of about one hundred yards from the guns of
the advanced guard lay a dead raven-hued horse well known to us,
and almost buried beneath him was the maimed body of Pavel.
[Footnote: Pavel Poltoratskiy, the nephew of the writer.] He
moaned aloud, and in a heartrending voice begged to be set free
from the unbearable weight of the dead horse. I sprang from my
horse and, throwing the bridle to a Cossack, with one haul, which
cost me an extraordinary effort, I turned over the carcass of the
horse and freed the sufferer, who was bleeding to death. He had
been wounded by sidearms, having received three blows on the head
and four on the shoulder. The latter were so deep that they
literally divided the shoulder in two, exposing a wide extent of
flesh. I sent by a Cossack an order for the whole column to move
on to where we were, and here the dressing of the wounds was begun,
and the stretchers were made ready.
"All this happened in a few minutes, during which we managed,
however, to render first help to the wounded, while the cavalry of
the Groznaya fortress was induced to rush out. The commander of
the garrison, seeing from the heights our column in prefect order
and the Chechens disappearing in the horizon, concluded that it was
useless to pursue them, and ordered the soldiers to return to the
fortress. But a few horsemen, having separated from the rest,
galloped onward to reach our column, which was at a distance of
about four versts from Groznaya. These were Pistolkorse and
several of his Circassian friends, from the friendly Chechens
inhabiting the villages about Groznaya. By common efforts we
constructed a kind of stretcher out of the soldiers' overcoats,
placed both the wounded thereon, and started on our journey.
Pistolkorse informed us the Count Lev Tolstoy and the Tartar Sado
were hotly pursued by seven of the Chechens, but, thanks to the
speed of their horses, they reached the gates of the fortress
unhurt, leaving the enemies a trophy in the shape of a saddle
cushion.
"Tolstoy and his friend Sado and three companions were
impatient to arrive before the rest at Groznaya, and detached
themselves from the column at Yermolov's Knoll. This maneuver is
unfortunately only known too well in the Caucasus! Who of us, if
mounted on a spirited horse, but obliged to move on step by step in
the occasion with the infantry, would not gallop away in advance?
This is a temptation to which old and young often yielded, contrary
to the strict prohibitions and discipline of the authorities. And
our five brave fellows did the same. Leaving the column thirty
yards behind them, they agreed that two of them, for the purpose of
reconnoitering, should ride along the upper recess and the
remaining three by the lower road. No sooner did Tolstoy and Sado
mount the ridge than they descried a crowd of Chechen riders, who
from the Khan-Kalsky forest were flying straight upon them. Not
having time to descend without great risk, Tolstoy shouted from
above informing his comrades of the enemy's appearance, and himself
with Sado galloped away at full speed along the ridge of the recess
to the fortress. Those below did not at first believe the news,
and not being able to see the mountaineers had lost a few minutes;
when the Chenchens (seven of them started pursuing Tolstoy and
Sado) appeared on the recess and rushed downward, Baron Rosen
turned his horse and galloped back to the column and reached it
safely. Shcherbachov followed him, but his horse, given by the
Government, galloped badly, and the Chechens overtook him, wounded
him, and threw him off the saddle, after which he managed to reach
the column on foot. Pavel's turned out the worse case. Having
caught sight of the Chechens, he instinctively rushed forward in
the direction of Groznaya, but at once realized that his young,
well-fed and petted horse could not in hot weather gallop the five
versts dividing him from the fortress, so he abruptly turned
backward at the very moment when the enemy had already come down
the recess on the road, and, with his sabre unsheathed, as a last
resource he intended to force his was back to the column. But one
of the mountaineers aimed his carbine well, and, waiting for
pavel's approach, lodged a bullet in the forehead of his raven
horse; it fell down dead, burying its rider underneath. One
Chechen bent from his horse toward Pavel, and snatching out of his
hands the silver-mounted sabre, he pulled off the sheath, but
seeing the third platoon, which was hurrying to Pavel's assistance,
he slashed him with his sabre on the head and ran away. His
example was followed by the remaining six mountaineers one after
another, who, riding by in full speed, each dealt heavy blows on
the head and shoulders of Pavel, who lay motionless under the
weight of his dead horse and bleeding to death, up to the very
moment of our arrival." [Footnote: "Reminiscences of V. A.
Poltoratskiy." "Historical Review," June 1893, p. 672.]
In the reminiscences of Bers we learn one more detail of this
affair characterizing Tolstoy:
"The peaceful Chechen Sado, with whom Tolstoy rode out that
day, was his great friend. They had only recently exchanged
horses. Sado had bought a young horse, and after having given it a
trial, gave it to his friend Tolstoy, and himself mounted the
latter's ambler, which, as it is well known, cannot gallop. When
they were overtaken by the Chechens, Tolstoy could have galloped
away on the spirited horse of his friend, but he did not leave him.
Sado, like all mountaineers, never parted from his gun, but
unfortunately this time it was not loaded. Still, he aimed it at
the pursuers, and shouted threateningly at them. Judging by the
actions of the pursuers, they intended to take both as prisoners,
especially Sado, out of revenge; for that reason, they did not
shoot. this saved them. They managed to approach Groznaya, where
a vigilant sentinel noticed the pursuit afar and sounded the alarm.
The appearance of the Cossacks on the road induced the Chechens to
stop the pursuit."
This incident served Tolstoy as a basis for his story, "A
Prisoner in the Caucasus."
But neither the dangers of the military career, nor the fits of
vice and gambling which burst like hurricanes into his peaceful
life, arrested the general development of Tolstoy's character, and
soon after the incident just described, he writes down the
following thoughts or maxims:
"Be straightforward, and, even if brusque, be frank with all,
but not childishly frank without due occasion.
"Refrain from wine and women.
"Delight is rare and imperfect, but repentance is complete.
"Give thyself up completely to every work thou doest. Under a
strong feeling pause always before action, but having once made thy
mind up, even wrongly, act with resolution."
In the middle of July, 1853, Tolstoy went to Pyatigorsk and
remained there until October, returning afterward to Starogladovsk.
Evidently the monotonous service began to be very wearisome, and he
was looking forward to a change in his life.
Meantime, he wrote from Pyatigorsk to his brother as follows:
"I think I have already written to you about my having handed
in my resignation. God knows, however, whether it will be
accepted, and when, in view of the war with Turkey. This disturbs
me very much, as I have now become so accustomed to the happy
thought of soon settling down in the country, that to return again
to Staroglavosk and wait till eternity, as I do for everything
connected with my service, it is very unpleasant."
The same frame of mind is perceptible in a letter from
Staroglavosk, written in December, 1853.
"Please write to me quickly about my papers. This is
necessary. When shall I arrive? [sentence emphasized] god only
knows, for it will soon be a year since I have considered how I can
resheath my sword, and still I cannot do it. However, as I must
fight somewhere, I find it pleasanter to fight in Turkey than here,
and have accordingly applied to Prince Sergey Dmitriyevich, who
wrote me that he had already written to his brother, but did not
know what the result might be.
"At all events, before the New Year I expect a change in my way
of life, which I confess has become inexpressibly wearisome to me.
Silly officers, silly conversations, nothing else. If there were
only one man with whom one might have a talk from one's soul!
Turgenev is right in speaking of the `irony of solitude,' when one
is by oneself one becomes perceptibly stupid. Though Nikolenka
took away with him - God knows why - the greyhounds (we, Epishka
and I, often call him a pig for this), still, during whole days
from morning till night, I go out shooting alone with a dog. And
this is my only pleasure; indeed, not a pleasure, but a means of
stupefaction. You get tired and hungry, and fall dead asleep, and
the day is passed. If you have an opportunity, or should be in
Moscow, buy for me Dickens' `David Copperfield' in English, and
send me Saddler's English Dictionary, which is among my books."
During this time Tolstoy was writing his "Boyhood," and had
finished a tale called "The Recollections of a Billiard-Marker,"
which was sent to the editor of "The Contemporary," expressing at
the same time his dissatisfaction with his work, and the hurry in
which it was done.
About the same time, one of his occupations was reading
Schiller's biography.
After having returned from a short journey to the village of
Khassav-Yurt, Tolstoy put down in his diary:
"For all the prayers I have invented, I substitute a single
one, `Our Father.' All the petitions I am able to address to God
are expressed in a way much more elevated and much worthier of him
in the words: `Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.'"
In her memoirs, the Countess S. A. Tolstaya describes another
interesting incident of his Caucasian life - the attitude of
Tolstoy to the St. George's Cross.
Readers are already aware that Tolstoy had distinguished
himself several times in military exploits, and that he coveted the
reward of the soldier's St. George's Cross. The commander of his
battery, Colonel Alekseyev, was very fond of Tolstoy. After one of
the engagements, several St. George's Crosses had been sent to the
battery. These crosses were to be distributed next day, but on the
eve of this day Tolstoy had to be on duty on the island where the
guns were placed.
With his usual inclination to be carried away by everything,
he, instead of going, played chess till late at night, and was not
on duty. The commander of the division, Olifer, not finding him on
duty, was very angry, reprimanded him severely, and put him under
arrest.
The following day the crosses were distributed in the regiment,
and the bands played. Tolstoy knew that he was to have had one,
but, instead of enjoying the grand event, he was in prison and in
despair at the time.
Another opportunity presented itself for receiving the cross,
but it again proved a failure, the reason of the failure being,
however, more to his credit.
Crosses were sent to the battery for good conduct in a certain
engagement with mountaineers. This time Tolstoy knew beforehand
that he was to get one.
But just before the distribution, Colonel Alekseyev spoke to
him in the following terms: "You know that St. George's Crosses
are mostly given to old, deserving soldiers, to whom they give a
right to life pensions in proportions to the salary they have been
receiving during service. On the other hand, crosses are given to
those non-commissioned officers who are in favor with their
superiors. The more crosses that are received by the
non-commissioned officers, the more are taken away from the old,
deserving soldiers. I will give you one if you like, but, if you
are willing to decline it, it will be given to an old and very
worthy soldier who deserves such a cross and who is looking forward
to it as a means of livelihood." Notwithstanding his passionate
desire to own the cross, Tolstoy immediately gave up his claim, and
after this he had no further opportunity of getting it.
To conclude our description of Tolstoy's life in the Caucasus,
we will quote a few lines from the reminiscences of an officer, M.
A. Yanzhul, who served in the seventies in the village
Starogladovsk, and came across traces of Tolstoy's sojourn there.
"In 1871 I was made officer of the 20th Artillery Brigade, of
the same brigade and village of Starogladovsk in which seventeen
years before Count L. N. Tolstoy had lived and served in the army.
The village of Starogladovsk with its handsome women of striking
local type, its valiant Grebenskiy Cossacks, and `the commander's
house surrounded by old poplars,' described by Tolstoy in his
well-known story, `The Cossacks,' had been familiar to me for more
than twenty years. At my time the memory of Lev Nikolayevich, as
they called him there, was still fresh in the village. They used
to point out to me the old Maryana, the heroine of the story, and
several old Cossack sportsmen, who knew Tolstoy personally and had
with him shot pheasants, and hunted wild boars. One of these
Cossacks, as all know, went on horseback in the eighties from the
village to Yasnaya Polyana to pay Tolstoy a visit. At the battery
I met Captain Trolov (now deceased), who had know Tolstoy as a
quarter-gunner, and related incidentally that even then the Count
possessed the marvelous capacity of a story-teller who carried away
the listeners by his interesting conversation." [Footnote:
"Notices of L. N. Tolstoy," by M. A. Yanzhul, "Russian Olden
Times," February 1890, p.335.]
Further on Yanzhul gives a short sketch of the character of
Tolstoy's superior, the commander of his battery:
"Nikita Petrovich Alekseyev, the commander of the battery in
which Count Tolstoy served, was loved and respected by all for his
kindness. He enjoyed the reputation of a scholarly `artillerist,'
a universalist, was distinguished for his extreme piety, and was
particularly fond of going to church, where he spent hours kneeling
and making bows. To this is to be added, that he had lost one ear,
which a horse had bitten off. One of his peculiarities was this:
he could not bear to see officers drinking, especially young ones.
In accordance with the customs of the good old times, all officers
dined with their commander. And here Tolstoy, by way of a joke,
often pretended to want some drink. On these occasions Petrovich,
in a solemn fashion, persuaded him not to take any, and used to
offer some sweets instead of spirits."
The description of Tolstoy's life in the Caucasus would not be
complete if we omitted his two comrades, the dogs Bulka and Milton.
He tells their history in his "Books For Reading," in a series of
charming idyllic pictures of Caucasian life with which almost all
Russian school-children are familiar.
At last there arrived the long-expected order, promoting
Tolstoy to the rank of an officer.
January 13, 1854, he passed his officer's examination, which at
that time was a meaningless formality, and began to prepare for his
departure.
January 19th he started for Russia. February 2nd he arrived in
Yasnaya Polyana. On a journey, which took in those days about a
fortnight, he met with a very violent snowstorm that probably gave
him the subject for his tale of that name. The short time of his
stay in Russia he spent with his brothers, his aunt, and his friend
Perfilliyev.
An order to join the Danube army was already awaiting him, and
he accordingly arrived in Bucharest, march 14, 1854.
Having finished the description of the Caucasian period of
Tolstoy's life, I think it will interest the reader if I give his
own opinion of that period such as it is at present. Tolstoy looks
back upon that time with pleasure, considering it one of the best
periods of his life, notwithstanding all his lapses from his then
vaguely realized ideal. He thinks that his subsequent military
service, and especially his literary activity, were injurious to
his character, and that it was only his return to the country and
his work at school with the peasant children that helped him to
feel as if he were born again and renewed his spirit within him.
Chapter VIII
The Danube and Sebastopol
Before entering upon the narrative of this period, I
must say a few words concerning the chain of political
events which brought about the changes in Tolstoy's life.
The reign of Nicholas was approaching its end.
Despotism was at its height, and the oppression of both
the higher classes and the masses proviked a desire to
revolt. As always happens, the government, instinctively
feeling the threatening storm, turned recklessly to
adventures abroad. The potentially accumulated energy of
violence is thus discharged in the bloody slaughter of an
obedient herd of soldiers, trained for the purpose of
making them able and willing tocome to the rescue of
governments in the difficult moments of their criminal
existence. The populace and the higher classes also half
consciously participate in such massacres, just as a man
in misery seeks to stay his anguish by drinking.
Thus, ruined and demoralized by the tyranny of
Nicholas I, on November 4, 1853, russia declared war with
turkey. At first the russian army scored successes,
entering the turkish dominion and occupying Moldavia, and
the Russian Black Sea fleet, under the command of the
celebrated Nakhimov, destroyed the turkis fleet at Synope.
At this juncture two Eruopean powers, France and
England, interfered, and then began the well-known Crimean
campaign, which was marked by the heroic defence of
Sebastopol, a feat unprecedented in history. As is usual
in such a crisis, along with the noisy movements of
outward life, the inner life ran its course in the hearts
of the best men, both of the people and of the higher
classes, and took shape in new ideals -- in liberal social
reforms of a certain kind, which, however, so far only
faintly reflected the needs of the people. These two
agencies, the direction of the energy of the people into
heroic military exploits and the fact of the national
spiritual life being stirred by the new ideals, gave a
character to the creative activity of Tolstoy during this
period.
Almost from the first these two great phenomena came
into opposition one with the other, and consequently
Tolstoy's works took that form of high poetic tragedy
which is so marked in his tales of Sebastopol.
Tolstoy, as has been stated above, was sent out to the
army of the Danube, after having seen his relations.
On reaching Bucharest, he writes a letter to his aunt
Tatyana, in the shape of a diary, describing in a concise
way the journey and first impressions on arriving.
"From Kursk I have made about 2,000 versts instead of
the 1,000 I intended, and I went through Poltava, Balta,
Kishinev, and not by Kiev, which would have been our of
the way. As far as the province of Cherson I had
excellent sleighing, but there I was obliged to give up
sleighing, and to do a thousand versts in a perekladnaya
[Footnote: Term indicating a travelling vehicle without
springs which was ordinarily used for travelling in
russia, and is somewhat similar to a small working cart.]
over dreadful roads, as far as the frontier, and from the
frontier to Bucharest it is impossible to describe the
state of the roads; in order to understand it, one must
have tasted the pleasure of doing a thousand versts in a
cart smaller and worse than those in which we transport
manure. Not understanding a word in Moldavian, and
finding no one who understood Russian, and moreover paying
for eight horses instead of two, although my journey
lasted only nine days, I spent more than 200 rubles, and
arrived almost sick from fatigue.
"19th March.--The prince was not here, but he arrived
yesterday, and I have just seen him. He received me
better than I expected, really as a relation. He embraced
me; he has invited me to come to dine with him every day,
and he wants to keep me attached to his person, but that
is not yet decided.
"Pardon me, dear aunt, for writing so little--I have
not yet collected my ideas--this big and beautiful town,
all these introductions, the Italian opera, the French
theater, the two young Gorchakovs, who are very nice
fellows...so that I have not remained for two hours at
home, and I have not thought of my occupations.
"22nd March.--Yesterday I learned that I am not to
remain with the prince, but am going to Oltenitsa to
rejoin my battery."
Two months later he agains writes, but now in another
frame of mind:
"While you imagine me exposed to all the dangers of
war, I have not yet smelled Turkish powder, and I am
staying very quietly at Bucharest, walking about, enjoying
music, and taking ices. Indeed all this time, with the
exception of two weeks I passed at Oltenitsa, where I was
attached to a battery, and a week I passed journeying
about Moldavia, Wallachia, and Bessarabia by order of the
General Serzhputovsky , to whom I am not attached for
special commissions, I have remained at Bucharest, and, to
speak the truth, the kind of life which I lead here,
being, as it is, somewhat dissipated, quite idle, and very
expensive, displeases me infinitely. Before this it was
the service which kept me here, but now I have remained
for three weeks owing to a fever I contracted during my
journey, but from which, thank God, I am now sufficiently
recovered to join--in two or three days' time--my general,
who is in camp near Silistria. Speaking of my general, he
appears to be a very good fellow, and, although we know
each other very little, to be well disposed toward me.
What is, movover, pleasant is that his staff is composed
for the most part of gentlemen. The two sons of the
Prince Serge, whom I have found here, are nice fellows,
especially the younger, who, although not particularly
clever, has much nobility of character and a very kind
heart. I like him very much."
We next quote from a letter which refers to events on
the Danube, though written from Sebastopol. As the reader
will notice, Tolstoy first addresses his aunt tatyana, and
then his brother Nikolay. To our mind, this letter should
form a page in a history of Russia.
"I will speak to you of the past, of my memories of
Silistria. I saw there so much that was interesting,
poetic, and touching that the time I passed there will
never be effaced from my memory. Our camp was stationed
on the other side of the Danube, i.e., on the right bank,
on the very elevated ground among beautiful gardens
belonging to Mustafa Pasha, the governor of Silistria.
The view from this place is not only magnificent but of
the greatest interest for all of us; not to mention the
Danube, its isles and its shores, some occupied by us,
others by the Turks, one saw the town, the fortress, and
the little forts of Silistria as it were on the palm of
one's hand. One heard the booming of cannon and guns
unceasingly, day and night, and with a glass one could
distinguish the turkish soldiers. It is true, it is a
curious kind of pleasure to see people killing each other,
nevertheless every evening and every morning I got on to
my cart and remained for whole hours observing, and I was
not the only person who did. The spectacle was really
fine, especially at night. During the night my soldiers
generally undertook trench work, and the Turks threw
themselves at them in order tohinder them, then you should
have seen and heard the fusillade. The first night I
passed in the camp this terrible noise awoke and
frightened me; I thought an assault had commenced, and I
got my horse ready very quickly; but those who had already
passed some time in the camp told me that I had only to
keep quiet, that this cannonade and fusillade were
ordinary things, and that they joikingly called them
`Allah.' Then I lay down again, but being unable to sleep
I amused myself by counting, watch in hand, the number of
discharges of cannon I heard, and I counted 110 explosions
in the space of one minute. Yet all this at close
quarters had not the frightful character it would appear
to have. At night, when nothing could be seen, it was a
question of who could burn most powder, and, with these
thousands of cannon-shots, a score and a half of men at
most were killed on both sides. You will allow me, dear
aunt, to address myself in this lettter to Nikolay, for
since I have begun to give details of war, I should like
to continue and address myself to a man who understands
and can give you explanations of what may be obscure to
you. Well, this was an ordinary spectacle which we had
every day, and in which, when I was sent with orders into
the trenches, I took my share; but we also had
extraordinary spectacles such as the one the day before
the assault, when a mine of 240 lbs. of powder was
exploded under one of the enemy's forts. On the morning
of this day the prince had been to the trenches with all
his staff (as the general I am attached to belongs to it,
I was there too) in order to give definite instructions in
view of the assault of the next day. The plan, too long
for me to be able to explain it here, was so well
combined, and everything had been so well anticipated,
that no one doubted as to its success. By the bye, I
ought, besides, to tell you that I am beginning to feel
admiration for the prince (you ought to hear what is said
about him among the officers and the men; not only have I
never heard any evil spoken of him, but he is universally
worshipped). I saw him under fire for the first time that
morning.
"You should see his figure, somewhat ridiculous with
his high stature, his hands behind his back, his cap on
the back of his head, his spectacles, and the way he has
of speaking like a turkey cock. One could see he was so
absorbed in the general progress of affairs that the
shells and bullets did not exist for him; he exposed
himself to danger with such simplicity that one would have
thought he was unconscious of it, and involuntarily one
was more afraid for him than for oneself; and then he gave
his orders with such clearness and precision, and at the
same time was always affable with every one. He is a
great, i.e., a capable and honest man, as I understand the
words; a man who has devoted all his life to the service
of his country, and not through ambition, but as a duty.
I will tell you a feature of his connected with the
history of this assault I had begun to describe. In the
afternoon of the same day that they exploded the mine,
about 600 pieces of artillery opened fire on the fort
which they wished to take, and this was continued all
night. It was one of those sights, and it caused on of
those emotions which one never forgets. In the evening
again the prince, amid all the commotion, went to sleep in
the trenches, in order himself to direct the assault which
was to commence at three o'clock of the same night. We
were all there, and, as is always the case on the eve of a
battle, we all pretended to be no more concerned with the
morrow than with any ordinary day, and I am certain that
all, in the depth of their hearts, felt a little nervous,
and not even a little but very much so, at the idea of
this assault. As you are aware, Nikolay, the time which
precedes an engagement is the most unpleasant--it is only
then that one has time for fear, and fear is one of the
most disagreeable of feelings. Toward the morning, the
nearer the moment approached the more did this feeling
diminish, and toward three o'clock, when we were all
waiting to see fired the batch of rockets which were to be
the signal for the attack--I was in such good spirits
that, had they come to tell me the assault would not take
place, it would have greatly grieved me. And lo and
behold, exactly an hour before the time fixed for the
assault, an aide-de-camp arrived from the Field-Marshal
with the order to raise the siege of Silistria! I may
say, without fear of being mistaken, that this news was
received by all, men, officers, and soldiers, as a
veritable misfortune, the more so that it was known
through spies who often come to us from Silistria and with
whom I myself often had opportunity to talk--it was known
that, if once this fort were captured--an event which no
one doubted--Silistria could not hold out for more than
two or three days. Do not you think that if this news was
caluclated to pain any one it must have been the prince,
who throughout all this campaign had done everything for
the best, yet saw in the very middle of the action of the
Field-Marshal arrive on top of him and spoil the whole
thing? And then, having in this assault his only chance
of repairing our reverses, he receives a counter order
from the Field-Marshal at the instant of commencing.
Well, the prince had not a moment's ill-feeling, he who is
so impressionable; on the contrary, he was glad to be able
to avoid the slaughter, for which he would have had to
accept the responsibility, and during all the time of the
retreat, which he himself directed, though he did not go
back till the last soldier was through it, and which was
accomplished with remarkable order and precision, he was
in better spirits than he had ever been before. What
greatly contributed to his good humor was the emigration
of about 7,000 families of Bulgarians whom we took with
us, mindful of the ferocity of the Turks--a ferocity in
which, notwithstanding my incredulity, I was compelled to
believe. The moment we had abandoned the various
Bulgarian villages we had occupied, the Turks made away
with every one who remained with the exception of women
young enough for their harems. There was a village to
which I had gone from the camp to get milk and fruit, in
which the population had been exterminated in the way I
have described. But no sooner did the prince communicate
to the Bulgarians that those who desired could cross the
Danube with the army and become Russian subjects, than all
the country rose, and all, with their women, children,
horses, and cattle approached the bridge; but as it was
impossible to take them all, the prince was compelled to
refuse those who came the last, and you should have seen
their sorrow. He received all the deputations which came
from these poor people, he talked with each of them, he
endeavored to explain to them the impossibility of the
thing, he offered to let them cross without their wagons
and their cattle, undertaking to maintain the people
themselves until they should reach Russia, and to pay out
of his own pocket for private ships to transport them; in
a word, doing all he possibly could to give help to these
people.
"Yes, dear aunt, I would greatly desire the
realization of your prophecy. The thing which I most
crave is to be the aide-de-camp of a man like him, whom I
love and whom I esteem from the depth of my heart.
Good-by, and, dear aunt, I kiss your hands."
In the midst of these strong and new sensations,
Tolstoy does not forsake his regular habit, that of
self-reproach; this is reflected in the entries of his
diary.
"7th July--I have no modesty. This is my great
deficiency. What am I? One of the four sons of a retired
lieutenant-colonel, left from the age of seven without
parents, and who, under the guardianship of women and
strangers, received neither a worldly nor scientific
education, and then became emancipated at seventeen; a man
without any great wealth, without any social position,
and, above all, without principle, who has let his affairs
get out of order to the last extremity, who has passed the
best years of his life without aim or pleasure; who has
finally banished himself to the Caucasus in order to run
away from his debts, and, above all, from his habits, and
who, having taken advantage of some connection or other
which had existed between his father and a
commander-in-chief, has got himself transferred, at the
age of twenty-six, to the Army of the Danube as
lieutenant, with hardly any means but his pay (having to
use such means as he possesses for the payment of his
remaining debts), without patrons, without knowledge of
worldly manners, without knowledge of the service, without
practical capacities, but with enormous vanity. Yes, such
is my social position. Let us see what is my personality.
"I am ugly awkward, uncleanly, and, in the worldly
sense, uneducated; I am irritable, a bore to others, rude,
intolerant, and as bashful as a child. I am almost
completely ignorant. What I do know I have learned
anyhow, independently, by snatches, incoherently, in a
disorderly way, and all comes to--so little. I am
self-indulgent, irresolute, inconstant, stupidly vain and
hot-headed, as are ll people with a weak character. I am
not brave, I am not methodical in my life, and am so lazy
that for me idleness has become almost a necessary habit.
"I am intelligent, but my intelligence has not yet
been thoroughly tried on anything. I have neigher a
practical nor a worldly nor a business intelligence."
"I am honest, i.e., I love what is right, have got
myself into the habit of loving it; and when I deviate
from it I am dissatisfied with myself, and return to it
with pleasure; but there are things I like more than what
is right--fame. I am so vain, and so little has this
feeling been gratified that often I am afraid lest,
between fame and virtue, I might, if the choice were given
me, choose the former.
"Yes, I am arrogant, because I am inwardly proud,
though I am shy in society."
At times a softened mood would come over him, and he
would write with some poetic feeling, as the following
entry in his diary shows:
"After dinner I leaned upon the balcony and looked at
my favorite lamp which gleams so nicely through the
foliage. Just then, after a few storm-clouds which have
today passed and moistened the ground, there lingered one
big cloud covering the whole of the southern portion of
the sky, and there was a peculiar pleasant lightness and
humidity in the air. The landlady's pretty daughter, like
myself, was reclining in the window leaning on her elbows.
A barrel-organ came along the street, and when the sounds
of a good ancient waltz, after gradually retreating,
completely vanished, the girl gave a sigh from the depths
of her soul, rose quickly, and left the window. I felt so
happy that I could not help smiling, and continued a long
time gazing at my lamp--the light of which was ever and
anon hidden as the wind moved the branches of the
tree--gazing at the tree, at the fence, at the sky; and
everything assumed a beauty such as I had never seen it
wear before."
The unsuccessful campaign of the Army of the Danube,
the dull life of the staff, all this wasunsatisfactory to
tolstoy. He wanted more vigorous activity, greater
excitement, and he begged to be sent to join the army in
the Crimea.
After the retreat from Silistria (July 20th) he went
to the Crimea. His journey lay through the towns of
Tekuchi, Berlad, Yassi, Kherson, and Odessa. He reached
Sebastopol November 7, 1854. On his way he fell ill and
was in a hospital, which explains the length of time he
spent on his journey.
On his arrival he was attached to the 3rd Light
Battery of the 14th Artillery Brigade.
Here he was overwhelmed with such a flood of new
impressions that for some time he could not master them.
At the end of a fortnight, on November 20th, he writes to
his brother Seryozha:
"Dear Friend Seryozha: I have behaved very ill to you
all ever since my leave began, and how this happened I
myself do not know; at one time a distracted life, at
another the dulness of my life and disposition, at another
war, at another some one in the way, and so on; but the
chief reason has been a distracted life, full of outside
interferences. So much have I learned, experienced, and
felt during this year that one positively does not know
what to begin to describe, or whether one will be able to
describe it as one would like. To aunty I wrote about
Silistria, but to you and Nikolenka I will not write like
that--I would like to communicate with you so that you may
understand me as I wish. Silistria is now an old song;
now it is all Sebastopos, about which I dare say you have
yourself read with a beating heart, such as I had four
days ago. Well, how can I tell you all that I saw there,
and where I went, and what I did, and what the French and
English say - the wounded prisoners - and whether they
suffer and suffer much, and what heroes our foes are,
especially the English. We can talk over all this some
day at Yasnaya or Pirigovo; and about much of it you will
learn from myself through the press. I will explain later
what I mean, but now I will give you an idea of the
position of our affairs at Sebastopol. The town is
besieged from one side only - from the south side - on
which, when the enemy approached, we had no
fortifications. Now we have on this side more than 500
guns of enormous calibre, and several lines of earthworks,
positively impregnable.
"I passed a week in the fortress, and up to the last
day kept losing my way among these labyrinths of batteries
as in a forest. the enemy has for more than three weeks
in one place been only 180 yards off, and does not
advance; at his slightest forward movement he is covered
with a hail of shot.
"The spirit of the troops is beyond description.
There was not so much heroism in the time of ancient
Greece. Kornilov, when making the round of the troops,
instead of, `I greet you, boys!' said: `One must die,
boys; will you die?' and the troops shouted, `We will die,
your Excellency! Hurrah!' and this was not mere show,
but on the face of each one could see that it was not in
jest but in earnest, and 22,000 men have already fulfilled
this promise.
"A wounded and almost dying soldier told me how they
attacked the 24th French Battery and were not reinforced;
he wept aloud. A company of marines almost revolted
because they wanted to relieve them from a battery on
which they had remained thirty days under shell fire.
Soldiers snatch the fuses out of the shells. Women carry
water to the bastion for the soldiers, and many of them
are killed and wounded. Priests with crosses go to the
bastions and read prayers under fire. In one brigade, the
24th, there were 160 men wounded who would not leave the
ranks. Wonderful time! Now, however, after the 24th, we
have somewhat quieted down, and it has become splendid at
Sebastopol. The enemy has almost ceased to fire, and all
are convinced that he will not take the town; indeed, it
would be impossible. There are three possible events:
either he will make a general attack, or else he is
diverting us with false works, or else fortifying himself
in order to winter. The first is the least and the second
the most probable. I did not succeed in being even once
in action; but I thank God that I have seen these men and
live in this glorious time. The bombardment of the 5th
will remain the most brilliant and glorious exploit, not
only of Russian but of universal history. More than 1,500
guns for two days played upon the town, and they not only
did not force it to surrender, but they did not even
silence one gun in two hundred of our batteries. It seems
to me that if this campaign is not favorably looked upon
in Russia, posterity will place it higher than all others.
Do not forget that with equal, even inferior forces, with
bayonets alone, and with the worst troops of the Russian
army (such is the 6th Corps), we are fighting with a more
numerous foe, possessing a fleet and armed with 3,000
guns, excellently made rifles, and with his best troops.
I do not mention the superiority of the enemy's generals.
"Our army alone can stand and conquer under these
conditions, and conquer shall yet, this I am convinced of.
You should see the French and English prisoners
(especially the latter): each one is better than the
last, I mean morally and physically; they are a splendid
people. The Cossacks say that even they feel pity in
sabring them, and by their side you should see any one of
our riflemen: small, lousy, and shrivelled up, in a way.
"Now I will tell you how it is that you will learn
from me through the press about the xplooits of these
lousy and shrivelled up heroes. In our artillery staff
office, consisting, as I think I wrote to you, of very
good and honorable men, the idea has been started of
publishing a military periodical for the purpose of
maintaining a good spirit in the troops, a cheap review
(at three rubles), and in popular language, so that the
soldiers could read it. We have written a prospectus of
the paper and presented it to the Prince. The idea
pleased him very much, and he submitted the prospectus and
a specimen number, which we had composed, to the Emperor
for sanction. The money for the publication has been
advanced by myself and Stolypin. They have made me
editor, together with a certain Mr. Konstantinovich, who
has published `The Caucasus,' and is an experienced man in
this line. In the review will be published descriptions
of battles, not so dry and untruthful as in other papers,
exploits of bravery, biograpnies and obituaries of good
men, and particularly of the rank and file; military
stories, soldiers' songs, popular articles about
engineering and artillery, arts, etc. This thing pleases
me very much; first, I like this occupation, and,
secondly, I hope that the periodical will be useful and
not at all bad. All this remains presumptive until we get
the Emperor's answer, and I confess I am anxious about it.
In the trial copy we sent to St. Petersburg we carelessly
inserted two articles, one by myself and the other by
Rostovtsev, which are not quite orthodox. for this
business I shall require 1,500 rubles, which are lying in
the office, and which I have asked Valeryan to send to me.
As I have already gossipped this to you, tell it to him
too. Thank God I am well, and I have been living happily
and pleasantly from the very time I returned from abroad.
In general, my life in the army is divided into two
periods: abroad a bad one, where I was ill and poor and
lonely, and at home a pleasant one. Now I am well and
have got good comrades, but I am still poor, for money is
soon gone.
"I do not write, but I instinctively feel how Aunty is
bantering me. One thing troubles me: this is the fourth
year of my life without female society; I may become quite
uncouth and unfit for family life, which I so enjoy.
"Well, good-by. God knows when we shall see each
other, unless you and Nikolenka take it into your heads
some day, when out hunting, to look in from Tambov at our
headquarters."
I have given the whole of this remarkable letter,
because it shows how young in his spirit Tolstoy was at
that time, how liable to be carried away by his feelings,
and how this stood in the way of any clear understanding
of what was going on around him. But glimpses of vivid
consciousness and prophetic inspiration appear with all
the greater force in the background.
However, these powerful outward impressions did not
occupy the whole of tolstoy's soul, and while alone,
writing his diary, possibly in the tents of the 4th
battalion, he was still the same as he had always been and
as he is now, ever seeking for and striving after the
ideal. His frame of mind at that time found vent in the
following poetical form:
"When, oh when, shall I at last cease to pass my time
without aim or enthusiasm, and to feel a deep wound in my
heart without knowing how to heal it? Who made this
wound? God alone knows, but from birth I have been
bitterly tormented by a sense of the insignificance which
threatened my future and by painful sadness and doubt."
[Footnote: We translate the verses in prose.--Translator]
He moved to Simferopol on November 23rd.
January 6, 1855, he writes a pacifying letter to his
aunt Tatiana:
"I have not taken part in the two bloody battles which
have taken place in the Crimea, but I went to Sebastopol
immediately after the battle of the 24th, and I passed a
month there. They no longer fight - they devastate the
country because of the winter, whick is exceptionally
severe, especially at the present moment; but the siege
goes on. What will be the issue of this campaign? God
only knows; but, in any case, the Crimean campaign must
come to an end in three or four months one way or another.
But, alas! the end of the Crimean campaign does not mean
the end of the war, which, on the contrary, it appears
will last very long. I had mentioned in my letters to
Sergey, and, I think, to Valerian, an occupation which I
had in view, and which greatly attracted me; now that
there is an end of the notion, I may explain it. I had
the idea of founding a military journal. This plan, at
which I had worked with the cooperation of many very
distinguished persons, was approved by the Prince and sent
to the Emperor for confirmation; but, as in our country
there are intrigues against everything, people were found
who were afraid of the competition of this journal; and
perhaps, too, the idea did not fall in with the views of
the Government. The Emperor has refused.
"I confess this disappointment gave me infinite pain,
and has greatly altered my plans. If god will that the
Crimean campaign should terminate in our favor, and I do
not receive an appointment with which I can be satisfied,
and if there be no war in Russia, I shall leave the army
and go to St. Petersburg to the Military Academy. This
plan occurred to me, first, because I should not like to
abandon literature, with which it is impossible for me to
occupy myself in this camp life; and, secondly, because it
seems to me I am beginning to become ambitious, or rather,
not ambitious, but I should like to do some good, and, in
order to do that, it is necessary to be something more
than a sublieutenant; thirdly, because I should like to
see you all and all my friends. Nikolay writes tha
tTurgenev has made the acquaintance of Marie. I am very
glad of it; if you see him, tell Varinka that I beg him to
embrace him on my baahelf, and to tell him that, although
I know him only by correspondence, I should have had a lot
of things to say to him."
The life which followed is very well pictured in his
letter to his brother, written in May 1855. In it he
gives a chronological summary of the events of his
military life during the preceding winter of 1854-55.
"Although you probably know through our folks where I
am and what I have been doing, I will repeat to you my
adventures since Kishinev, the more so that my story may
be interesting to you, and you will learn from it in what
phase I now am - for it seems that my fate is always in
some phase or other. From Kishinev I petitioned to be
transferred to the Crimea, partly for the purpose of
seeing this war, and partly in order to tear myself away
from the staff of Serzhputovskiy, which I did not like,
but chiefly from patriotism, which at that time I confess
took hold of me strongly. I did not request to be sent to
any particular point, but left the authorities to dispose
of my fate. In the Crimea I was attached to a battery in
Sebastopol itself, where I passed a month very pleasantly
in the circle of simple and kind comrades, who are
especially engaging during real war and danger. In
December our battery was removed to Simferopol, and there
I lived six weeks in the comfortable home of a landowner,
going to Simferopol to dance and play the piano with young
ladies, and, with the Government officials, to shoot deer
on the Chaterdag. In January there was another
redistribution of officers, and I was transferred to a
battery encamped at ten versts from Sebastopol. There
j'ai fait la connaissance de la mere de Kousma [Footnote:
A jocular translation into French of a Russian slang
byword "Kousma's Mother," popularly used to indicate a
difficult plight.--Translator]--the nasty circle of
officers in the battery, the commander, though a kind
creature, yet harsh and coarse; no comfort, cold earth
huts; not one book, not one man with whom one could speak.
Here I received 1,500 rubles for the periodical, the
sanction of which had already been refused; and here I
lost 2,500 rubles, thus proving to the whole world that I
am still a frivolous fellow, although the above
circumstances may be accepted comme circonstances
attenuantes. [Footnote: French for extenuating
circumstances.--Translator] But still it was very, very
disgraceful. In March it became warmer, and a good fellow
and most excellent man arrived and joined the battery, one
Brenevskiy; so I began to recover myself, and on the first
of April my battery, during the actual bombardment, went
to Sebastopol, where I quite recovered myself. there,
until May 15th, although in serious danger, having been on
duty four successive days in a battery of the 4th bastion,
yet we had the spring and excellent weather, a mass of
impressions and of people, all the conveniences of life,
and the company of well-bred men like ourselves, so that
these six weeks will remain one of my pleasantest
recollections. On May 15th Gorchakov, or the commander of
the artillery, was pleased to intrust me with the
formation and command of a mountain detachment at Belbek,
twenty versts from Sebastopol, with which I am up to now
very well satisfied in many respects.
"This is a general description. In the next letter I
will write about the present more in detail."
To this short description we may add that its jocular
tone does not harmonize with the serious thoughts and
feelings which beset him at the time.
In his diary of march 5, 1855, he puts down the
following prophecy about himself:
"A conversation about divinity and faith suggested to
me a great, a stupendous idea, to the realization of which
I feel myself capable of devoting my life. this idea is
the foundation of a new religion corresponding to the
present state of mankind - the religion of Jesus but
purified from dogma and mysticism, a practical religion,
not promising future bliss, but giving bliss upon earth.
I feel that this idea can be realized only by generations
consciously looking toward it as a goal. One generation
will hand on the idea to the next and, some day,
enthusiasm or reason will bring it into being. To act
with a deliberate view to the religious union of mankind,
this is the leading principle of the idea which I hope
will command my enthusiasm."
Of course when a man first writes the above words, and
after that is engaged for fifty years, with the resolution
and ability shown by Tolstoy, in elaborating the means of
realizing his idea, we may be sure his place was not in
the artillery.
He had a vague consciousness of this, and from time to
time the idea struck him that he was born not for a
military career, but for a literary life.
Moreover, he never wholly forsook his literary
activity.
On his way from Romania to Sebastopol he went on with
"The Wood-Cutting Expedition"; in Sebastopol he began to
write "Youth" and "Tales from Sebastopol."
From the 11th to the 14th of April [1855] he remained
in bastion No. 4. The sense of danger was a spiritual
awakening to him, and he addresses God with the following
prayer:
"Lord, I thank thee for Thy continual protection. How
surely Thou leadest me to that which is right! and what
an insignificant creature should I be wert Thou to abandon
me! Leave me not, Lord; direct me, and not for the
satisfaction of my poor desires, but for the attainment of
the eternal and might object of existence, unknown to me
and yet recognized by me."
On August 4, 1855, Tolstoy took part, although
indirectly, in the battle of the Black River. He hastens
to reasure his relatives, and in a letter to his brother,
of August 7, 1855, says, by the way:
"I am writing you a few lines to reassure you about
myself with reference to the battle on the 4th, in which I
took part and was not hurt; but I did not do anything,
because my mountain artillery had no occasion to fire."
At the same time, as is seen from Tolstoy's
correspondence with Nekrasov, he kept his eye on Russian
literature, and actively supported the editors of "The
Contemporary"; in fact he got together at Sebastopol a
group of contributors. This is what he wrote to Nekrasov:
"Respected Nikolay Alekseyevich - You must have
already received my articie, `Sebastopol In December,' and
the promise of Stolypin's article. Here it is,
notwithstanding the wild orthography of this manuscript,
which you will yourself get corrected, if it is to be
published without erasures by the censor, which the author
has tried his best to avoid. You will, I hope, agree that
such military articles are unfortunately very scarce with
us or else do not get published. Perhaps, by this same
courier, an article by Saken may be sent, of which I say
nothing, and which I hope you will not print. The
corrections in Stolypin's article in black ink are made by
Horulef with his left hand, his right hand being wounded.
Stolypin requests that they should be put in footnotes.
Please insert, if possible, mine as well as Stolypin's in
the June issue. Now we are all together, and the literary
society of the fallen Journal is beginning to be
organized, and, as I told you, you will receive from me
every month two, three, or four articles of a contemporary
military character. The best contributors, Bakunin and
Rostvortsev, have not yet had time to finish their
articles. Be so kind as to direct your answer to me, and
in general write by this courier, an adjutant of
Gorchakov's, and by the others who are continually going
to and fro between you and us." [Footnote: The Literary
Reminiscences of J. Panayev.] Sebastopol, april 30, 1855.
On June 15th [1855], in Bakhchisaray, he received a
letter from Panayev and a copy of "The Contemporary," with
his printed tale "Sebastopol In December." From this
letter he learned that the tale had been read by the
Emperor Aleksandr II.
Evidently it had made a deep impression on the
Emperor, for he ordered it to be translated into French.
In the same month of June [1855] Tolstoy finished the tale
"The Wood-Cutting Expedition," and sent it to "The
Contemporary."
In July he completed and sent to the editors his new
tale, "Sebastopol In May."
In his letter from St. Petersburg, dated August 28,
1858, Panayev relates the following incident in connection
with this story:
"In my letter, delivered to you by Stolypin, I wrote
you that your article had been passed by the censorship
with a few slight changes, and begged you not to be angry
with me, because it was necessary to add a few words at
the end so as to mollify an expression. Nearly 3,000
copies of the article, "Night In Sebastopol" [as
"Sebastopol In May" was then called], were printed, when
the censor prevented publication of the number by ordering
a copy to be brought him from the printing-office; hence
the August issued appeared on the 18th of January, and
during my absence - I went to Moscow for a few days - it
was presented to the president of the committee of
Censors, Pushkin, whom you should know in connection with
Kazan. If you know Pushkin, you may imagine what
followed. Pushkin became wild; he was very angry with the
censor as well as with me for presenting such articles to
the censorship, and he made corrections in it himself. In
the meantime I returned to St. Petersburg, and was
horror-struck when I saw the changes made. I did not want
to print the article at all, but Pushkin, in an interview
with me, said that I must publish it in its transformed
shape. Nothing could be done, and your mutilated article
will appear in the September number, omitting the letters
L.N.T., which I should hate to see at the bottom of it
after that. But the article was so good that even after
it was completely destroyed by the censor I gave it to
Milutin, Krasnokutskiy, and others to read. Everybody
likes it very much, and Milutin wrote me that I should
commit a sin by depriving readers of this article and by
not publishing it even in its present form.
"At any rate, do not blame me because your article has
been published in such a shape. I was forced to do it.
If it is god's will that we should meet some day, for
which I long, I will clear up the matter to you. Now I
will say a few words in regard to the impression generally
made on us, and on everybody else to whom I have read it,
by your story, `Night,' in its original shape...Censorship
is out of the question here.
"Everybody thinks this story more forcible than the
first one, owing to the minute and profound analysis of
the emotions and feelings of men who are constantly in the
face of death, owing to the accuracy with which army
officers are depicted, their intercourse with members of
the nobility, and their mutual relations. In short,
everything is perfect - described in a masterly way; but
the whole thing is so full of bitterness, everything is so
keen and biting, merciless and cheerless, that at this
moment, when the scene of this story is held almost
sacred, it hurts those that are far from it. The very
events of the story might make a disagreeable impression.
"`The Wood-Cutting Expedition,' with its dedication to
Turgenev, will also appear in September (turgenev begged
me to thank you very much for your remembering him and
being so attentive)....Even in this story, which passed
three censors - the Caucasian censor (Secretary of State
Butkov), the military censor (Major-General Stefen), and
one civil censor (consisting of Pushkin and us) - the
types of officers have been tampered with, and
unfortunately some parts have been struck out."
In September Nekrasov wrote to Tolstoy:
"Dear Sir Lev Nikolayevich - I arrived in Petersburg
in the middle of August to find `The Contemporary' in a
very sad plight.
"the shocking state to which your article [Footnote:
Evidently he means tolstoy's tale "Sebastopol In May,"
1855.] was brought turned my last drop of blood. At this
moment I cannot think of it without pain and indignation.
Your work, to be sure, will not be lost....It will always
bear witness to the power capable of such deep and sober
truth in circumstances in which it is not everybody who
could have kept it unimpaired. I need not say how highly I
value this article and the trend of your talent in general
as well as its power and freshness as a whole. It is just
what the russian public needs; the truth - the truth, of
which so little remains in Russian literature since the
death of Gogol. You are quite right in caring most of all
for this side of your capacity. Truth in the form
presented by you in our literature is something quite new
to us. I do not know of any author at the present moment
who could make one love and sympathize with him so deeply
as the one to whom I now write. But I have one dread -
lest the course of time, the abominations of real life,
and the deaf and dumb environment should affect you in the
same way as they have affected most of us, and destroy
that energy which is indispensable to an author, at least
to those authors who are necessary for russia at present.
You are young; certain changes are taking place; they may
- let us hope - end in good, and then a wide arena may be
opened before you. Your beginning is such that the least
sanguine persons are carried far away in their hopes. But
I have turned from the purpose of my letter. I shall not
console you by telling you, true as it is, that the
printed fragments of your article are very much
appreciated by many; for to those who know the article in
its real shape they are nothing but a string of phrases
without sense or inner meaning. But it cannot be helped.
I must say one thing, the article would not have been
printed in this shape were it not necessary. But it is
not signed by your name. `Felling Wood' passed the
censorship fairly well, though a few precious criticisms
are lost. My opinion of the work is this: in form it may
resemble Turgenev, but the resemblance ends there; the
rest belongs to you and could be written by no one but
you. In this sketch there are many wonderfully striking
observations and it is entirely new, interesting, and
judicious. Don't disdain this type of sketches: in our
literature hitherto nothing but trivialities have appeared
about the soldier. You are only opening the subject, and,
in whatever way you choose to tell us what you know of it,
all will be exceedingly interesting and useful. Panayev
handed me your letter in which you primise soon to send us
`Youth.' Please do. Setting aside the review, I am
personally interested in the continuation of your first
production. We will keep space for `Youth' in the tenth
or eleventh number, according to the time it arrives.
"The money will be forwarded to you one of these days.
I have settled for the winter in Petersburg, and shall be
glad to hear from occasionally. Accept my sincere
respect, N. Nekrassov." [Footnote: Four letters by N. A.
Nekrasov to Count L. N. Tolstoy. "Niva Monthly Literary
Supplement," No. 2, 1898.]
But, needless to say, literary work was not Tolstoy's
chief occupation at that time. He was leading the
conventional life of an officer, and was "a good comrade,"
as is certified by his contemporaries and fellow-officers.
Nazarev quotes in his reminiscences the narrative of a
former comrade of Tolstoy, who evidently recalled with
delight the time he had spent together with Count Tolstoy
in the battery. He even recognized himself as one of the
characters in the "Sebastopol Tales." "I may say,"
related the old man, with a smile of pleasure on his face,
"Tolstoy, with his stories and his impromptu verses,
encouraged us all in the direst moments of our military
life. In the full meaning of the word he was the soul of
our battery. When we were in his company, we did not
notice how time flew, and there was no end to the general
good spirits. When the Count was not there - he had left
for Simferopol - all were downcast. No news of him for a
day, two, three...At last he came back...looking exactly
like the prodigal son - gloomy, worn out, dissatisfied
with himself. He would take me aside out of the way, and
begin to do penance. He would tell everything about his
carousing, playing cards, as to where he spent the days
and nights, and, would you believe it? his repentence and
sufferings were as deep as if he had been a great culprit.
It was pitiful to see him, so great was his
distress....This is the kind of man he was. He was, in a
word, peculiar, and, to tell you the truth, not quite
comprehensible to me; but, on the other hand, he was a
rare comrade, an honest soul, and to forget him is quite
impossible."
Tolstoy's conduct as a brave officer, and his
familiarity with higher circles, could readily have
secured for him an advantageous military career. The
publication of his Sebastopol sketches, which had
attracted the attention of Nicholas, and of the Empress
Aleksandra Fedorovna - who, it was said, shed tears while
reading the first tale - would have contributed to the
same end. But his very gifts put an end to his military
advancement. The obstacle to a briliant military career
proved to be "The Sebastopol Song."
This is the history of this song:
The version we quote is from the "Olden Times," where
it appeared in full. The well-known author and scholar,
M. T. Venyukov, wrote with the text of the song the
following note:
"In the years from 1854 to 1856 I was studying
military science in the Academy of the general staff, and
there I received from the Crimea - the theatre of war -
through one of my comrades of the battery, Iv. Vas.
Anossov, an officer in the 14th Artillery Brigade, a copy
of the following song:
The Sebastopol Song
The fourth day [4 August 1855, the Battle of the Black
River], we were gone
To fight them on the mountain,
The devil drove us on,
The devil drove us on.
It was old General Vrevsky [Baron P. A. vrevsky, late
Chief of the Chancery of the Minister of War, while in the
Crimea, urged Gorchakov to give a decisive battle to the
allied Powers.]
He used to say to Gorchakov,
When he had had his whiskey:
"Prince, we must have that hill;
I'll tell a tale about it,
If I don't have my will."
The grandees, great and small,
They've put their heads together,
The place Becoque and all;
But Becoque had some doubt,
And what it was he'd better say
He wouldn't quite make out.
As they made up their mind
the topographers were spoiling
The best paper they could find;
At last they got it right;
But there were three ravines to pass,
And they forgot that quite.
Well, Prince and Count rode out;
The topographers were left behind
Upon the great redoubt.
The Prince said, "Now, Liprandi!"
Said he, "I can't go on just yet,
Hold hard a bit, attendez;
"You don't want clever men,
You'd better send a man like Read
I'll have a look again."
Read's not a man who fears;
He led us to the bridge at once,
"So here you go, three cheers!"
But Martineau cried "Stop!
Let's wait till the reserves are here."
"No, make the men come up."
Hurrah! we made a noise,
but there must have been some mistake,
For we never saw the boys.
Upon Fedyukhin's height
Only three companies arrived,
But the whole did start all right.
Our host was very small!
The French were fourt to one,
Besides the thousands within call.
The garrison, we said,
Must surely come and help us
when they heard the shouts we made.
But General Sacken hied
To praise the Holy Mother
At the very time we cried!
General Belevkov shook
The flag quite fiercely; but that face
You should have seen his look.
So it was "Right about!"
But oh! the men who sent us out
The men who sent us out!
"As to the authorship of this witty, farcical song,"
continued Venyukov, Anossov in his letter, informed me
that the general opinion of the army ascribed it to our
gifted author, Count L. N. Tolstoy `but you understand,'
wrote Anossov, `one cannot exactly assert it, were it only
for fear of injuring Tolstoy, supposing him to be really
the author.'"
Later on the same version of the song was again
printed in the "Olden Times" under the signature of "One
of the authors of `The Sebastopol Song.'"
This is how the part author relates the history of the
song:
"Count L. N. Tolstoy no doubt took part in the
compilation of this song, but he did not compose all its
verses. It would not be fair to ascribe to him the whole
of this witty production.
"Therefore, in the interest of historical truth, I
will tell you, as a witness, how it originated:
"During the Crimean War, very often - almost every
evening - the members of the artillery staff and some
other officers used to meet at Krizhanovsky's, who
commanded the artillery staff.
"Lieutenant-Colonel Balyuzek usually sat at the piano,
all the rest standing round and imporvising verses. Each
introduced his thought and word. Count L. N. Tolstoy
introduced his own too, but not all. Onc may say
therefore that this improvisation was a common act, which
expressed the modd of the military circle."
Here following the names of the authors of "The
Sebastopol song": Lieutenant-Colonel Balyuzek (afterward
governor of turgai, now deceased), who used to sit at the
piano; Captain A. Y. Friede, at present commander of the
Caucasian Artillery; Lieutenant-Captain Count L. N.
Tolstoy; Lieutenant V. Lughinin; Lieutenant Shulein;
Lieutenant-Captain Surzhputovsky; Lieutenant Shklyarsky,
an officer of the Uhlan Regiment; N. F. Koslyoninov, No.
2, and an officer of the Hussar regiment, N. S.
Mussin-Pushkin.
"We received a copy of a similar song written probably
under the same circumstances, but somewhat later. The
music of it was given us by Sergey Tolstoy from memory.
this song contains many popular expressions not fit for
print. Where a change was possible, we replaced them,
without changing rhythm or meaning, by more polite
language. Where this was impossible, dots were put in
place of the expressions.
September, the eighth day,
For the faith and for the Czar
Before the French we ran away,
Before the French we ran away.
and our Prince Aleksandr
Let all the fleet sink out at sea,
Our admiral and commander.
And then he said "Good-by;
Go on all you and fight your best,
I'm for Bakhchisari."
In our rear St. Arnault lay;
He was kind enought to wait a bit,
And then he blazed away.
We were obliged to call
For help on Tuesday's holy Saint,
Or he'd have caught us all.
What was Liprandi at?
He captured all the forts he could,
But what's the use of that?
From Kishinev was passed
The word, an army would come up,
And in they marched at last.
'Twas Danneberg that led;
They told him, "Never spare your men,
You've got to go ahead."
Pavlov marched off uphill,
And Soymonov went to meet him,
But they may be climbing still.
Liprandi, when he knew
The French had got the upper hand,
Was puzzled what to do.
No doubt the grand dukes came,
But the French, instead of being afraid,
Kept firing all the same.
Ten thousand men there fell;
What the Czar ever did for them
Is more than I can tell
The prince, he did complain;
He said the soldiers were no good,
And faced about again.
And on that fatal day
Of heroes there were only two,
And the grand dukes were they.
They had their St. George too,
And were taken to St. Petersburg
For all the world to view.
And the priests, as they were bound,
Prayed that a hurricane might come
And all the French be drowned.
The wind was very rough,
But the Frenchmen stayed and faced it out,
They were of better stuff.
In winter they made sorties -
And many a man they killed of us -
From up there where the fort is.
Ket Khrulev come and lead,
And drive the Turk from Kozlov, as
We never could succeed.
"More soldiers," Menshchik prayed;
Till the Czar, to keep his spirits up,
Sent Saken to his aid.
Menshchik was great sea,
And he wrote bluntly to the Czar,
"Father, our Czar," said he,
"Your Yeroveyich was never
Much more use than your youngsters.
And I'm sure they're none whatever!"
The Czar upon this flew
Into a rage, and so fell ill,
When holding a review.
He went to heaven, we know,
Most likely he was wanted there;
'Twas well he had to go.
But when on his deathbed,
"You'd better just be on your guard,"
Unto his son he said.
The son was not too kind;
"Dear Menshchik," he wrote, "you can go
To the devil if you don't mind.
"I know who'll do the work;
The man I mean's Prince Gorchakov,
The same as fought the Turk.
He won't much beg for men;
I'll send for him promotion,
And he won't ask again."
[Footnote: this soldier's song, as well as the first one,
a few pages back, has been translated very freely, as it
would have been impossible to render in English the
peculiar vernacular of Russian soldiers.--Trans.]
If one thinks of the circumstances in which these
songs were written, of all the horrors of death, groans of
the wounded, bloodshed, fires, murders, filling the
atmosphere in Sebastopol, one cannot help being struck
with admiration of the moral strength of those men who
could indulge in good-natured jests at their own cost in
the face of constant threat of sufferings and death.
Meanwhile in literary circles in St. Petersburg
Tolstoy became more and more known. He conquered his
first severe critic, Turgenev. Readers will remember the
account of Mme. Golovachov-Panayev, which we quite at the
beginning of this chapter, how Turgenev checked Panayev's
enthusiasm by his reasonings.
In 1854 Turgenev wrote from his estate, Spasskoye, to
E. Y. Kolbassin, a collaborator of "The Contemporary":
"I am very glad to hear of the success of `Boyhood'.
Let Tolstoy only survive, and I hope he will yet astonish
us all - his is a first-rate gift. I met his sister (she
is married to a Count Tolstoy, too) - a very charming
woman..." [Footnote: The First Collection of T. S.
Turgenev's Letters, p. 9. Published by the Society of
Help to authors, 1885, St. Petersburg.]
When the "Sebastopol Tales" were printed turgenev
became most enthusiastic, and thus expressed his
enthusiasm in a letter to Panayev:
"Tolstoy's article on Sebastopol is a gem. Tears came
into my eyes when I read it, and I shouted hurrah! I am much
flattered by his desire to dedicate his new tale to me. I
saw in the `Moscow News' the advertisement of "The
Contemporary." Very good; God grant you may keep your
promises, that is to say, that articles may safely pass the
censorship, that Tolstoy may not be killed, and so on. It
will help you greatly. Tolstoy'a article made a great
sensation here....Spasskoye, July 10, 1855." [Literary
Reminiscences" by Panayev, 1888.
One may sat that after the appearance of the "Sebastopol
Tales" Tolstoy had risen to the rank of a foremost author.
A. E. Kony, in his biography of T. F. Gorbunov, quotes the
following interesting opinion of Pissemskiy concerning these
tales:
About this time, Pissemskiy -- who was then writing
his remarkable novel, "The Thousand Souls -- after having
listened to some passages out of the "Sebastopol Tales"
by the then "only promising great writer of the Russian
Land," gruffly said to Gorbunov: "This young officer
will eclipse us all -- one might as well give up
writing..." [Biographical Sketch of I. F. Gorbunov, by
A. E. Kony. (Preface and Works, p115)]
After the fall of Sebastopol, Tolstoy was sent as a courier to
St. Petersburg and was attached to a rocket battery.
Before leaving Sebastopol, Tolstoy had applied his literary
abilities to making a report of the last battle. Of this report,
he himself says in his article, "A few words concerning `War and
Peace,'":
After the loss of Sebastopol, the commander of the
artillery, Krizhanovskiy, sent me the reports of the
artillery officers from all the bastions, and requested
me to compose an account from more than twenty of these
reports. I regret that I did not copy them. They were
the best specimen of the kind of naive, unfailing
military falsehood which always furnishes the material
for descriptions. I believe that many of these comrades
of mine who composed these reports, if they read these
lines, will laugh as they call to mind how, by the orders
of the authorities, they wrote of matters about which
they could not know anything. [A few words about the
book "War and Peace". The Russian Archives, 1868]
During his military service, Tolstoy had disagreements with
his superior officers and comrades owing to his love for justice.
In accordance with the custom of those days, commanders of
different parts of the battery, as well as the commander of the
whole battery, used to save up part of the money given them from
the treasury to spend on keeping the battery. The money thus saved
they generally kept for themselves, getting a certain regular
income which led to many abuses.
Tolstoy, on making his accounts, found a surplus over the
expenses; he added it to the sum allotted for the battery instead
of appropriating it. This practice was viewed with great disfavor
by other commanders, and General Krizhanovskiy reproved him for it.
N. A. Krilov bears testimony to this in his reminiscences. In 1856
he was transferred to the 14th Battery, which Tolstoy had recently
quitted. Tolstoy is remembered in the brigade as a good horseman,
a genial companion, and an athlete. he would lie on the floor, a
man weighing 5 poods would be placed on his hands, and he would
lift him up by straightening his arms; in tugging a stick nobody
could beat him. A great many witty anecdotes are attributed to
him, which he used to tell in a masterly way. The Count was
accused of preaching to the officers to refund to the Government
the excess of forage money in case an officer's horse does not
consume the quantity of fodder it is supposed to eat. [Russkiye
Vedomosti, p136, 1900]
In St. Petersburg quite a different life awaited Tolstoy, into
which he plunged with his unfailing youthful energy.
Chapter IX
St. Petersburg
Tolstoy was sent to St. Petersburg as a despatch bearer. There
he was attached to a rocket battery under General Konstantinov and
returned to the front no more.
In St. Petersburg, where he arrived November 21, 1855, he found
himself at once in the circle of "The Contemporary," and was
received there with open arms.
In his "Confession," Tolstoy thus speaks of that period:
"During that time I began to write, out of vanity, love of gain,
and pride. I followed as a writer the same path which I had chosen
as a man. In order to obtain the fame and money for which I wore,
I was obliged to hide what was good and bow down before what was
evil. How often while writing have I cudgelled my brains to
conceal, under the mask of indifference or pleasantry, those
yearnings for something better which formed the real problem of my
life! I succeeded in my object and was praised. At twenty-six
years of age, on the close of the war, I came to St. Petersburg,
and made the acquaintance of the authors of the day.
"I met with a hearty reception and much flattery."
Naturally, during the twenty years before he wrote those
lines, Tolstoy was beset by various feelings, though even then his
unsparing self-analysis and skepticism were pushed so far as to
astonish his companions.
"The contemporary" was a review founded by A. S. Pushkin and
Plentev. Its first number was issued in 1836. After Pushkin's
death, the review was published from 1838 to 1846 by Plentev alone
and lost all its importance. In 1847 N. A. Nekrasov and T. T.
Panayev became the proprietors of the review. In Collaboration
with the well-known literary critic Belinskiy, they managed in a
short time to attract the best authors, and until its suppression
by the authorities in 1866, this review was the chief organ of
progressive russian art, criticism and sociology.
At the time of Tolstoy's appearance in Petersburg, the more
intimate members of this literary circle are to be seen in the two
well-known photo-groups of authors - Panayev, Nekrasov, Turgenev,
Tolstoy, Druzhinin, Ostrovskiy, Goncharov, and Grigorovich and
Sollogulo. One may add to the circle V. P. Botkin, Fet, and others
not included in the two groups.
Members of the staff of "The Contemporary" were bound by
certain obligations as to honoraria as well as the contribution of
articles. These obligations were sometimes found too burdensome,
and caused many unpleasant frictions among literary men.
Publishers and editors of other reviews would, by urgent
entreaties, obtain "copy" from the celebrated authors belonging to
the personnel of "The Contemporary." The administration of that
review resented such proceedings very much, a feeling which was
reciprocated by the rival publishers.
[no para]Tolstoy's German biographer, Loewenfeld, gives a
description of one such incident as follows:
Turgenev and Katkov had a quarrel in which Tolstoy
was involved, partly by his own fault. Turgenev had been
for some time an assiduous contributor of Katkov's and
the latter was naturally loath to part with such an
author. He commissioned his brother to call daily on
both the young authors and solicit from them articles for
his review. Turgenev, growing tired of these endless
petitions, on a sudden impulse promised to write
something for Katkov, but could not keep his promise.
Katkov was furious and attacked Turgenev in public,
arguing that since Turgenev promised to write for him, he
could not at the same time give his services
`exclusively' to `The Contemporary.' On the other hand,
as a member of `The Contemporary' staff, he was precluded
from contributing to Katkov's review. His gentle and
compliant nature played him a bat turn this time.
Tolstoy took the part of his friend. He wrote a
long letter to Katkov in defense of Turgenev. The gentle
nature of Turgenev, as well as his politeness, had
induced him to make promises to both parties. Tolstoy
requested Katkov to publish his letter. Katkov agreed,
on the condition that his answer should be printed as
well, and he therewith sent a rough sketch of it. But it
was of such a character that Tolstoy thought it wiser to
give up his part of mediator. [Loewenfeld. Count L. N.
Tolstoy, p.125, Moscow.]
The association of "The Contemporary" ceased long before, and
it became an ordinary publishing concern.
Tolstoy did not meet Belinskiy in the circle of "The
Contemporary." The latter died in 1848, after having worked hard
to put the "Review" on a satisfactory footing. His enthusiasm
breathed new life into the dying periodical, and made its existence
secure for a long while to come. But Tolstoy was not influenced
directly by Belinskiy. The reason for this was, in the first place,
the different character of their respective times. Belinskiy was
a
man of the forties, in the full sense of the word, whereas Tolstoy
entered upon his literary career in the fifties, and moved among
Belinskiy's followers, who lacked his attractive power; though, on
the other hand, the social surroundings in which Tolstoy had been
reared could not be favorable to his intimacy with these
representatives of the republic of letters - "raznochintsy," as
they called themselves, all sorts and conditions of men. He kept
company with men of his own standard of breeding, and even with
them was always reserved, independent, mostly in opposition, and
trying to influence others, while himself little responsive to
outside influence. Once may point out a more serious cause, that
underlying difference in general views. Though Tolstoy had not yet
definitely formed his views of life, still the tendency of "The
Contemporary" had never attracted him.
Moreover, as Tolstoy has acknowledged in his literary work, he
was more attracted by talent that was simply artistic than by that
of a social tendency.
In his youth he had been under the sway of rousseau's
philosophical teaching.
Discussing the subject of French literature with Professor
Boyer from Paris, who paid him a visit in the spring of 1901,
Tolstoy thus expressed his opinion of his two teachers - Rousseau
and Stendhal:
People have been unjust to rousseau, the greatness of his
thought was not recognized, and he was calumniated. I
have read the whole of rousseau, all the twenty volumes,
including the dictionary of music. I admired him with
more than enthusiasm, I worshipped him. At fifteen I
wore on my neck, instead of the usual cross, a medallion
with his portrait. with some of his pages I am so
familiar that I feel as if I had written them myself. As
to Stendhal, I will speak of him only as the author of
"Chartreuse de Parme" and "rouge et Noir." These are two
great, inimitable works of art. I am, more than any one
else, indebted for much to Stendhal. He taught me to
understand war. Read once more "Chartreuse de Parme,"
his account of the Battle of Waterloo. Who before him
had so described war -- i.e., as it is in reality? Do
you remember Fabracius crossing the battle field and
"understanding nothing," and how the hussars threw him
with ease over the back of his horse, his splendid
general's horse?
Subsequently my brother, who had served in the
Caucasus before me, confirmed the faithfulness of
Stendhal's descriptions. He enjoyed war very much, but
did not belong to those who believed in the Bridge of
Arcole. He used to say to me, "All that is
embellishment, and in war there is no embellishment."
Soon afterward in the Crimea I easily verified all this
with my own eyes. I repeat, all I know about war I
learned first of all from Stendhal." [Paul Boyer, "Le
Tempes, 28 August 1901]
From twenty to thirty-five years of age tolstoy was chiefly
influenced by the following works:
Titles Degree of Influence
Goethe, Hermann und Dorothea Very great
V. Hugo, Notre Dame de Paris Very great
Tyuchev, Verses Great
Koltsov, Verses Great
Fet, Verses Great
Plato, Phaedo and the Symposium Very great
(Golitsyn's translation)
Odyssey and Iliad Very great
Thus we have the more or less complete list of Tolstoy's
literary guides.
Tolstoy entered the circle of St. Petersburg authors, his
powerful artistic personality and obstinate, often aggressive
temperament creating a storm in their hitherto quiet and peaceful
atmosphere.
The following is from Fet's reminiscences of Tolstoy's first
appearance in St. Petersburg:
Turgenev used to get up and take his tea in the St.
Petersburg fashion, very early, and during my short stay
in town I called every morning about ten to have a quiet
talk with him. On the second morning when Zakhar opened
the door I saw in the hall a dress sword with a ribbon of
St. Anne.
"Whose sword is this?" I inquired, as I proceeded to the
drawing room.
"If you please, come this way," said Zakhar in a low
voice, pointing to the left of the corridor. "This is
Count Tolstoy's sword, and his excellency is asleep in
the drawing room. Ivan Sergeyevich is drinking tea in
the study."
During the hour I spend with Turgenev, we conversed in a
low voice, being afraid to awaken Tolstoy, who was asleep
in the next room
"He is like this all the time," said Turgenev, smiling.
"He came from Sebastopol, straight from the battery,
stopped here at my place, and then and there plunged into
dissipation. Carousals, gypsies, and card-playing all
night; and afterward he sleeps like a top till two in the
afternoon. At first I tried to restrain him, but after
a while I gave it up."
About this time I was introduced to Tolstoy, but our
acquaintance was a formal one, I not having yet read a
single line of his nor even heard of him as an author,
although Turgenev mentioned to me his tale of
"Childhood." But from the first I noticed in young
Tolstoy a kind of unconscious antagonism to all accepted
rules in the domain of reasoning. During this short
period I saw him only once at Nekrasov's, at our
bachelor's literary party. There I witnessed how
Turgenev, eager and breathless in discussion, was driven
to despair by the apparently calm, but all the more
sarcastic, replies of Tolstoy.
"I cannot accept," said Tolstoy, "what you said just now
as your conviction. I stand at the door with a dagger or
sword in hand and say, `while I am alive, no one shall
enter this door.' That is conviction. but you two are
trying to conceal the real meaning of your thoughts from
each other, and you call this conviction.
"Then why do you come here?" said turgenev, panting and
in a tin falsetto, his voice during warm discussions
always reaching this high pitch. "Ours is not your
banner! Go to Princess B-e-b-e."
"Why should I ask you where I am to go?" returned
Tolstoy. "Besides, idle talk will by no means beget
convictions, wherever I go."
As far as I can remember, this was the only encounter
between Turgenev and tolstoy at which I was present, and
I cannot help saying that, although I understood that the
controversy related to politics, I took too little
interest in the subject to pay attention to it. I must
add that, from what I heard in our circle, Tolstoy was in
the right, and, if indeed men suffering from the "regime"
then in force were to try to describe their ideal, they
would find the greatest difficulty in formulating their
wants.
Who of us at that time did not know the boon-companion,
the partner in all sorts of frolics, and the capital
fellow at telling amusing anecdotes, Dmitriy Vasiliyevich
Grigorovich, celebrated for his novels and stories? This
is how he, by the way, told me of the encounters between
Turgenev and Tolstoy in the same house of Nekrasov: "My
dear boy, by dear boy," said Grigorovich, choking with
laughter till tears came to his eyes, and stroking me on
the shoulder, "you cannot imagine what scenes we had
here. Mercy on us! Turgenev speaks shriller and
shriller, then pressing his hand to his throat, and with
a look of a dying gazelle, whispers: `I cannot talk any
longer! It will give me bronchitis!' and with enormous
strides begins to walk up and down the three rooms.
`Bronchitis!' sneers Tolstoy, `it's an imaginary illness.
Bronchitis is a metal!' Of course the host Nekrasov is
trembling heart and soul: he is afraid to lose both
Turgenev and tolstoy, in whom he foresees a powerful
support for "The Contemporary," so he is bound to
maneuver. We are all upset and at a loss what to say.
Tolstoy is lying down in the middle of the room on a
leather sofa and sulks; Turgenev, with the lappets of his
jacket asunder and his hands in his pockets, continues to
walk up and down all the three rooms. To prevent a
catastrophe, I approached the sofa and said: `My dear
Tolstoy, don't get excited! You have no idea how he
appreciates and loves you!' `I will not allow him,' says
Tolstoy, his nostrils dilating, `to be spiteful to me.
And now he walks up and down the room on purpose,
crossing his democratic legs close to me.'" [A. Fet, My
Reminiscences, Part I, p. 105.]
D. V. Grigorovich, in his "Literary Reminiscences," tells a
similar story of the earlier period of Tolstoy's acquaintance with
St. Petersburg authors:
On my return from Marynskiy to St. Petersburg, I met
Count Tolstoy. I was first introduced to him in Moscow
at the house of the Sushkov family, where he still wore
his military uniform. He lived in St. Petersburg, in
Ofitsskiy Street, on the lower floor of a small set of
chambers next to the lodgings of M. L. Mikhailov, the
author. It seems they were not acquainted. His keeping
permanent rooms in St. Petersburg was incomprehensible to
me, for from the very first he not only disliked St.
Petersburg itself, but was irritated with everything
connected with it.
Having learned from him during our interview that he
was invited to dine that very day with the editorial
staff of "The Contemporary," and that though he had
already written for that review, he yet knew very little
the members of its staff, I agreed to go with him. On
the way I warned him to be careful and not touch certain
subjects, and in particular not to attack Georges Sand,
who at that time was the idol of most of the members.
The dinner went off quietly. Tolstoy was rather
taciturn, but toward the end he could no longer control
himself. Hearing praise bestowed on a new novel by
Georges Sand, he abruptly declared his hatred of her,
adding that her heroines, if they existed in reality,
ought to be tied to the hangman's cart and driven through
the streets of St. Petersburg as an example. Even at
that time he had formed that personal standpoint about
women and the woman question which he so forcibly
expressed in his novel "Anna Karenina."
The incident at that dinner party may have been
caused by his dissatisfaction with everything that bore
the cachet of St. Petersburg, but more probably by his
tendency to contradiction. Whatever judgment might have
been passed, and the greater the authority of his
interlocutor, the more he would insist on asserting an
opposite view and in retorting sharply. Watching how he
listened to his interlocutor, how he scrutinized him, how
sarcastically he screwed up his lips, one would have thought
he was thinking not so much how to answer a question as
how to express an opinion which should be a puzzle and
surprise to the questioner. this is how Tolstoy
impressed me in his youth. In discussion he pushed his
arguments to the furthest extreme. I happened once to be
in the next room when he and Turgenev were having a
discussion; hearing their loud voices I went into the
room. Turgenev was pacing up and down showing signs of
great embarrassment; he profited by the door I opened and
went out immediately. Tolstoy was lying on the sofa, and
his excitement was so great that it was only with great
difficulty that I managed to calm him and take him home.
The subject of their discussion remains unknown to me at
the present moment. [Complete edition of the Works of D.
V. Grigorovich, vol. xii, p. 326.]
This tendency of Tolstoy to contradiction is also illustrated
in the following episode related in the reminiscences of G. P.
Danilevskiy:
At the end of the fifties I met Tolstoy in St. Petersburg
in the family of a well-known sculptor and painter. The
author of the "Sebastopol Tales" had just arrived in St.
Petersburg; he was a young, stately artillery officer.
A very good likeness of him at that time is to be found in
the well-known group of photographs by Levitskiy, where
he is taken together with Turgenev, Goncharov,
Ostrovskiy, and Druzhinin. I remember well how Count
Tolstoy entered the drawing room of the lady of the house
during the reading aloud of a new work of Herzen's.
Quietly standing behind the reader's chair, and waiting
till the end of the reading, he began at first softly and
shyly, but then boldly and hotly to attack Herzen and the
enthusiasm with which his writings were accepted. He
spoke with such sincerity and force, that in this family
I did not come across Herzen's publications any more.
["A Visit to Yasnaya Polyana," by G. P. Danilevskiy,
"Historical Review," March, 1886, p.529.]
We know that Tolstoy changed his opinion of Herzen later on,
and this will be mentioned in due place.
E. Garshin, in his reminiscences of Turgenev, gives the
following interesting account of Turgenev's opinion of tolstoy. It
shows the early element of mutual incompatibility which almost
brought their relations to a fatal end.
"Tolstoy," said Turgenev, "developed early a trait
of character which, as the foundation of his gloomy view
on life, causes in the first place much suffering to
himself. He never believed in the sincerity of men. Any
kind of emotion seemed false to him, and he had the
habit, by the extraordinary penetrating glance of his
eyes, of piercing through the man who struck him as
false."
Turgenev told me that never in his life had he
experienced anything more depressing that the effect of
that penetrating glance, which, combined with two or
three venomous remarks, could exasperate one who had no
great self-control to the verge of madness. This subject
of Tolstoy's casual experiments, and almost the exclusive
subject, was his friend Turgenev. He was, so the latter
said, greatly annoyed by Turgenev's self-possession and
his serenely calm attitude at that period of brilliant
literary achievement, and Count Tolstoy seemed to have
made up his mind to exasperate this quite, kind-hearted
man, who was working with full conviction of doing the
right thing. The worst of it was that Tolstoy did not
believe this, he thought that the men whom we consider
good are only hypocrites or try to display their
goodness, and that they affect to be convinced that they
are doing their work for a good cause.
Turgenev recognized Count Tolstoy's attitude, but
resolved by all means to keep his own ground and remain
self-possessed. He tried to avoid Tolstoy, and with this
object went to Moscow, then went to his country place,
but Count Tolstoy followed him step by step, "like a
woman in love," to use Turgenev's words as he told the
story. [E. Garshin, Reminiscences of I. S. Turgenev,
"Historical Review, November 1883]
All these facts as to the mutual relations of the two authors
show that any real spiritual intimacy between them was impossible.
But the liberal movement carried both of them in the same
direction, and they considered themselves fellow-workers for the
same cause. Besides, their aristocratic origin, their education,
their prominent position in the literary circle -- all this, though
against their will, was bringing them, outwardly at any rate,
together. But, as readers will see from the following incident,
whenever they tried to be more than simple companions, a conflict
was the result, and this sometimes exposed their priceless lives to
danger. To do them justice, they both clearly realized the
distance dividing them, they owned it openly to each other and to
others, and, what is more important, they made great moral efforts
to keep up, if not cordial, at least amicable relations based on
mutual respect. On this ground, they present a suggestive example
to following generations.
We may insert here the account given by Mme. Golovachov-
Panayev of the early days of the acquaintance of Turgenev and
Tolstoy, which confirms our assertion.
I must go back and tell of the appearance of Count
Tolstoy in the circle of "The Contemporary." He was then
still an officer, and the only collaborator of "The
Contemporary" who wore a military uniform. His literary
talent had by this time made such a mark that all the
leaders in literature had to accept him as their equal.
Besides, Count Tolstoy was not a shy man, he was aware of
his talent, and behaved, as I thought, with a certain
more or less ease of manner or nonchalance.
I never entered into conversation with the authors
when they met at our house, I only listened in silence
and observed them. I was particularly interested in
watching Turgenev and Tolstoy, when they happened to be
together and had a discussion or made remarks to one
another, for they were both very clever and observant.
I never heard Tolstoy express his opinion of
Turgenev, and as a rule he said nothing of any of the
authors, at least before me. Turgenev, on the other
hand, seemed impelled to pour out observations about
everybody.
When Turgenev made Tolstoy's acquaintance, he said
of him: "There is not a word, not a movement, which is
natural in him. He is constantly posing, and I am at a
loss to understand in so intelligent a man this foolish
pride in his wretched title of Count!"
"I did not notice it in Tolstoy," said Panayev.
"But there are many things you don't notice," said
Turgenev.
After a time, Turgenev came to the conclusion that
Tolstoy had the ambition to be considered a Don Juan.
Count Tolstoy one day related to us certain interesting
episodes which had happened to him during the war. When
he went away, Turgenev said: "You may boil a Russian
officer for three days in strong suds and you won't
succeed in getting rid of the braggadocio of a Junker;
you may cover him with a thick veneer of education, still
his brutality will shine through."
And Turgenev began to criticize every sentence of
Tolstoy's the tone of his voice, the expression of his
face, and finally said: "And only to think that at the
bottom of all this brutality lies merely the desire to
get promoted."
"Look here, Turgenev," remarked Panayev, "if I did
not know you so well, I should think, when I listen to
your abuse of Tolstoy, that you are jealous of him."
"On what grounds can I be jealous of him? Of what,
tell me!" cried Turgenev.
"Oh, no doubt, you have no reason; your talent is
equal to his...But people may think..."
Turgenev laughed, and with a kind of pity in his
voice remarked: "Panayev, you are a good observer when
it concerns coxcombs, but I don't advise you to go beyond
the proper sphere of your observations."
Panayev was hurt.
"It's for your own good that I said that," he added,
and went out of the room.
Turgenev was very much excited and repeated with
vexation: "Only Panayev's head could entertain such
nonsense -- that I am jealous of Tolstoy! Is it his
title that I am jealous of?"
Nekrasov spoke very little all this time, suffering
as he was from a sore throat. He merely said to
Turgenev: "Do leave it alone, whatever Panayev may have
said; as if indeed any one would suspect you of such an
absurdity." [Reminiscences of Mme. A. Golovachov-
Panayev, p279]
Turgenev, with his honest, truthful nature, had many times
publicly declared his great admiration of Tolstoy's talent, and
more than that, he once said to a French publisher, using the
expression of John the Baptist in relation to Jesus Christ: "I am
unworthy to untie his shoe." Their relations nevertheless were
never cordial.
Only on his death-bed, in his last letter to Tolstoy, while
with touching tenderness imploring him to return to literary
activity, he gave him the name with which no Russian author had
been hitherto honored, the name of "the great writer of the Russian
land." And this glorious name will follow him into eternity.
To give the reader an idea of the relations between Tolstoy
and Turgenev at the early period of their acquaintance, we will
interrupt the chronological order of our work and quote several
setters of Turgenev to Tolstoy, written in the same year.
To Leo Tolstoy.
Paris, November 16, 1856.
My dear Tolstoy -- Your letter of October 15th was
crawling toward me for a whole month. I received it only
yesterday. I have thought it well over what you write to
me, and I believe you are mistaken. It is a fact that I
cannot be quite straightforward with you, because I
cannot be quite frank with you. It seems to me that we
became acquainted in an awkward way, and at an evil
moment, but, when we meet again, all will be much easier
and smoother. I feel I love you as a man (as to my love
for the author--needless to mention it); yet many things
in you jar upon me, and in the end I have found out that
it is better for me to keep aloof from you. At our next
meeting let us try again to go hand in hand -- perhaps it
will come off better. But at a distance, however strange
it sounds, my heart is disposed to you as to a brother,
and I feel a tenderness for you. In a word, I love you -
- there is no doubt about it; let us hope that in time
something good will come of it.
I have heard of your illness and I was grieved, and
now I beg you to dismiss the thought of it from your
mind. You are imagining things yourself and probably
think of consumption, but I can assure you, you have not
got it.
I am very sorry for your sister; she is one who
ought to enjoy good health; I mean, if there is anybody
who deserves to be quite well, it is she; instead, she is
a constant sufferer. Let us hope the Moscow treatment
may help her. Why don't you recall your brother? Why
should he stay in the Caucasus? Does he intend to become
a great warrior? My uncle informed me that you have all
of you gone off to Moscow, and I therefore forward this
letter to Botkin, Moscow.
French conversation is as distasteful to me as it is
to you, and never did Paris appear to me so flatly
prosaic. Contentment does not suit it; I saw this city
in other days, and then I liked it better. I am kept
here by an old indissoluble tie with a particular family,
and by my daughter, of whom I am very fond; she is a
good, intelligent girl. Were it not for this, I would
have long ago joined Nekrasov in Rome. I have received
from him two letters -- he is a little bored in Rome, and
no wonder -- all that is great in rome only he surrounds
him; he does not share in it. And one cannot exist for
long on a diet of sympathy and admiration when those
feelings occur involuntarily only ar rare intervals. Yet
he is better off there than in St. Petersburg, and his
health is improving. For the present, Fed is staying in
Rome with him. He had written a few graceful verses, and
a detailed account of his travels containing much that is
childish, but also many clever, sensible sayings -- and
a kind of touching simplicity and sincerity if
impression. He is, in fact, a darling, as you call
him.
Now as to Chenishevskiy's articles. I don't like their
arrogant, dry tone, the expression of a harsh nature.
But I rejoice at their being printed, rejoice over the
reminiscences of B., and the quotations from his
articles; I rejoice that at last his name is uttered with
respect. However, you cannot sympathize with me in this
joy. Annenkov assures me that I derive these impressions
from living aborad; that with them this is already a
thing of the past, they now want something else. Perhaps
he is a better judge, as he is on the spot; still I am
pleased.
You have finished the first part of "Youth" -- that
is glorious. What a pity I cannot hear you read it! If
you don't turn aside from your path (and there is no
reason why you should), you will go far ahead. I wish
you health, activity, and freedom -- spiritual freedom.
As to my "Faust", I don't suppose you will like it
very much. My writings might have pleased you and
perhaps influenced you in some way, but only up to the
time when you became quite independent. There s no need
for you to study me now, you will only see my difference
of manner, my faults and omissions. It remains for you
to study man, your own heart, and the really great
authors. I am a writer of a transition period, and am of
use only to men who are in a transitory state. Well,
good-by and be well. Write to me. My present address:
Rue de Rivoli, No. 206.
Thanks to your sister for the two added words;
remember me to her and her husband. I am grateful to
Varenko for remembering me.
I intended to tell you something of the authors
here, but keep this for the next letter. I shake your
hand warmly. I do not stamp my letter, do the same with
yours." [Letters of I.S. Turgenev (First Collection),
p27]
December 8, 1856, he wrote to Tolstoy:
Dear Tolstoy -- Yesterday my good fairy took me past
the post office, and it occurred to me to inquire about
letters at the post-restante for me, though by this time
all my friends ought to know of my Parisian address.
There I found your letter, in which you speak of my
"Faust"; you can easily imagine what a pleasant reading
I had. Your sympathy caused me great and sincere
delight. And besides, the whole of your letter breathed
gentleness and frankness and a kind of friendly serenity.
It remains for me to hold out my hand across the "ravine"
which long ago turned into a hardly perceptible chink; we
won't mention it, it is not worth it.
I dare not speak to you on a subject which you
mention; these are delicate things. They are killed with
a word before they are ripe, but when they are ripe a
hammer cannot break them. God grant everything may come
off successfully and well. It may bring you that
spiritual equilibrium you needed so much when I first
knew you. I see you are very friendly with Druzhinin and
under his influence. this is well, only mind not to
feast on him too much. When I was your age I was more
influenced by enthusiastic natures, but you are a
different man from me; moreover, perhaps, the times are
now different. I am eagerly looking forward to get the
"Reading Library." I am anxious to read the article on
Belinsky, although I don't expect to derive much pleasure
from it. As to "The Contemporary" being in bad hands,
that is beyond doubt. At first Panayev used to write
very often and assure me he would not act "heedlessly,"
underlining this word, but he is subdued now and keeps
silent like a child who has misbehaved at mealtime. I
have written to Nekrasov with full details about it, and
this will very likely induce him to leave Rome and return
earlier than he intended. Please let me know in what
number of "The Contemporary" your "Youth" will appear,
and, by the way, give me your final impression of "Lear,"
which you have probably read if only for the sake of
Druzhinin." [Letters of I. S. Turgenev (First
Collection), p33]
We do not possess exact information as to Tolstoy
s opinion of "King Lear" in Druzhinin's translation, but from the
letter of Botkin to Druzhinin quoted below, one can see that
Tolstoy liked Druzhinin's translation.
Here is the letter:
What a success your "Lear" proves. To me it was
certain; still, how the pleasure increases when the inner
conviction becomes a reality. There it is, the well-
known antipathy of Tolstoy to shakespeare which Turgenev
so much fought against! I must do myself the justice to
state that I was convinced that at the first opportunity
this antipathy would disappear; but I am glad that your
excellent translation brought that opportunity. [From
Druzhinin's papers, "Twenty-five Years," a volume
published by the Society of assistance to Authors and
Scholars, St. Petersburg, 1884]
It seems the joy of Botkin was premature, for Tolstoy
persisted in his dislike of Shakespeare, but on this we shall have
occasion to remark in one of the following chapters.
On the 5th of December 1856, Turgenev wrote to Druzhinin from
Paris:
By the way, I am told you are very intimate with Tolstoy,
and he is now so nice and open. I am very glad. When
this new wine has been through the fermenting process it
will turn out a beverage worthy of the gods. What about
his "Youth," which was submitted to your judgment. I
wrote to him twice, the second time c/o Vasenka [Botkin].
[Letters of I.S. Turgenev (First Collection), p32]
"Youth" really was forwarded to Druzhinin to be criticized by
him; he read it and wrote the following interesting letter in
answer:
Twenty sheets should be written about "Youth." I
read it with wrath, shouting and swearing; not on account
of its want of literary worth, but owing to the copy and
the handwriting. This mixing together of two different
handwritings distracted my attention and prevented an
intelligence perusal; it was just as if two voices were
shouting in my ear and purposely confusing me, and I know
that the impression was not as complete as it should have
been. However, I will say to you what I can. Your task
was awful, but you have accomplished it well. None of
the present-day writers could have grasped the
unintelligible, fleeting period of youth and depicted it
in such a manner. Cultured people will derive great
enjoyment from your "Youth"; if anybody tells you that
this work in inferior to "Childhood" and "Boyhood", you
may spit in his face. There are depths of poetry in your
work; all the first chapters are excellent, only, until
the description of spring and the removal of double
windows, the introduction is rather dry. After that the
arrival at the village is fine, just before that the
description of the Nekhludov family, the father's
explanation of his reasons for marrying, the chapters
"New Comrades" and "I am falling through." Many chapters
breathe the poetry of ancient Moscow, which nobody had
observed in the proper way. Baron Z.'s coachman is
admirable (I speak as one who understands). Some
chapters are prosy and dry, as, for instance, all about
the stipulations to Varenka, and the chapter on family
understanding. The feast at Yar's is also rather long,
as well as the Count's visit with Ilinka, which comes
before it. The recruiting of Semenov will not pass the
censor. You must not be afraid of arguing; it's all
clever and original. You are apt to analyze to minutely,
which might become a great defect. Sometimes you are
ready to say, "Such and such a fellow's thigh indicated
that he desired to travel in India." You must curb this
inclination, but on no account should it be suppressed.
All your analytical work should be conducted in this way.
Every one of your defects has elements of force and
beauty; nearly all your merits contain grains of defect.
Your style is in harmony with your matter. You are
illiterate in a marked degree. Sometimes your illiteracy
is that of neologist or a great poet who is perpetually
reconstructing a language in his own manner, or that of
an officer who sits in his tent and writes to a friend.
It may be said for certain that all the pages written by
you in a kindly mood are excellent, but as soon as you
grow cold, your style gets confused and diabolical forms
of speech bubble up. Therefore passages written
unsympathetically should be looked through and corrected.
I tried to make corrections at times, but I gave up the
idea; you alone can do this task and you should do it.
It is of importance that you should avoid long sentences.
Chop them into two or three...don't be afraid to use
full-stops...use with scant ceremony words like that,
which, and this; they should be struck out by tens. If
you are in a difficulty, take a sentence and imagine that
you want to communicate it to somebody in a fluent
familiar way.
It is time to close, but there are still a good many
things to be said. The bulk of the less educated readers
will like "Youth" less than "Childhood" and "Boyhood."
The small size of these two works and some episodes, such
as the tale of Karl Ivanovich are in their favor. The
dullest man cherishes a few childish memories and
rejoices when their poetry is made clear to him, but the
period of youth (of that confused and disconnected youth
which is full of hard knocks and humiliation which you
unveil for us) is usually buried in the soul, and hence
it loses its vividness and becomes obliterated.
It would mean much labor to make your work reach the
understanding of the masses, by inserting two or three
amusing incidents, etc., but hardly anybody could make it
suit the taste of the majority.
The plot and the framework of your "Youth" will
provide a feast for thinking people who understand
poetry.
Let me know if I should forward the MS. to you or
hand it over to Panayev. You have not made a large
stride in a new direction with this work, but you have
shown what there is in you and what can be effected by
you.
The fact that Druzhinin could have written to tolstoy in such
a manner shows that they really were on familiar terms, and that
Druzhinin could influence him.
Tolstoy's stay in St. Petersburg -- from November until May --
was interrupted by a short visit to Orel on business connected with
family affairs.
February 2nd Tolstoy received the news of his brother
Dmitriy's death; he drew a vivid picture of the latter's
personality in his Reminiscences, quoted by us in the chapter on
"Youth". Here we quote the second part of those Reminiscences,
referring to his brother's subsequent life, illness and death:
When we made a partition of our property the estate
Yasnaya Polyana, on which we lived, fell to my lot.
Seryozha was a lover of horses, and as there was a stud
at Pirogovo, he received that estate, which was what he
desired. To Mitenka and Nikolenka were given the other
two estates -- to Nikolenka, Nikoleskoye; to Mitenka, the
Kursk of Shcherbachovka, which came to us from
Perovskaya. I have kept a statement from Mitenka
explaining what were his views as to the possession of
serfs. The idea that this sort of thing ought not to be,
but that serfs should be set free, was quite unknown in
our circle in the forties; the possession of serfs by
inheritance appeared a necessary condition of life, and
it was thought that the only thing that could be done to
prevent this possession from being an evil was that the
landowner should concern himself with the moral welfare
of the peasants as well as their material condition.
From this point of view, Mitenka explained his project
very seriously, naively, and sincerely. He, a lad of
twenty when he left the university, took upon himself the
duties -- thinking that he could not do otherwise -- of
directing the morality of hundreds of peasant families,
and thought to do this by threats of punishments and
punishments, as is recommended by Gogol in his letters to
a landowner. I think I remember that Mitenka had these
letters, which had been pointed out to him by the prudent
priest -- thus did Mitenka commence his landlord's
duties. But besides these duties toward the serfs, there
was at that time another duty which it was deemed
impossible to neglect -- that was military or civil
service, and Mitenka, having finished with the
university, decided to enter the civil service. In order
to decide which branch to select, he purchased an
almanac, and having examined all the branches of civil
service, he came to the conclusion that the most
important one was legislation, whereupon he went to St.
Petersburg and there applied to the officials at the head
of that department. I can imagine Tanayev's astonishment
when, on giving his reception, he stopped in front of a
high, round-shouldered, badly dressed man among the
supplicants (Mitenka always dressed merely for the
purpose of covering his body), a man with quiet, fine
eyes; and on inquiring what he wanted, received for an
answer that he was a Russian nobleman who had gone
through the university, and being desirous of being
useful to his country, had chosen legislation as his
province.
"Your name?"
"Count Tolstoy."
"You have not yet served anywhere?"
"I have only just finished my university course, and
my desire is merely to be useful."
"Then what post do you desire to have?"
"It is all the same; any one in which I can be
useful."
His gravity and sincerity so struck Tanayev that he
drove Mitenka to the department of legislation and there
handed him over to an official.
Probably the official's attitude toward him, and
above all toward the work, repelled Mitenka, for he did
not enter that department. He had no acquaintance in St.
Petersburg except the student Obolenskiy, whom he had
known at Kazan. Mitenka called on him at his summer
residence. Obolenskiy told me about it laughing.
Obolenskiy was a very worldly, ambitious man, but
gifted with tact. He related how on that occasion he had
guests (probably of the aristocracy, with whom Obolenskiy
associated), and Mitenka came to him through the garden
in a nankeen coat. "At first I did not recognize him,
but, when I did, I tried to put him at his ease. I
introduced him to my guests and asked him to take his
coat off, but it turned out that there was nothing under
the coat; he did not think anything necessary." He sat
down, and immediately, without being disconcerted by the
presence of the guests, he turned to Obolenskiy with the
same question he had put to Tanayev: Where was it best
to serve in order to be useful?
To Obolenskiy, with his views on service as merely
a means of satisfying ambition, such a question had
probably never occurred. But with the tact which he
possessed and with external good nature he answered,
mentioning various posts, and offered his assistance.
Mitenka was evidently dissatisfied both with Obolenskiy
and Tanayev, and he left St. Petersburg without entering
the civil service. He went to his country place, and at
Soudja, I think it was, he accepted some local post and
busied himself with rural work, especially among the
peasants.
After we had both left the university, I lost sight
of him. I know that he lived the same severe, abstemious
life, knowing neither wine, tobacco, nor, above all,
women, up to twenty-six years of age, which was very rare
at that time. I know that he associated with monks and
pilgrims, and he became very intimate with an extremely
singular man -- our guardian -- who lived at Voyekov's
place, a man whose origin no one knew. This man was
called Father Luke. He walked about in a cassock, was
very ugly, small of stature, one-eyed, but clean in his
person and exceptionally strong. When he shook hands, he
gripped your hand as if with pincers, and he always spoke
very solemnly and mysteriously. He lived at Voyekov's,
near the mill, where he had built himself a little house,
and cultivated a remarkable flower garden. It is this
Father Luke whom Mitenka used to take about with him. I
heard also that he associated with an old-fashioned old
man, a miserly neighboring landowner, one Samoyloy.
I think I was already in the Caucasus when an
extraordinary alteration took place in Mitenka. He
suddenly took to drinking, smoking, wasting money, and
going with women. How this came to pass with him, I do
not know; I did not see him at the time. I only know
that his seducer was a deeply immoral man, very
attractive externally, the youngest son of Islenyev. I
will tell about him later. In this life, Mitenka
remained the same serious, religious man he was in
everything. A prostitute named Masha, who was the first
woman he knew, he ransomed from her abode and took into
his house. But this life did not last for long. I
believe it was not so much the vicious and unhealthy life
which he led for some months in Moscow as the internal
struggle and the qualms of conscience which suddenly
destroyed his powerful organization. He contracted
consumption, went to the country, was treated in towns,
and took to his bed at Orel, where I saw him for the last
time, immediately after the Crimean War. He was in a
dreadful state: the enormous palm of his hand appeared
visibly attached to the two bones of the lower arm, his
face was all eyes, and they were the same beautiful,
serious eyes, with a penetrating expression of inquiry in
them. He was constantly coughing and spitting, but he
was loath to die, did not wish to believe he was dying.
Poor pox-marked Masha, whom he had rescued, wearing a
kerchief round her head, was with him and nursed him. In
my presence, at his own wish, a miraculous icon was
brought. I remember the expression of his face when he
prayed to it.
At that time I was particularly odious. I had
arrived at Orel from St. Petersburg, in which city I was
moving in society, and I was full of vanity. I was sorry
for Mitenka, but not much. I just looked about me in
Orel and went away again; he died a few days later.
I really think that what troubled me most in his
death was that it prevented me from taking part in some
private theatricals which were then being organized at
court and to which I had been invited. [From Tolstoy's
Reminiscences.]
Peace was concluded on March 12 [1856], and this circumstance
made it easier for Tolstoy to get his leave.
During the winter he finished "Lost on the Steppe; or, The
Snowstorm"; "Two Hussars"; "an Old Acquaintance"; and "A Russian
Landowner". Tolstoy had to distribute his works among three
periodicals; thus the first two novels appeared in "The
Contemporary", the third in the "Reading Library", and the fourth
in "Memoirs of the Fatherland."
Among other things, Tolstoy wrote to his Aunt Tatayana at this
period:
I have finished my "Hussars" (a novel), and have not
taken up anything else; besides, Turgenev, whom I have
begun to live (I realize it now), notwithstanding that we
always quarrelled, is gone. Hence, I feel terribly
lonely.
This letter shows that Tolstoy's relation to Turgenev varied
from time to time.
St. Petersburg life was evidently not to Tolstoy's liking.
Soon after his arrival, he did his best to get away and prepared to
go abroad.
In the letter to his brother of March 25, 1856, he says
incidentally:
I shall start for abroad in eight months; if I can
get leave I shall go. I have already written about this
to Nikolenka and asked him to come with me. If we were
all three to arrange to go together, that would be
excellent. If we each take 1,000 rubles, we could do the
trip very well. Please write. How did you like "The
Snowstorm"? I am dissatisfied with it, seriously, and
now there is much I should like to write, but there is
really no time in this accursed St. Petersburg. At all
events, whether I am allowed or not to go abroad in
April, I intend to take leave of absence and stay in the
country.
On the 12th of May [1856], while yet in St. Petersburg, he put
down in his diary:
A powerful means to secure true happiness in life is
-- without any rules -- to spin in all directions, like
a spider, a whole web of love and catch in it all that
one can -- old women, children, women, and constables.
* * * * * * * *
It may be supposed that "The Contemporary's" business, as well
as literary affairs, gave little satisfaction to its chief
supporters; this was perhaps due to the individual diversity of
convictions, views, habits, education, and surroundings of the
contributors, as this always hinders any common work devised by
educated people. In every circle composed of "intellectuals",
division into groups very soon takes place: a tolerant attitude is
very soon replaced by indifference; after that rivalry asserts
itself, culminating in open enmity. That was the case with "The
Contemporary."
As far back as the beginning of 1856, the idea struck some of
the contributors of separating and founding a new magazine.
Druzhinin's letter to Tolstoy bears testimony to this. In it he
says, among other things:
Availing myself of some surplus energy, I hasten to
have a talk with you concerning a matter which occupied
us at our last meeting and which is now being favorably
considered by many of our comrades in St. Petersburg.
The want of a journal which should be purely literary and
critical, and counteract all the frenzies and indecencies
of the present time, is felt in a marked degree.
Goncharov, Yermin, Turgenev, Annenkov, Maikov, Mikhaylov,
Avdeyev, and many others back up this idea with their
hearty approval. If you, Ostrovskiy, Turgenev, and
perhaps our half-insane Grigorovich (though we could get
along without him), would join this group, it may be
taken for granted that the whole of the belles-lettres
will be concentrated in one journal. What this organ
shall be, whether a new journal, or a reading library on
premises hired by the company, as to all this, you might
devise some scheme and let us know what it is. Here the
majority is bent on taking a lease on moderate terms, and
the publisher consents. For my part, I have nothing to
say either for or against, but offer my services to a
purely literary journal, on whatever principles it got
up.
As to the department of science, the following
professors could be regarded as willing contributors:
Gorlov, Oostryalov, Blagoveshchenskiy, Berezin, Zernin,
as well as those who contribute now -- I am naming the
most talented -- Lavrov, Lkhovskiy, Kenevich, Vodovozov,
Dumilin. Although Turgenev is a hopeless worker, he will
be a valuable man, considering his activity, as well as
his position in literature. However, the details have to
be left in the background now; we must agree as to the
whole and decide the main points.
Judging by the interest you have manifested in this
matter, I count on your support. By the way, I have a
request to make of you, as I am still following my old
occupation, and starting a new journal might take up a
good deal of time, I beg your permission to have you in
the meantime included in the number of contributors to
the "Reading Library". Do not dispose of all your
articles, but leave some work for me toward the autumn,
making your own choice and stipulating for your own
condition. I won't worry you about this, being aware
that without my entreaties you will do everything for me
that you can.
Write me a few lines about all this and about your
life in general, your anticipations, and Marie's Health;
give her my best and sincere regards. Also let me know
your address. We must keep up correspondence about the
new journal; I am afraid that our forces will get
scattered, we have only enough for one edition. It is
immaterial what was the idea of the undertaking, as long
as we all unite in working at it. So, in summer, as you
often go to see Turgenev, try to influence him and direct
this delightful but unreliable...toward our common goal.
Judging by what he has said to me a hundred time, the
idea of such a journal should please him; but how can one
rely on anything he says? Let him consider to what a low
stage our journals have been reduced by the splitting of
forces; "Russkiy Vestnik" alone has kept its ground
well, but it has a jaded appearance now owing to the
falling off of "Ateney"; "Ateney", however, is very dull.
There is nothing to say about St. Petersburg.
On May 17th [1856], Tolstoy set off for Moscow.
May 26th [1856] he spent in the house of Dr. Bers, married to
a friend of Tolstoy's childhood, Mademoiselle Islenev; there were
then living at Pokrovskoye, not far from Moscow. In tolstoy's
diary there are a few words about this visit.
"the children were all there. What jolly, charming
little girls!"
One of them, the youngest, became Tolstoy's wife six years later.
after that he proceeded on his journey, and on May 28th [1856]
arrived at Yasnaya Polyana.
Next day he wrote a letter to his brother Sergey, in which,
among other things, he remarked:
In Moscow I passed ten days...exceedingly
pleasantly, without champagne and gypsies but a little in
love -- with whom I will tell you later.
On his arrival at Yasnaya, he naturally goes to greet his
neighbors, his sister Marie, Turgenev, and others.
From the two following letters to his brother, we see that at
the end of the summer he was seriously ill. Thus, at the beginning
of September 1856 he writes:
Only now, at nine o'clock in the evening, Monday,
can I give you a good answer; before this I kept getting
worse and worse. Two doctors have been called, forty
leeches have been applied, but it is only a little while
ago that I fell asleep, and I have awakened feeling
considerably better. Still, for five or six days I
cannot think of going. So, au revoir. Please let me
know when you start, and whether there really are great
arrears in the farming work of your estate, and do not
devastate the sporting places too much without me; the
dogs I may perhaps send tomorrow.
In his letter of September 15th [1856] he says:
My dear friend Seryozha: My health has improved and
it has not. The pains and the inflammation have passed,
but there remains some kind of oppression in the chest.
I feel shooting sensations and toward the evening pains.
Perhaps it will pass off gradually of itself, but I shall
not soon make up my mind to go to Kursk, and if not soon,
then it is no good going at all. If I am not better in
a fortnight or so, I would rather go to Moscow.
Soon after he again removed to St. Petersburg, whence he wrote
to his brother the 10th of November 1856:
Excuse me, dear friend Seryozha, for writing only
two words. I have no time. Since my departure, illness
pursues me. Of those I love not one is here. In the
"Otechestvenniya Zapiski" they say Ii have been abused
for the "Military Stories". I have not yet read it, but
Konstantinov made a point of informing me the moment I
arrived that the Grand Duke Mikhail [brother of the
Emperor Nicholas I], having learned that I was reported
to have composed a song, is displeased, especially for my
having, as it was said, taught it to the soldiers. that
is too bad. I have had an explanation upon the subject
with the Chief of Staff. There is only one thing as it
should be -- my health is all right, and Shipulinskiy
says my lungs are in perfect order.
On November 26, 1856, Tolstoy retired from Military service.
We may mention a good act done by him at the close of his service.
The commander of the battery where Tolstoy served, Captain
Lieutenant Korenitskiy, was to be tried by courtmartial after the
war, but thanks to Tolstoy's influence and exertions he was spared.
With the retirement of Tolstoy from service begins a new
period of his life, full of social and literary interests, with
strivings after personal happiness.
Notwithstanding his uncompromising views and his rejection of
literary authorities, Tolstoy was a welcome guest and a valued
member of the literary circle of "The Contemporary."
but tolstoy himself was far from pleased with that circle. It
could not be otherwise. One need only read the reminiscences of
authors belonging to that period, for example, Herzen, Panayev,
Fet, and others, men of different schools, to come to very sad
conclusions as to the moral weakness of those men, though they
pretended to be leaders of humanity. When we think of the dinner
parties of Nekrasov, the carousals of Herzen, Ketcher and Ogarel,
Turgenev's love for the culinary art, all those friendly parties,
incomplete without a great deal of champagne, hunting, card-
playing, etc. -- we are pained to think of the idleness, the mental
blindness of these men, who could not see the evil of their revels,
with all the love for democracy and progress which they mixed up
with them. In the midst of this shamelessness, which is perhaps
still going on in some shape or other even at the present day, only
one voice of accusation and self-correction resounded -- the voice
of a man whose soul could not endure that self-deception. That
voice was Tolstoy's.
In his "Confession" he gives the following picture of the
manners of the literary people, i.e., of society, at the end of the
fifties and beginning of the sixties:
Before I had time to look around, the prejudices and
views of life common to the writers of the class with
which I associated became my own and completely put an
end to all my former struggles for a better life. These
views, under the influence of the dissipation into which
I plunged, issued in a theory of life which justified it.
The view taken by my fellow-writers was that life is a
development, and the principal part in that development
is played by ourselves, the thinkers, while among the
thinkers the chief influence is again due to ourselves,
the poets. Our vocation is to teach mankind.
In order to avoid answering the very natural
question "What do I know and what can I teach?" the
theory in question is made to contain this formula, that
the answer is not required, but that the thinker and the
poet teach unconsciously. I was myself considered a
marvelous litterateur and poet, and I therefore very
naturally adopted this theory. Meanwhile, thinker and
poet though I was, I wrote and taught I knew not what.
For doing this, I received large sums of money; I kept a
splendid table, had an excellent lodging, associated with
loose women, and received my friends handsomely;
moreover, I had fame. It would seem, then, that what I
taught must have been good, the faith in poetry and the
development of life was a true faith, and I was one of
its high priests, a post of great importance and profit.
I long remained in this belief, and for a year never once
doubted its truth.
In the second year, however, and especially in the
third of this way of life, I began to doubt the absolute
truth of the doctrine and to examine it more closely.
The first suspicious fact which attracted my attention
was that the apostles of this belief did not agree among
themselves. Some proclaimed that they were the only good
and useful teachers and all the others worthless; while
those opposed to them said the same of themselves. they
disputed, quarrelled, abused, deceived, and cheated one
another.
Moreover, there were many among us who, quite
indifferent to right or wrong, only cared for their own
private interests. All this forced on me doubts as to
the truth of our belief. Again, when I doubted this
faith in the influence of literary men, I began to
examine more closely into the character and conduct of
its chief professors, and I convinced myself that they
were men who led immoral lives and were most of the
worthless and insignificant individuals and far beneath
the moral level of those with whom I had associated
during my former dissipated and military career; these
men, however, had none the less an amount of self-
confidence only to be expected in those who are conscious
of being saints, or for whom holiness is an empty name.
I grew disgusted with mankind and with myself and
discovered that the belief which I had accepted was a
delusion. The strangest thing of all was that though I
soon saw the falseness of the belief and renounced it, I
did not renounce the position I had gained by it; I still
called myself a thinker, a poet, and a teacher. I was
simple enough to imagine that I, the poet and thinker,
was able to teach other men without knowing myself what
it was I attempted to teach. I had only gained a new
vice by my companionship; it had developed pride in me to
a morbid extreme, and the self-confidence with which I
taught what I did not know amounted almost to insanity.
However, while living in the same circle with these men,
Tolstoy had taken part in all their affairs and was one of the most
active members in their common enterprises. Thus, one of the most
important schemes of the Society of Assistance to Authors and
Scholars, the so-called "Literary Fund," is in many respects
indebted to him for its foundation. Druzhinin is generally
considered the founder of the society. But in Tolstoy's diary
there is the following note:
January 2, 1857. I wrote a project of the fund at
Druzhinin's.
The name of Tolstoy must therefore be added to the list of the
founders of the "Literary Fund."
To this period belong his more thorough study and admiration
of Pushkin's works.
According to Tolstoy, he seriously appreciated Pushkin after
having read Merimee's French translation of his "Gypsies".
The reading of this work, thus expounded in prose form, gave
Tolstoy a very strong impression of the greatness of Pushkin's
poetical genius.
In Tolstoy's diary for January 4, 1857, there is the following
remark:
I dined at botkin's house alone with Panayev; he
read Pushkin to me. I went into Botkin's study and there
wrote a letter to Turgenev; then I sat down on a couch
and wept with joyful tears. I am of late decidedly
happy, rejoicing in the advance of my moral development.
The advance of moral development to which he refers did not
allow Tolstoy to find satisfaction in that society and in its work,
and he eagerly looked for another outlet. As a restless spirit
usually manifests its uneasiness in action, so Tolstoy showed
restless activity, and one way in which his impatience found vent
was foreign travel, apparently without a fixed plan. This is what
he says about the matter in his "Confession", judging himself and
those surrounding him with his characteristic plainness of speech:
I had lived in this senseless manner another six
years, up to the time of my marriage. During this time
I was abroad. My life in Europe and my acquaintance with
many eminent and learned foreigners, confirmed my belief
in the doctrine of general perfectibility, and I found
the same theory prevailed among them. This belief took
the form which is common among most of the cultivated men
of the day. It may be summed up in the word "progress."
I believed at that time that this word had a real
meaning. I did not understand that, when on being
tormented like other men by the question how I was to
better my life, I answered that I must live for progress,
I was only repeating the reply of one who is carried away
in a boat by the waves and the wind, and who, to the one
important question "Where are we to steer?" should
answer, "We are being carried somewhere or the other."
But, before going abroad, Tolstoy gave up a great deal of time
to the search for personal and family happiness.
CHAPTER X
Romance
I have now to relate one of the most important passages of
Tolstoy's life, embracing the history of his falling in love. It
did not lead to marriage, still, in my opinion, it must have had a
very great influence on his life. Like many other episodes, it
brings out very clearly certain traits of his character, such as,
in the first place, his ardent, impulsive nature, and next the
power exercised by his supreme guide, reason, which keeps the
passions under control and directs them to a good end; lastly, the
simplicity, sincerity, and chivalry of his character. We see this
both where his actions are determined by the highest principles,
and also in connection with the petty details of everyday life.
The story is interesting in itself as dealing with the relations
between a man and a woman, and giving in connection therewith a
grave and instructive experience, by attention to which young
people might be saved from a great deal of unhappiness.
In Tolstoy's life up to this time there had already been a few
incipient love affairs, but they had led to nothing. The strongest
case was that of his boyish affection for Sonichka Kaloshin. this
was followed by the affair of Z. N. while he was at the University;
but the love really only existed in his own imagination, Z. N.
herself hardly knew anything about it. The Cossack girls has been
mentioned already. After this there was a kind of a society love
affair with Madame S., of which she herself probably was scarcely
conscious; Tolstoy was always shy and reserved in connection with
such matters.
However, his love for V. A. was a more powerful and serious
feeling. Their relations had become thoroughly understood and
avowed and had been declared to a circle of relatives and
acquaintances as those of lovers.
Unfortunately, Tolstoy's extensive and interesting
correspondence with this girl cannot yet be published owing to
circumstances beyond my control, and I have to confine myself to a
short summary of its contents.
Let us remember how, in a letter from Sebastopol, Tolstoy
complained of the want of female society and expressed his fear of
becoming incapacitated for it and thus depriving himself of the
possibility of married life, which he held in high honor.
Thoughts of women and family life were constantly in his mind
after he returned from the campaign, and on his way through Moscow
he was struck by a good-looking girl, the daughter of a landowner
of the neighborhood, the result being, in no long time, a romantic
mutual attachment.
The first letter is written by Tolstoy from Yasnaya Polyana to
Moscow where the young lady was staying. the family she live in
comprised an aunt, a fashionable lady who was fond of court life,
and three sisters; besides this lady's nieces and Zh., and also a
French governess. After spending the summer Sudakovo, a country
place not far from Yasnaya Polyana, they moved to Moscow in August
to be present at the coronation festivities of Aleksandr II on
August 26, 1856.
The young lady enjoyed herself very much during the
festivities, and in a letter to Tolstoy's aunt, she described them
in enthusiastic language. This letter was the first disappointment
to Tolstoy. As he was attracted by the girl, he could not help
looking upon her as his possible life-companion, and he thought he
ought to explain to her his views of social and family life; but he
was disagreeably surprised by finding himself completely
misunderstood, the lady's attitude toward sundry questions of the
highest importance being one of absolute indifference. However, he
still hoped to influence her in the right direction, in reliance on
her young and susceptible nature, and finding her by no means
unsympathetic, he used all his eloquence to make her take a serious
view of their relations. Consequently, his letters breathe the
most tender solicitude for her, are full of precepts relating to
trifles, but leading incidentally to general questions of
philosophy. Now and then, in distress at her lack of
comprehension, he would write in a bitter sarcastic tone; then,
again, he would soften down to a tender caress as from a father to
his child.
In one letter he expresses his horror and despair at the
discovery how unworthy of her, as he held, were the objects in
which she took an interest. In fact, he mercilessly jeers at the
young lady's passion for coronation festivities, balls, parades,
and flirtations with aides-de-camp, and ends his letter with a
portentously affected sentence.
For a long time he got no answer. He was agitated, wrote
again, begged for forgiveness, and at last succeeded in eliciting
a good-humored reply.
It appears from his letters that after the coronation the
family returned to Sudakovo, where Tolstoy was often in their
house, and that the mutual inclination grew and strengthened.
But Tolstoy was not the man to be carried away blindly and
heedlessly by his feelings. He resolved to submit their attachment
to the test of time and distance, and he went to stay at St.
Petersburg for two months.
From Moscow he wrote a letter in which he attempted a sort of
education of the young lady, which letter makes it plain that what
is called the passion of love did not exist between them.
He goes very fully into the question of mutual attraction and
insists upon the very great significance of marriage, and finally
he explains his determination to put their friendship to the test
of a temporary separation. Though this did not appeal to the young
lady, whose affections were strongly engaged, yet she agreed, and
they kept up a correspondence.
Before long, Tolstoy had to go through a new trial not imposed
by himself, but coming from without. While in St. Petersburg, he
learned from a trustworthy source that this "charming girl" allowed
her pianoforte teacher, Mortier, to make love to her, and that, in
fact, she fell in love with him. And all this took place during
those unfortunate coronation fetes. It is true she tried hard to
counteract this feeling, and she even broke off all relations with
Mortier, but the very fact of this sudden love affair was a
frightful shock to Tolstoy. Under the impulse of the bitter
feeling called forth by this discovery, he wrote to her a letter
full of reproaches, but evidently relenting, he never posted it.
Then he wrote another, which was posted. In this he also referred
somewhat severely to the flirtation with Mortier.
One can, of course, easily notice that the discovery made by
Tolstoy of the continued relations of the lady with Mortier caused
an incurable wound to his developing love, and that he did not cut
short his relations with her only because he thought nature and
time would fulfil the operation better. From that time they became
more of comrades, and only at rare intervals, and then, I presume,
more in imagination, did the flame of love show itself.
Getting no answer to his letter, and having very probably
satisfied himself with the argument that "pas de nouvelles --
bonnes nouvelles," he continued to influence her life rather as her
teacher than as her lover and wrote her a detailed letter
concerning their possible relations in the future, setting forth
for her a minute plan of their duties, surroundings, circle of
acquaintances, and apportionment of time, and trying to get his
future life-companion interested in serious and vital questions.
He did not receive any answer to his letters for a long time
and remained somewhat in doubt.
At last he was rewarded for his patience by receiving several
belated letters all at once, and the relations between the two
friends became again very loving.
He initiates her in his literary plans, describes his life in
St. Petersburg and continues to develop his pure and high ideals of
family life to her.
However, the beginning of doubt which had crept into Tolstoy's
mind is more evident in these last letters. Through the
expressions of love a kind of oppressive feeling betrays itself, as
the outcome of their somewhat artificial relations. This false not
becomes obvious also to her, the intensity of their mutual feeling
grew less, and both were on the lookout for an honorable escape.
In a letter to his aunt Tatyana, Tolstoy confessed the cooling
down of his love and asked her advice in this difficulty. The
letter was written in Moscow, to which place he went early in
December and remained till the end of the month.
Moscow, Dec. 5, 1856.
You again write to me about V. in the same tone in
which you have always spoken to me about her, and I again
answer in the way in which I have always answered. Just
as I had left, and for a week later, it appeared to me
that I was in love, as it is called, but with my
imagination, that is not difficult. At present, and
especially since I have strenuously taken to work, I
would like, and very much like, to say that I am in love
with or simply love her, but this is not the case. The
one feeling I have toward her is gratitude for her love,
and also the thought that of all the girls I have known
and do know, she would have been the best for my wife, as
I understand married life. It is in this that I would
like to know your candid opinion as to whether I am
mistaken or not, and I desire your advice, firstly,
because you know both her and me, and, above all, because
you love me, and those who love are never mistaken. It
is true that I have tested myself very unsatisfactorily,
for since I left I have been leading a solitary life,
rather than a dissipated one, and have seen very little
of women, but notwithstanding this, I have often had
minutes of vexation with myself for having so closely
approached her and have repented of it. Still, I say
that were I once convinced of the constancy of her nature
and sure that she would always love, if not as much as
she does now, at least more than she does any one else,
I would not hesitate a minute to marry her. I am sure
that in that case my love toward her would continually
increase, and that by means of this feeling she could
become a noble woman."
His letter to the young lady had now become cool and
argumentative. He still used the words "in love," but, it seemed,
only playfully, without the former enthusiasm. He addressed his
letters to St. Petersburg, where she went to spend the winter
season -- an ambition she had cherished for a long time.
The coldness in the tone of his letters did not escape her,
and she wrote to him with loving reproach. Two kind letters from
her resulted in some return of love on his part; he sent her a
letter written in a soft tone, and with some warmth of expression.
In a subsequent letter, Tolstoy confesses that he is "losing his
head," and tries to define "love" by reference to the mutual
education that comes of it. However, as may be seen, they could
never a tree as to what love precisely was, and the more sincerely
and cordially Tolstoy expressed his thoughts and his feeling for
her, the less they penetrated her soul and the more resistance she
offered. This same resistance his last letter failed to overcome,
and her reply made him change his tone, and friendship took the
place of love.
After this there followed and interruption of three weeks.
Very evidently their relations had changed and turned into
friendship. Tolstoy meanwhile settled in St. Petersburg in order
to prosecute his literary work. They exchanged letters once more;
however, nothing was arranged, and she forbade him to write to her.
But he continued to write, confessing his guilt toward her and
himself.
He further tells her that he is going abroad and gives her his
address in Paris, begging her to write to him there, were it even
for the last time.
Finally, before he left Moscow for abroad, he wrote to his
aunt about the whole matter.
Dear Aunt -- I have received my passport for abroad
and have come to Moscow, intending to pass a few days
with marie and then go to Yasnaya to arrange my affairs
and take leave of you.
But I have now changed my mind, chiefly on
Mashinka's advice, and have decided to remain with her
here a week or two and then go direct by Warsaw to Paris.
You probably understand, dear Aunt, why I do not wish to
come to Yasnaya now, or rather to Sudakovo, and even
ought not to do so. I think I have behaved very badly in
relation to V., but by seeing her now, I should behave
yet worse still. As I have written to you, I am more
than indifferent to her and fear I can no longer deceive
either myself or her. Whereas, if I came, I might
perhaps, owing to weakness of character, again deceive
myself.
Do you remember, dear Aunt, how you laughed at me
when I told you that I was leaving for St. Petersburg
that I might test myself, yet it is to this idea that I
owe the fact of not having made the unhappiness of this
young lady and myself, for do not think that it was
inconstancy or infidelity. No one has taken my fancy
during these two months, but I have simply come to see
that I was deceiving myself, and that I have not only
never had, but never shall have, the slightest feeling of
true love for V. The only thing which greatly pains me
is that I have injured the young lady, and that I shall
not be able to take leave of you before my departure. I
intend returning to Russia in July, but should you desire
it, I will come to Yasnaya to embrace you, for I shall
have time to get your answer at Moscow.
After this, Tolstoy really got away, and from Paris, in reply
to a letter from his old sweetheart, which he received there, he
wrote to her his last friendly letter, in which he speaks of his
feeling as of a mistake belonging to the past, thanks her for her
friendship, and wishes her happiness.
Tolstoy's aunt evidently did not approve of this rupture, as
she was desirous to see her nephew married, and before long she
reproached him for his inconstancy, even accusing him of having
acted dishonorably toward the girl who had been tormented with
doubts and expectations on his account. In reply to this, Tolstoy
wrote the following interesting letter:
By your letter, dear Aunt, I see that we do not at
all understand each other in regard to this affair.
Although I confess that I was to blame, in having been
inconstant, and that everything might have happened quite
differently, yet I think I have acted quite honestly. I
have never ceased to say that I did not know the feeling
that I had for the young lady, but that it was not love,
and that I was anxious to test myself. The experience
showed me that I was mistaken in my feeling, and I wrote
about it to V. as plainly as I could.
After this, my relations with her have been so
sincere that I am sure the memory of them will never be
disagreeable, were she to marry, and it is for this
reason that I wrote to her, saying that I would like to
hear from her. I do not see why a young man should
necessarily either be in love with a girl and marry her
or have no friendly relation with her at all, for as to
friendship and sympathy for her, I have always retained
a great deal. Mademoiselle Vorgani, who wrote to me such
a ridiculous letter, should have realized all my conduct
in regard to V., how I endeavored to come as seldom as
possible, how it was she who engaged me to come oftener
and to enter into nearer relations. I understand her
being vexed that a thing she had greatly desired did not
take place (I am perhaps more vexed than she), but that
is no reason for telling a man who has endeavored to act
in the best way possible, and who had made sacrifices for
fear of rendering others unhappy, that he is a brute, and
making every one else think so. I am sure Tula is
convinced I am the greatest monster."
Judging by this letter, one can imagine what impression the
rupture made on the lady and her friends.
A short time afterward, having learned from his aunt's letter
that his old sweetheart's sister was getting married, his former
feeling reawoke, and he wrote as follows:
As to V., I never lover her with a real love, but I
allowed myself to be drawn into tasting the evil pleasure
of inspiring love, which afforded me an enjoyment which
I had never know before.
But the time I have passed away from her has proved
to me that I have no longing to see her again, much less
to marry her. I feel only fear at the thought of the
duties I should be obliged to fulfill toward her without
loving her, and it is for this reason that I made up my
mind to go away sooner than I intended. I have behaved
very ill; I have asked pardon of God, and I ask it of all
those I have grieved, but it is impossible to repair
matters, and now nothing in the world could make the
thing begin anew. I desire all happiness to Olga; I am
enchanted with her marriage, but to you, my aunt, I
confess that of all things in this world, that which wold
give me the greatest pleasure would be to learn that V.
was going to marry a man whom she loved and who was
worthy of her; for although I have not got in the depth
of my heart the slightest atom of love for her, I still
regard her as a good and honorable girl.
Thus ended this short but pathetic affair, a most interesting
passage in Tolstoy's life. Having known a period of strong
agitation and outlived it, he, so to speak, turned to account this
episode of his life, with the sensations which he experienced, by
describing them in his novel "Family Happiness", in an artistic
form, as anyone can see who compares the work of art with the
author's actual life. We may in fact say that what is represented
as taking place in the novel is the course of events which might
have occurred in his real life, and the real romance was the
commencement or prologue of the fiction.
After this unsuccessful affair, Tolstoy resumed his literary
and social activity.
PART IV
TRAVELS, LITERARY AND
SOCIAL ACTIVITY
CHAPTER XI
THE FIRST JOURNEY ABORAD--LIFE IN MOSCOW--BEAR-HUNTING
January 29th [1857] Tolstoy left Moscow and traveled by mail
post to Warsaw and from Warsaw by rail to Paris, where he arrived
on February 21 [1857].
There turgenev awaited him. As early as January 23rd the
latter wrote to Druzhinin:
Tolstoy writes that he intends coming over here, and
then going in the spring from here to Italy. Tell him to
make haste, if he wishes to find me. Anyhow, I will
write to him myself. Judging from his letters, I see
that he is going through most beneficial changes, and I
am rejoicing at it like an "old nurse". I have read his
"A Russian Landowner" which pleased me very much by its
frankness and almost full freedom of conviction; I say
"almost", because in the way he states the problem to
himself lies (perhaps unknown to him) a certain
prejudice. The essential moral impression of the tale (I
don't speak of the artistic one) is this, that until
serfdom ceases to exist, there would be no possibility of
rapprochement and mutual understanding in spite of the
most disinterested, honest desire to meet, and this
impression is good and true; but side by side with it
runs another secondary impression -- namely, that on the
whole, teaching the peasant or improving his position is
useless, and I cannot agree with this impression. But
his mastery of the language, of the tale, of
characteristics is very great.
After meeting Tolstoy, Turgenev wrote to Polonskiy:
Tolstoy is here. A change for the better has taken
place in him, and a very considerable one.
This man will go far and will leave a deep trail
after him.
In a letter to Kalbasin dated March 8, 1857, from Paris,
Turgenev said:
I very often see Tolstoy here, and I had the other
day a very nice letter from Nekrasov dated from Rome.
But I cannot become intimate with Tolstoy, we take
such different views.
This is Tolstoy's estimate at that time of Turgenev and
Nekrasov, whom Tolstoy found in Paris, as quoted by Botkin in his
letter to Druzhinin of March 8, 1857.
Tolstoy writes thus about his interview with him:
They are both roaming in a sort of darkness, they
are dejected and complain of life, do nothing, and
apparently both feel the weight of their mutual
relations.
Turgenev writes that Nekrasov suddenly went away again to
Rome. Tolstoy's letter is only a page but full of vitality and
freshness. Germany interests him very much and he intends to study
that country more fully by-and-by. In a month's time he starts for
Rome. [From papers by Druzhinin, "Twenty-five Years' Manual", St.
Petersburg, 1884.
This correspondence shows that the relations between Tolstoy
and Turgenev were always unsatisfactory, and that with all their
efforts, they could not become cordial friends.
In March, Tolstoy and Turgenev made a journey to Dijon and
spent a few days together there. While there, Tolstoy wrote the
tale about the musician Albert. Then they came back to Paris,
where Tolstoy witnessed an execution which he described in his
"Confession," and which made an indelible impression upon him, of
which he made a brief entry in his diary:
6th April 1857: I rose before seven and went to see
an execution. A stout, white, health neck and breast:
he kissed the Gospel and then--death. What a senseless
thing! It made a strong impression, which has not been
in vain. I am not a political man. Morality and Art I
know that I love and can...The guillotine for a long time
prevented me from sleeping, forcing me to look round.
This is what he says on the subject in "How I Came to
Believe":
thus, during my stay in Paris, the sight of a public
execution revealed to me the weakness of my superstitious
belief in progress. When I saw the head divided from the
body and heard the sound with which they fell separately
into the box, I understood, not with my reason, but with
my whole being, that no theory of the wisdom of all
established things, nor of progress, could justify such
an act; and that if all the men in the world from the day
of creation, by whatever theory, had found this thing
necessary, it was not so, it was an evil thing. and
that, therefore, I must judge of what was right and
necessary, not by what men said and did, not by progress,
but what I felt to be true in my heart.
Tolstoy put off his journey to Rome till the autumn, and in
the spring set out from Paris for Geneva, from which place he
writes to his aunt Tatyana:
I have passed a month and a half in Paris, and so
pleasantly that I say to myself every day that I did well
to come abroad. I have gone very little either into
society or the literary world, or the world of cafes and
public entertainments, but nevertheless, I have found so
much here that is new and interesting to me that every
day, when I go to bed, I say to myself: "what a pity it
is the day has passed so quickly!" I have not even had
time to work as I intended.
Poor Turgenev is very ill physically and still more
so morally. His unfortunate connection with Madame V.
and her daughter keeps him here in a climate which is
very bad for him, and it is piteous to see him. I should
never have thought he could so love!
From Geneva, Tolstoy went on foot to Piedmont with botkin and
Druzhinin, who had come there; after that he settled down on the
banks of Lake Geneva at the little village of Clarens, from which
he wrote an enthusiastic letter to his Aunt Tatyana:
I have just received your letter, dear Aunt, which
has found me, as you must know by my last letter, in the
neighborhood of Geneva, at Clarens, in the same village
as that in which rousseau's Julie lived....I will not
attempt to describe the beauty of the country, especially
at the present time, when all is in leaf and flower; I
will merely tell you that it is literally impossible to
tear oneself away from this lake and these shores, and
that I pass most of my time in gazing and admiring as I
walk about, or else merely as I sit by the window in my
room. I do not cease to congratulate myself on the idea
I had of leaving Paris and coming to pass the spring
here, although it brought upon me your reproach of
inconsistency. I am really happy, and I begin to feel
the advantages of having been born with a sliver spoon in
my mouth.
There is here a charming society of Russians --
Pushkins, Karamzins, and Meshcherskiys; and all, God
knows why, have taken affectionately to me. I feel this
and the month I have passed here so pleasantly, and I am
so well and hearty that I am quite in low spirits at the
thought of leaving.
Besides these friends in the neighborhood of Geneva, there
lived at that time in the village Baucage, near the lake, Tolstoy's
friend, the Countess A. A. Tolstaya, who was maid of honor to the
grand duchess Marya Nikolayevna, who there gave birth to a son
Count Stroganov. It was a very great pleasure to Tolstoy to visit
them.
He spend about two months at Clarens and resolved to continue
his journey on foot. Having made the acquaintance of a Russian
family there, he invited one of them, a boy named Sasha, of the age
of ten, to go up the mountains with him. At first they were to
have walked to Friburg, crossing the gorge Jaman, but after having
crossed it, they changed their minds and turned in the direction of
the Chateau d'Oex, from which they proceeded to Thun by the mail
post.
among the unpublished manuscripts of Tolstoy are his notes of
this journey, from which a few descriptions of Swiss landscape may
be quoted. He first of all went by steamer from Clarens to
Montreux.
15th May 1857. the weather was clear, the light
blue and brilliantly dark blue Leman, spotted white and
black with sails and boats, shone before our eyes almost
on three sides of us; behind Geneva, some way from the
bright lake, the hot atmosphere trembled and darkened; on
the opposite shore the green Savoy mountains rose
abruptly, with little white houses at their base and with
jagged rocks, one of which looked like an enormous white
woman in an ancient costume. To the left, near the red
vines in the dark-green thicket of fruit trees, was
distinctly seen Montreux with its graceful church
standing half-way down the slope, Villeneuve on the Vevey
shore with the iron roofs of its houses brightly shining
in the midday sun, the mysterious cleft of the Vallais
with its mountains heaped one upon another, the white Col
de Chillon over the water near Vevey, and the much-
belauded little island artificially yet beautifully
placed in front of villeneuve. The lake was slightly
rippled, the sun beat down perpendicularly upon its blue
surface, and the sails, scattered about the lake,
appeared motionless.
It is wonderful how, having lived in Clarens two
months, still each time, when in the morning and still
more in the evening after dinner I open the shutters of
the windows already in the shade and look out on the lake
and the distant blue mountains reflected in it, their
beauty blinds me and startles me with a thrill. I
immediately wish to love and even feel the love of others
for myself, and regret the past, hope for the future, and
feel it become a joy to be alive. I desire to live long,
very long, and the thought of death fills me with a
childish, poetic awe. Sometimes, sitting alone in the
shady little garden and gazing, as I constantly do, on
these shores and this lake, I even feel, as it were, the
physical impression of their beauty pouring into my soul
through my eyes.
Again, as they climbed up the mountains:
Above us the wood birds were pouring out their songs
such as are not heard on the lake. Here one feels the
smell of the damp of the forest and of felled pine trees.
The walk was so pleasant that we were loath to hurry on.
suddenly we were struck by a curious, delightful spring
smell. Sasha ran into the wood and gathered some cherry
blossom, but it was almost scentless. On both sides were
seen green trees and shrubs without bloom. The sweet
overpowering odor kept on increasing. After we had
advanced a hundred yards, the shrubs opened to the right
and an immense sloping valley, flecked with white and
green, with a few cottages over it, was disclosed before
our eyes. Sasha ran to the meadow to gather white
narcissus with both hands, and brought me an enormous
bouquet, with a very strong scent, but, with the love of
destruction natural to children, he ran back to trample
and tear the tender and beautiful young succulent flowers
which gave him so much pleasure.
They passed the night at Avants. After the ascent, Tolstoy
wrote the following reflections:
16/28 May [1857]: what I was told is true -- the
higher you ascend the mountains, the easier it is to
advance. We had already been walking more than an hour
and neither of us felt either the weight of his bags or
any fatigue. Although we did not yet see the sun, it
threw its rays over us on to the opposite height,
touching on its way a few peaks and pines on the horizon.
The torrents beneath were all audible where we stood,
close to us only snow water soaked through the soil, and
at a turning of the road, we again saw the Lake Valle at
an appalling depth beneath us. The base of the Savoy
mountains was completely blue, like the lake, only
darker; the summits, lighted by the sun, were throughout
of a pale pink. There were more snow-clad peaks, which
seemed higher and of a more varied shape. Sails and
boats like scarcely visible spots were seen on the lake.
It was a beautiful sight, beautiful beyond measure, but
this is not Nature, although it is something good. I do
not like what are called glorious and magnificent views -
- somehow they are cold.
...I like Nature when it surrounds me on all sides,
and then unfolds in infinite distance -- but still when
I am myself in it. I like it when the warm air is first
all about me and then recedes in volume into infinite
distance; when those same tender leaves of grass which I
crush as I sit on them give their greenness to boundless
meadows; when those same leaves which, stirred by the
wind, move the shadows about my face, give their hue to
the distant wood; when the very air you breathe makes the
dark blue of the limitless sky; when you are not
rejoicing and revelling in the inanimate Nature alone;
when round about you buzz and dance myriads of insects,
lady-birds crawl, and birds are pouring out their songs.
But this is a bare, cold, desolate, gray little
plateau, and somewhere there something veiled with the
mist of distance. But this something is so far off that
I do not feel the chief delight of Nature -- do not feel
myself a part of this infinite and beautiful distance.
I have nothing to do with this distance.
Continuing his journey, in July [1857] Tolstoy reached
Lucerene, from which he wrote to his aunt:
"Lucerne, July 8 [1857]: I think I have told you,
dear Aunt, that I have left Clarens with the intention of
undertaking rather a long journey through the north of
Switzerland, along the Rhine, and from Holland to
England. From there I intend again passing through
France and Paris, and in August making a short stay at
Rome and Naples. If I can stand the sea crossings which
I shall encounter in going from The Hague to London, I
think of returning by the Mediterranean, Constantinople,
the Black Sea, and Odessa. But all these are plans which
I shall perhaps not carry out owing to my changeable
disposition, with which you, my dear Aunt, justly
reproach me. I have arrived at Lucerne. It is a town in
the north of Switzerland, not far from the rhine, and I
am already postponing my departure, so as to remain a few
days in this delicious little town....I am again all
alone, and I will confess to you that very often this
solitude is painful to me, as the acquaintances one makes
in hotels and trains are not a resource; yet this
isolation has at least the advantage of prompting me to
work. I am working a little, but it advances badly, as
it usually does in summer.
During his stay at Lucerne, he had an adventure, which he
describes in "The memoirs of Prince Nekhludov". The tale referred
to the year 1857 and is therefore connected with his own journey.
In this tale, as we know, the lovely description of Swiss
nature is interrupted by expressions of indignation at the way in
which its harmony is spoiled in order to please the well-to-do
tourists, chiefly English.
What strikes him especially is the contrast between the dull
respectability of the "table d'hote" and the wild, but soft and
exhilarating beauty of the lake. The feeling is intensified in him
when he hears the song of a street singer with a harp. As if by
magic, this song attracts general attention and strikes a chord in
his soul to which he is unable to give tone.
All the confused and involuntary impressions of life
suddenly received meaning and charm for me, as though a
fresh and fragrant flower had bloomed in my soul.
Instead of the fatigue, distraction, and indifference for
everything in the world which I had felt but a minute
before, I suddenly was conscious of a need of love, a
fullness of hope, and a joy of life, which I could not
account for. "What is there to wish, what to desire?"
I uttered involuntarily. "Here it is -- you are on all
sides surrounded by beauty and poetry. Inhale it in
broad, full draughts with all the strength you have!
Enjoy yourself! What else do you require? All is yours,
all the bliss."
The same dull, respectable English surround this beautiful
flower of poetry like a black frame.
The singer finished and held out his hat beneath the windows
of a grand hotel, on the veranda of which stood a crowd of smartly
dressed listeners, who non of them gave him anything.
Amazed at the stony indifference of these people, Tolstoy ran
after the musician and invited him to the hotel to partake of a
bottle of wine. This defiant action created a sensation in the
hotel, but that was precisely what he wanted. His object was to
wound those self-satisfied tourists; he wanted to express his
indignation at their heartlessness. However, the sensation passed
away and was almost forgotten, leaving the author with a bitter
feeling against the injustice of men and their incapacity to
understand the highest happiness, the simple, humane, and at the
same time sympathetic attitude toward nature.
How could you, children of a free, humane nation,
you Christians, you, simply men, even, answer with
coldness and ridicule to a pure enjoyment afforded you by
an unfortunate mendicant? But no; there are refuges for
beggars in your country. There are not beggars, there
must not be, and there must not be the feeling of
compassion upon which beggars depend.
But he labored, gave you pleasure; he implored
you to give him something of your superabundance for his
labor, which you made use of, and then you looked down at
him with a cold smile from your high, shining palaces, as
at a curiosity, and among hundreds of you, happy and rich
people, there was not found one man or woman to throw
anything to him! Put to shame, he walked away from you -
- and the senseless crowd pursued and insulted with its
laughter, not you, but him, because you are cold, cruel,
and dishonest; because you stole enjoyment from him,
which he had afforded you, they offended him.
On the 7th of July 1857, an itinerant singer for
half an hour sang songs and played the guitar in Lucerne
in front of the Schweizerhof, where the richest people
stop. About one hundred persons listened to him. The
singer three times asked all to give him something. Not
one person gave him anything, and a great many laughed at
him.
This is not fiction but a positive fact, which those
who wish may find out from the permanent inmates of
Schweizerhof, and by looking up in the newspapers who the
foreigners were on the 7th of July stopped at the
Schweizerhof.
This is an occurrence which the historians of our
time ought to note down with fiery, indelible letters.
An outcry of astonishment broke forth from his heart in the
presence of the riddle of the tangled chain of men's relations to
each other and their petty feelings as compared with the harmonious
grandeur of sovereign nature. The author expressed his feelings in
a pathetic artistic form and thus finished his tale:
What an unfortunate, miserable being is man with his
need of positive solutions, cast into this eternally
moving, endless ocean of good and evil, of facts, of
reflections and contradictions! Men have been struggling
and laboring for ages to put the good all on one side and
the evil on the other. Ages pass, and no matter what the
unprejudiced mind may have added to the scales of good
and evil, there is always the same equilibrium, and on
each side there is just as much good as evil.
If man could only learn not to judge, not to
conclude sharply and positively, and not to give answers
to questions put before him only that they might always
remain questions! If he only understood that every idea
is both just and false! False -- on account of its one-
sidedness, on account of the impossibility of man's
embracing the whole truth; and just -- as an expression
of one side of human tendencies. They have made
subdivisions for themselves in this eternally moving,
endless, endlessly mixed chaos of good and evil; they
have drawn imaginary lines on this sea, and now they are
waiting for this sea to be parted asunder, as though
there were not millions of other subdivisions from an
entirely different point of view in another plane. It is
true -- these new subdivisions are worked out by the
ages, but millions of these ages have passed and will
pass yet.
Civilization is good, barbarism evil; freedom is
good, enslavement evil. It is this imaginary knowledge
which destroys the instinctive, most blissful primitive
demands of good in human nature. And who will define to
me what freedom is, what despotism, what civilization,
what barbarism? And where are the limits of the one and
of the other? In whose soul is this measure of good and
evil so imperturbable that he can measure with it this
fleeting medley of facts? Whose mind is so large as to
embrace and weigh all the facts even of the immovable
past? And who has seen a condition such that good and
evil did not exist side by side in it? And how do I know
but what I see more of the one that of the other only
because I do not stand in the proper place? and who is
able so completely to tear his mind away from life, even
for a moment, as to take an independent bird's-eye view
of it?
There is one, but one sinless leader, the Universal
Spirit, who penetrates us all as he does one and each
separately, who imparts to each the tendency toward that
which is right; that same Spirit who orders the tree to
grow toward the sun, orders the flower to cast seeds in
the autumn, and orders us to hold together unconsciously.
This one, sinless blissful voice is drowned by the
boisterous hurry of growing civilization. Who is the
greater man and the greater barbarian -- the lord, who
upon seeing the singer's soiled garment angrily rushed
away from the table, who did not give him for his labor
one-millionth of his worldly goods, and who now, well-fed
and sitting in a lighted, comfortable room, calmly judges
of the affairs of China, finding all the murders
committed there justified, or the little singer, who,
risking imprisonment, with a franc in his pocket, has for
twenty years harmlessly wandered through mountains and
valleys, bringing consolation to people with his singing,
who has been insulted, who today was almost kicked out,
and who then, there, hungry, humiliated, went away to
sleep somewhere on rotting straw?
Just then I heard in the town, amid the dead silence
of the night, far, far away, the guitar and the voice of
the little man.
No, I involuntarily said to myself, you have no
right to pity him and to be indignant at the lord's well
being. Who has weighed the internal happiness which lies
in the soul of each of these men? He is sitting
somewhere on a dirty threshold, looking into the
gleaming, moonlit heaven, and joyfully singing in the
soft, fragrant night; in his heart there is no reproach,
no malice, no regret. And who knows what is going on now
in the souls of all these people, behind these rich, high
walls? Who knows whether there is in all of them as much
careless, humble joy of life and harmony with the world
as lives in the soul of this little man?
Endless is the mercy and all-wisdom of Him who has
permitted and has commanded all these contradictions to
exist. Only to you, insignificant worm, who are boldly,
unlawfully trying to penetrate His laws, His intentions,
only to you do they appear as contradictions. He looks
calmly down from His bright, immeasurable height and
enjoys the endless harmony in which you all with your
contradictions are endlessly moving. In your pride you
thought you could tear yourself away from the universal
law. No, even you, with your petty little indignation at
the waiters, even you have responded to the harmonious
necessity of the endless and the eternal.
From Lucerne Tolstoy continued his journey up the Rhine,
Schaffhausen, Baden, Stuttgart, Frankfort, and Berlin.
On August 8th [1857] he was in Stettin, and from there arrived
in St. Petersburg by boat on August 11th (July 30th, O.S.).
He remained in St. Petersburg a week, visited the circle of
"The Contemporary", called on Nekrasov and read to him his tale
"Lucerne", which was printed in the September number of "The
Contemporary" in 1857. On August 6th he left for Moscow and then
went straight on to tula.
Soon after his arrival at Yasnaya Polyana he plunged into
business in connection with his estate.
In his diary of that period the following entry is found:
This is how during my journey I divided my day: I
put, first of all, literary work, then family duties,
then the estates; but the estates I must leave in the
hands of the steward as much as possible; but I must
educate and improve him, and I must only spend two
thousand rubles, the rest should be used in the interests
of the peasants. My great stumbling block is the vanity
of Liberalism. One should live for oneself and a good
deed a day is sufficient.
A little later he wrote:
Self-abnegation does not consist in saying, "Take
from me what you like"; but in laboring and thinking in
concert with others, so as to give oneself to them.
August [1857] he devoted to reading and studied two remarkable
subjects, Homer's "Iliad" and the Gospels. Both produced a strong
impression upon him.
"I have finished reading the inexpressibly beautiful
conclusion of the `Iliad'. Thus he expresses himself, and the
beauty of both these subjects makes him regret that there is no
connection between them. "How could Homer fail to know that the
only good is love?" he exclaims, mentally comparing these two
books. And he himself answers: "He knew of no revelation -- there
is no better explanation."
In the middle of October [1857], Tolstoy moved to Moscow,
together with his eldest brother Nikolay and his sister Marie. His
diary shows that he arrived there on the 17th. On October 23
[1857], he left that city for St. Petersburg, intending to stay
there a few days.
His tale "Lucerne" (Memoirs of Prince Nekhludov), printed in
"The Contemporary", was not appreciated by the critics and
therefore made no impression.
The silence of the critics gives striking and obvious proof
how narrow-minded, short-sighted, and incapable they were. On the
whole, from 1857 up to 1861, according to the opinion of Zelinskiy,
who published a collection of critical essays on Tolstoy, there
were no criticisms on Tolstoy's works in spite of the fact that
during that time he printed such remarkable works as "Youth,"
"Lucerne," "Albert," "Three Deaths," and "Family Happiness."
Tolstoy was aware of the indifference of the critics, and
after his return from St. Petersburg in October 1857, he wrote in
his diary:
St. Petersburg at first grieved and then put me
right. My reputation has fallen or just lingers, and I
have been much grieved inwardly; but now I am at peace.
I know that I have got something to say, and the power of
saying it strongly; as for the rest, the public may say
what it likes. But it is necessary to work
conscientiously, to lay out all one's power, then...let
them spit on the altar.
Tolstoy returned to Moscow on October 30 [1857]. During his
stay there, he very often saw Fet, who in his Reminiscences thus
described his visits:
One evening while were taking tea, Tolstoy appeared
quite unexpectedly and informed us that they, the
Tolstoys, i.e., his elder brother Nikolay and his sister
Countess Marie, had all three settled in the furnished
rooms of Verighin, in Pyatnitskiy Street. Before long we
all became intimate.
I don't know how the Tolstoy brothers, Nikolay and
Lev, became acquainted with S. Gromeka; it occurred
probably in our house. All three very soon became great
friends, being all of them enthusiastic sportsmen. [A.
Fet, "My Reminiscences, 1848-1889", Part I, p. 214]
The Moscow life of Tolstoy at this period (the end of the
1850s) had no remarkable feature. At this time his physical nature
was in full glow and strength and drew him in the direction of
ambitious enterprises, amusements, and society life in general.
Fet relates that sometimes in the evening they had concerts in
which Countess Marie Tolstaya joined, herself a pianoforte player
and a lover of music. Sometimes she would arrive accompanied by
Lev and Nikolay, sometimes by the latter only, who would say,
"Lev has put on his evening suit again and gone to a ball." [A.
Fet, "My Reminiscences, 1848-1889", Part I, p. 216]
Fet gives the following account of these recreations:
I.P. Borisov had known Tolstoy in the Caucasus, and
being himself far superior to the average man, he could
not, from their first meeting in hour house, resist the
influence of that giant. But at that time, Tolstoy's
love for gaiety was more striking, and when he saw him
going out for a walk in his new coat with a gray beaver
collar, his dark curly hair showing under a fashionable
hat worn on one side, with a smart cane in hand, Borisov
quoted these words from a popular song: "He leans on his
stick, and he boasts that it is made of hazel."
Gymnastics were very popular with the fashionable
young people at that time, the favorite exercise being
that of jumping over a wooden horse.
If anyone desired to get hold of Tolstoy between one
and two in the afternoon, he had to go to the gymnasium
hall at the Great Dmitrovka. It was interesting to watch
how Tolstoy, in his tights, eagerly tried to jump over
the horse without catching the leather cone stuffed with
wool and placed on the horse's back. No wonder that the
active, energetic nature of a young man of twenty-nine
demanded such violent exercise, but it was strange to see
next to him old men with bald heads and protruding
stomachs. One young man would wait for his turn and
every time run and touch the back of the horse with his
chest, then quietly go aside, giving way to the next one.
[A. Fet, "My Reminiscences, 1848-1889", Part I, p216]
In the beginning of January 1858, Countess Aleksandra
Alekseyevna Tolstaya, a friend of Tolstoy in his youth, paid a
visit to Moscow. He saw her off to Klin by the Nikolayevskiy
railway, and then went to stay at the house of the Princess
Volkonskaya, whose name was introduced in the chapter of Tolstoy's
forefathers on his mother's side. This Princess Volkonskaya was
the cousin of Tolstoy's mother; she used to pay long occasional
visits at Yasnaya Polyana, and she was able to tell Tolstoy many
things of great interest about his father and mother.
Tolstoy cherished a most pleasant remembrance of this visit;
it was during his stay that he wrote the tale "Three Deaths".
The idea of death began seriously to absorb his attention,
and, as usual, his desire was to make the solution of the great
problem consist in a harmony of the human soul with nature. Any
divergence from this solution involves unutterable suffering; its
attainment, eternal good; "the sting" of death therefore then
disappears.
He returned to Yasnaya Polyana in February [1858]. Then he
went again to Moscow, and in March to St. Petersburg for a
fortnight. In April he again returned to Yasnaya Polyana, and he
remained there the whole summer. During this period, Tolstoy
devoted much of his time to music, and in Moscow, in association
with Botkin, Perfilev, Mortier, and others, founded a Musical
Association. Madame Kareyevskaya lent her hall for the concerts
got up by this association, which eventually resolved itself into
the Conservatoir of Moscow. In the same year, while in Moscow,
Tolstoy became very intimate with the family of S. T. Aksakov, the
elder.
Springtime generally exhilarated Tolstoy. The influx of
energy which he experienced is well described in a letter to his
aunt, A. A. Tolstaya, written in 1858.
Auntie, it is spring....For good people it is very
good to be alive on earth; even for such as me it is
sometimes good. In nature, in the air, in everything --
hope, future, and exquisite future...sometimes one is
mistaken and thinks that it is not only for nature that
a future and happiness wait but also for oneself, and
then one feels happy. I am now in such a state, and with
the egotism peculiar to me, I hasten to write to you
about things interesting only to myself. I very well
know when I bethink myself that I am an old frozen-out
potato, boiled with sauce into the bargain; but spring so
acts upon me that I sometimes catch myself in the full
swing of visions that I am a plant which, together with
others, has only just opened and will peacefully, simply,
and joyously grow in God's world. Accordingly at these
times, there takes place such an inner elaboration -- a
purifying and an ordering of which no one who has not
experienced this feeling can form any idea. All the old
-- away! All worldly conventionalities, all laziness,
all egotism, all vices, all confused, indefinite
attachments, all regrets, even repentance -- all this,
away! ... give place to a wonderful little flower which
is budding and growing along with spring...
This letter is rather long but very interesting. It would, in
fact, be interesting for its close alone, at which Tolstoy makes
the following request:
Goodby, dear Auntie, do not be angry with me for
this nonsense, and answer me with wise words imbued with
kindness -- and Christian kindness. I have long ago
wished to write to you that it is more convenient for you
to write in French, and for me feminine thought is more
comprehensible in French.
During this spring, Fet and his wife, while on their way
through Moscow to their country abode, paid a visit to Tolstoy in
Yasnaya Polyana.
In his Reminiscences, Fet thus described this visit, giving at
the same time an interesting notice of Tolstoy's aunt, Tatyana
Aleksandrovna Yergolskaya:
Having bought a warm and comfortable kibitka
[Kirghiz tent] covered with matting, we started, in
company with Mariushka (idealized by Tolstoy in his
"Family Happiness"), by mail post for Mtsensk. Nobody
dreamed of a railway at that time; as to the bare
telegraph posts along the roads, people said the wire
would be first attached and after that freedom for the
serfs will be sent down the wire from St. Petersburg. By
this time we were on such good terms with Tolstoy that it
would have been a great deprivation to us not to call on
him and stay for a day at Yasnaya Polyana to rest a
little. There we were introduced to the charming old
lady, Tolstoy's aunt, Tatyana Aleksandrovna Yergolskaya,
who received us with that old-fashioned hospitality which
at once makes the entrance under a new roof so pleasant.
Tatyana Aleksandrovna was not absorbed in the things of
the past but fully shared the life of the present.
She mentioned that Seryozhenka Tolstoy had gone to
his house at Pirogovo and Nokolanka might yet stay on for
a while in Moscow with Mashenka, but Lyovochka's friend
D., she said, came in the other day and complained of his
wife's neuralgia. In any difficulties she always used to
consult Lyovochka and was quite satisfied with his
explanations. Thus, driving in the autumn with him to
Tula, looking out of the carriage window, she suddenly
asked, "Mon cher Leon, how is it people write their
letters by telegraph?" "I had," said Tolstoy, "to
explain as simply as possible the action of a telegraph
instrument similarly arranged at both ends of the wire,
and as I was concluding, I heard her say, `Oui, oui, je
comprends, mon cher.'"
Having kept her eyes fixed on the wire for more than
half an hour, she at last asked, "Mon cher Leon, how can
this be? For a whole half-hour I have not seen a single
letter pass along the telegraph?"
"Sometimes," relates Tolstoy, "we used to sit at
home with my aunt for a whole month without seeing any
one, and suddenly, while serving the soup, she would
begin, `But do you know, dear Leo, they say ---'"
The long autumn and winter evenings have remained
for me as a wonderful recollection. To these evenings I
owe my best thoughts and best impulses of my soul. I sit
in an armchair reading, thinking, and at times listening
to her conversation with Natalya Petrovna or Dunechka the
maid, which was always good and kind; I exchange a few
words with her and again sit and read and think. This
wonderful armchair still stands in my home, though it is
not what it was, and another couch on which slept the
kind old woman Natalya Petrovna, who lived with her, not
for her sake but because she had nowhere else to live.
Between the windows under the looking glass was her small
writing table, with little china jars and a small vase,
in which were held the sweets, cakes, and dates, to which
she treated me. By the window tow armchairs, and to the
right of the door a comfortable embroidered armchair, on
which she liked me to sit of an evening.
The chief delight of this life was the absence of
material worry, the affectionate terms on which we all
were, in the strong mutual attachment free from all doubt
and misgiving by which close kinsfolk and household were
bound together, and the consciousness of the flight of
time.
Indeed, I was truly happy when seated in that
armchair. After leading a bad life at Tula, playing
cards with the neighbors, after the gypsy singers, as
well as my shooting and hunting -- silly vanity -- I
would return home, go to her (my aunt) by old habit and
we would kiss each other's hands, I -- her dear,
energetic hand; she -- my impure, vicious hand; and
having greeted each one in French, also by old habit, one
would exchange a joke with Natalya Petrovna and seat
oneself in the cozy armchair. She (my aunt) knows all I
have been doing, regrets it, but never reproaches me,
always treats me with the same love and affection.
Seated in my armchair, I read and meditate, and I listen
to her conversation with Natalya Petrovna. They either
recall old times, or play at Patience, or make
prognostics, or joke about something, and both old ladies
laugh -- especially auntie, with her dear, childlike
laugh, which I can hear at this moment. I tell them how
the wife of an acquaintance ha been unfaithful to her
husband, adding that the husband must have been glad to
have got rid of her. And suddenly auntie, who has just
been talking with Natalya Petrovna about an excrescence
of wax droppings on a candle foreshadowing a guest,
raises her eyebrows and says, as a thing long settled in
her soul, that a husband should not feel thus, because he
would quite ruin his wife. Then she tells me about a
drama among the servants, of which Dunechka has told her.
Then she reads out a letter from my sister Mashenka, whom
she loves, if not more, at least as much as myself, and
speaks about her husband, her own nephew, without
condemnation, yet grieving over the suffering he has
caused Mashenka. Then I again read, and she examines her
little collection of sundries -- all souvenirs.
But the chief feature of her life which
involuntarily insinuated itself into me was her
wonderful, universal kindness to everyone without
exception. I try to recall any one case when she got
angry or said a rough word or condemned anybody, and I am
unable to do so. I cannot call to mind one such word
during thirty years. She spoke well of another aunt of
ours who had cruelly hurt her feelings by taking us away
from her; and she did not condemn my sister's husband,
who had acted so badly. as to what her goodness was to
the servants, it goes without saying. She grew up with
the knowledge that there are masters and servants, but
she used her own position only to serve others. She
never reproached me directly for my bad life, although
she was pained at it. Neither did she reproach my
brother Sergey, whom she also warmly loved, when he
formed a connection with a gypsy girl. The only
indication of anxiety which she gave on occasions when he
was very late in coming home was that she used to say,
"What's the matter with our Sergey?" Instead of
Seryozha, merely Sergey. She never in words taught how
one should live; she never moralized. All her moral work
was worked out within her, and externally appeared only
deeds -- indeed, not deeds -- there were none of these,
but all her peaceful, humble, submissive life of love,
not an agitated self-admiring passion, but a quiet
unobtrusive love.
She fulfilled the inner work of love, and therefore
she had no cause to hurry anywhere. And these two
features, love and repose, imperceptibly attracted one
into her society and gave a special delight to intimacy
with her.
And, as I know no case when she hurt any one, so
also I know no one who did not love her. She never spoke
about herself; never about religion, as to what one
should believe or what she herself believed and prayed
for. She believed all, save that she repudiated one
single dogma -- that of eternal punishment. "Dier, qui
est la bonte meme, ne peut pas vouloir nos souffrances."
Except at Te Deums and Requiems, I never saw her
pray. Only through a special affability with which she
sometimes met me when I, occasionally late at night,
after having said goodby, returned to her, did I guess
that I had interrupted her prayer. "Come in, come in!"
she used to say. "And I had just been saying to Natalya
Petrovna that Nicolas would look in again." She often
called me by my father's name, and this was specially
pleasant to me, as it showed that her conceptions of me
and of my father were blended in one love of both. At
this late time of the evening, she was already in her
nightdress, with a shawl thrown over her shoulders, with
little spindle-like legs, in her slippers -- Natalya
Petrovna was in a similar negligee.
Sit down, sit down," she used to say when she saw
that I could not sleep or was suffering from solitude.
And the memory of these irregular late sittings-up are
especially dear to me. It often happened that Natalya
Petrovna, or else myself, would say something funny, and
she would laugh good-naturedly, and immediately Natalya
Petrovna would laugh too, and both old ladies would laugh
for a long time, themselves not knowing at what, but like
children, merely because they loved everyone and felt
happy.
It was not only the love for me which was joyous.
The atmosphere was joyous, an atmosphere of love to all
present, absent, living and dead, and even to animals.
I will, if I have occasion to dig up my past life,
say a good deal more about her. Now I will mention only
the attitude of the poor, of the peasants of Yasnaya
Polyana toward her, as manifested at her funeral; when we
carried her through the village there was not one
homestead among the sixty from which the dwellers did not
come out and demand a halt and a requiem. "She was a
good lady, she did no one any harm," said all. and for
this she was loved, greatly loved. Laotze says that
things are valuable through what is absent from them. So
also with life -- the best feature it can have is that is
should not contain evil. In the life of my aunt Tatyana
Aleksandrovna there was no evil. This is easy to say,
but the character is difficult to exemplify. And I have
known only one individual who exemplified it.
She died quietly, gradually falling asleep, and died
as she wished to die, not in the room where she lived, so
as not to sadden it for us.
In her last moments she recognized scarcely any one.
Me she always recognized, smiling, and her face glowing
like a lamp when the button is pressed, and sometimes she
moved her lips endeavoring to pronounce the name
"Nicholas" thus, just before her death, quite inseparably
uniting me with the one she had loved all her life.
And it was to her -- to her -- that I refused that
little joy which dates and chocolates afforded her, and
that not so much on her own account as for the pleasure
she took in treating me to them -- and refused her the
possibility of giving a little money to those who asked
from her. I cannot recall this without an acute pang of
conscience. Dear, dear Auntie, pardon me. "Si jeunesse
savait, si viellesse pouvait" -- not in regard of the
welfare which one has missed for oneself in youth but of
the welfare one has not given -- of the evil one has done
to those that are no more. [From Tolstoy's Manuscript
Memoirs]
the scanty but valuable information which Tolstoy gives about
the servants who surrounded him during his childhood is exceedingly
interesting. This information may serve as a supplement to what is
described in his published story "Childhood". We find this
description in his Reminiscences as well.
Though Tolstoy did not spend the whole of the summer of 1858
in Yasnaya Polyana, being often away in Moscow, yet peasant life
interested him more and more, and he made an effort to get in touch
with "common" people.
In his Reminiscences Fet quotes the words of Tolstoy's brother
Nikolay, full of fine humor concerning those efforts:
In answer to our inquires, the Count gave with
undisguised delight the following account of his beloved
brother: "Lyovochka," he said, "tries hard to become
better acquainted with the life of the peasant and his
way of managing his land, of which we all know very
little. However, I really cannot tell how far the
acquaintance will go. Lyovochka desires to take in all,
not to miss anything, not even gymnastics. That is why
there is a bar placed under the window of his study. To
be sure, setting aside prejudices with which he is so
much at war, he is right; the gymnastics don't interfere
with his estate affairs, but his bailiff views the matter
somewhat differently. `I would come,' he said, `for
orders, but the master had got hold of a perch with one
knee and was hanging in his red tights with his head
downward swinging, his hair falling down dishevelled, and
his red face bursting. I did not know whether to listen
to his orders or to stand and wonder at him.' Lyovochka
was pleased to see how Yufan would spread wide his arms
when he was ploughing. And now Yufan became the emblem
of the country's power, something like Mikula
Selyaninovich. Spreading out his elbows, he too stuck to
the plough and tried to imitate Yufan."
In May of the same year [1858], Tolstoy wrote to Fet from
Yasnaya Polyana:
Dearest Old Fellow -- I am writing two words only to
say that I embrace you with all my might, that I have
received your letter, that I kiss Maria Petrovna's hands,
send a greeting to all yours. Auntie is very thankful
for your remembering her and she greets you; and so does
my sister. What a splendid spring it has been and is
still. In my solitude I have enjoyed it immensely. My
brother Nikolay must be at Nikolskoye; catch him there
and do not let him go. This month I intend coming to see
you. Turgenev has gone to Winzig until August to treat
himself. The deuce take him! I am tired of loving him.
He will not cure himself, but us he will deprive of his
company. With this, goodby dear friend. If before my
arrival you will write no verses, I will manage to
squeeze them out of you. Yours, Count L. Tolstoy."
What a Whitsuntide we had yesterday! What a service
at church, with fading wild cherry blossom, white hair,
bright red cretonne, and a hot sun!
And then another:
Hallo, old man! Hallo! First, you yourself give no
sign of life, when it is spring and you know that we are
thinking of you, and that I am chained, like Prometheus,
to a rock, and nevertheless thirst to see and hear you.
You should either come or write, decidedly. Secondly,
you have appropriated my brother, and a very good one.
The chief culprit, I think, is Maria Petrovna, to whom I
send my best greetings, and whom I beg to return my own
brother. Joking apart, he sent to say he was coming back
next week. And Druzhinin will also be here, so do come
too, dear old fellow.
After discharging his summer duties at the estate, Tolstoy
would take his share in works of public interest.
A meeting of noblemen of the Tula province was held in the
autumn of 1858, from September 1 to September 4, for the election
of representatives to the Tula Committee for the Improvement of the
Status of the Peasantry. At that meeting, in virtue of the statute
regulating elections, by which the nobles have a right to express
their opinion on the wants of their province and on provincial
affairs generally, a hundred and five noblemen handed over to the
Tula Marshal of nobility the following resolution, to be presented
to the Provincial Committee:
Having in view the improvement of the status of the
peasant, the security of the landowner's position in
respect of his property, and the safety of both peasants
and landowners, we, the undersigned, are of opinion that
the peasants ought to be liberated and a certain amount
of land allotted to them and their descendants, and that
the landowners should be compensated fully and fairly in
money by means of some financial operation which will not
result in compulsory relations between landowner and
peasant; all such relations the nobility consider should
be abolished. (There follow the signatures of a hundred
and five noblemen of Tula Province, among which, of
course, was the name of the Krapovna landowner, Count L.
N. Tolstoy.) ["The Contemporary" 1858, vol. lxxii, p300]
We must return to Fet's Reminiscences.
Since my wife and I left Moscow in the autumn of
1858, Tolstoy contrived, as may be seen from the
following letter to me forwarded from Novoselki to
Moscow, to go out hunting with Borisov, who lent Tolstoy
his whipper-in, together with a horse and dogs.
October 24th [1858] he wrote from Moscow: Dearest old
chap, Fetinka -- Indeed you are a dear fellow, and I love
you dreadfully. That's all. To write stories is silly -
- a shame. To write verses...well, you may do so; but
love a good man is very pleasant. And yet perhaps
against my will and consciousness, it is not myself but
an unripe story working in me, that makes me love. I
sometimes think so. However, one may avoid it, still
from time to time between manure and this Kapoemon, one
finds oneself writing a story. I am glad, however, that
I have not yet allowed myself to write, and will not.
Thank you most heartily for your trouble about the
veterinary, etc. I have found the Tula one, and he has
begun the treatment. What will come of it I don't know.
And the deuce take them all. Druzhinin requests me to
write a story for him like a friend. And I really intend
to compose one. I will compose such a one that there
will be nothing in it: The Shah of Persia is smoking a
pipe, and I love you. That will be a poser. Joking
apart, how is you "Hafiz"? Whatever may be said, the
height of wisdom and firmness for me is to rejoice at
other people's writing, but not to let one's own out into
the world in an ugly garb, but to consume it oneself with
one's daily bread. Yet sometimes one suddenly feels such
a desire to be a great man, and so annoyed that hitherto
this has not been realized. One even hurries to get up,
or finish one's dinner in order to begin. One couldn't
express all one's frivolous thoughts, but it is pleasant
to communicate at least one to such a dear old fellow as
you are, who lives entirely in such frivolity; send me
one of the longest pieces of poetry by "Hafiz" you have
translated, me faire venir l'eau ... la bouche, and I will
send you a sample of wheat. Sport has bored me to death.
The weather is excellent, but I do not go hunting alone.
In December 1858, during a hunting expedition, Tolstoy met
with an accident which nearly cost him his life. Fed describes it
this way:
Gromeka wrote on December 15, 1858: "As you desired
me, I hasten to inform you, deaf Afanasy Afanasyevich,
that one of these days, about the 18th or 20th, I mean to
go out bear-hunting. Tell Tolstoy that I have bought a
she-bear with two young ones, and that if he cares to
take part in the hunt, he must come to Volochok about the
18th or 19th, straight on to my place, without ceremony,
and that I will meet him with open arms, and a room will
be ready for him. If he is not coming, please let me
know at once.
"I think the hunt will certainly take place on the
19th. It will be best, therefore, indeed necessary, to
come on the 18th.
"If Tolstoy would like to put off to the 21st, then
let me know; it would be impossible to wait longer."
For greater inducement, the well-known leader in
hear hunts, Ostashkov, paid Tolstoy a visit. On his
appearance in the hunting field, the scene can only be
compared to the plunging of a red-hot iron into cold
water. Wild excitement and uproar followed. Seeing that
each bear hunter must possess two guns, Tolstoy borrowed
my German double-barrelled gun, intended for small shot.
At the appointed day, our hunter Lev Nikolayevich started
for the Nikolayevskiy railway station. I will try to
repeat correctly all I heard from Tolstoy and his
companions in the bear hunt.
When the hunters, each carrying two loaded guns,
gook their places along the meadow running through the
wood, which looked like a chess board from its openings,
they were advised to tread the deep snow as wide as
possible round them so as to get more freedom of
movement. But Tolstoy remained at his post in snow
almost up to his waist, declaring that there was no need
to tread the snow at all, as they were going to shoot the
bear and not to fight her. Accordingly, the Count placed
one of the guns against the trunk of a tree, so that when
he had fired off the two charges of his gun, he could
throw it away and, holding out his hand, catch mine.
Presently the she-bear was startled out of her den by
Ostashkov and made her appearance. She rushed out down
the valley along which the hunters were placed in a
direction at right angles to it, by one of the openings.
This alley opened on to the spot where was standing the
hunter nearest to Tolstoy, so that the latter could not
even see the approach of the bear. But she, probably
scenting the hunter she was after all the time, swiftly
rushed to the cross opening and suddenly appeared at a
very short distance from Tolstoy and quickly flew at him.
Tolstoy deliberately aimed and pulled the trigger, but
probably missed, for in the cloud of smoke he saw
something huge approaching. He gave another shot almost
face to face, and the bullet hit the bear's jaw, where it
stuck between the teeth. The Count could not move aside,
the untrodden snow giving him no room, and he had no time
to snatch my gun, for he was knocked down and fell with
his face in the snow. At a run the bear crossed over
him. "There," thought the Count, "all is over with me.
I missed now and shall have no time to shoot at her
again!"
At this moment he saw something dark over his head.
It was the she-bear, who had instantly returned, and who
tried to bite the head of the hunter who had wounded her.
Lying with his face downward in the thick snow, Tolstoy
could only offer passive resistance, trying as much as he
could to draw his head between his shoulders and expose
his thick fur cap to the beast's mouth. Perhaps in
consequence of these instinctive maneuvers, the bear,
being twice unsuccessful, managed to give only one
considerable bite, with her upper teeth tearing the cheek
under his left eye, and with the lower the whole skin of
the left part of his forehead. At that moment Ostashkov
arrived near, and running up with his small switch in his
hand, he approached the bear with his usual "Where are
you getting to? Where are you getting to?" At the sound
of this exclamation, the bear ran away as quickly as she
could. It seems the next day she was surrounded and
killed.
The first words of Tolstoy, when he got up with the
skin hanging down his face, which had to be bandaged with
handkerchiefs on the spot, were: "What will Fet say?"
I am proud of it still. [A. Fet, "My Reminiscences, Part
I" p226]
Having got over the shock, Tolstoy hastened to inform his aunt
of the incident and, in his letter of December 25th [1858] thus
described what had happened.
First of all I congratulate you, secondly I am
afraid that news of an adventure I have had may in some
way reach you in an exaggerated form, and therefore I
make haste to inform you of it myself.
I have been hunting bears with Nicolas. On the 21st
I shot a bear; on the 22nd, when we again went out, an
extraordinary thing happened to me. The bear, without
seeing me, charged me; I shot at it at a distance of six
yards, missed it the first time, the second mortally
wounded it; but it rushed at me, knocked me down, and
while my companions were running up, it bit me twice in
the forehead over the eye and under the eye.
Fortunately, this lasted only ten or fifteen seconds; the
bear made its escape and I rose up with a slight injury
which neither disfigures me nor causes pain; neither the
skull nor the eye is injured, so that I have escaped with
merely a little scar, which will remain on my forehead.
I am now in Moscow and feel perfectly well. I am writing
you the whole truth without concealing anything, so that
you may not be anxious. Everything is now over, and it
only remains to thank God, who has saved me in such an
extraordinary way.
This episode served as a subject for his tale "The Wish Is
Stronger Than Bondage", published in the "Books to Read". There
are many artistic details left out by Fet with which the fancy of
the artist adorned the real facts of the incident. That is why, in
relating it, we preferred to use the reminiscences of Tolstoy's
friend and his own letter, as better serving our purpose.
The early months of 1859 Tolstoy spent in Moscow, and in April
he went to st. Petersburg, where he spent ten days in the company
of his friend A. A. Tolstaya. He cherished the most grateful
memories of this visit.
At the end of April [1859], Tolstoy was again at Yasnaya
Polyana, and there he remained for the whole summer.
During the summer, Tolstoy paid a visit to Turgenev at his
house at Spasskoye.
In verses sent to Fet on July 16, 1859, Turgenev wrote:
Embrace, please, Nikolay Tolstoy,
And give to Lev Tolstoy my compliments, and to his sister too.
He rightly says in his postscript:
I have "no cause" to write to him. I know
He loves me slightly and I love him slightly--
Too different in us are our elements,
But many are the roads across this world,
We need not stand in one another's way.
[A. Fet, "My Reminiscences, Part I" p305]
These lines show that their relations continued mutually
respectful and amiably cold.
However, the visit went off smoothly. In his letter to Fet of
october 9th of the same year [1859], Turgenev thus speaks of their
meeting:
Our ladies send their best greetings to all of you.
I had a quiet talk with Tolstoy, and we parted on
friendly terms. It seems there can be no
misunderstanding between us, because we know each other
too well, and we understand that it is impossible for us
to become intimate. We are modelled in different clay.
In August [1859], Tolstoy is again in Moscow, where he spent
the autumn.
The year 1860 found him again in a perturbed mood.
Yet during the winter of 1859-60 he enjoyed rest and pleasure
in his schools. In his "Confession" he speaks of that time in the
following terms:
On my return from aborad, I settled in the country
and occupied myself with the organization of schools for
the peasantry. This occupation was especially grateful
to me, because it was free from the spirit of imposture
which so strikes me in the career of a literary teacher.
Here again I acted in the name of progress, this
time I brought a spirit of critical inquiry to bear on
the system on which the progress rested. I said to
myself that progress was often attempted in an irrational
manner, and that it was necessary to leave a primitive
people and the children of peasants perfectly free to
choose the way of progress which they thought best. In
reality, I was still bent on the solution of the same
impossible problem, how to teach without knowing what it
was I had to teach. In the highest sphere of literature
I had understood that it was impossible to do this,
because I had seen that everybody had his own way of
teaching, and that the teachers quarrelled among
themselves, and scarcely succeeded in concealing their
ignorance. Having now to deal with peasant children, I
thought I could get over this difficulty by allowing the
children to learn whatever they liked. It seems now
absurd, when I remember the experiments by which I
carried out this whim of mine as to teaching, thought I
knew in my heart that I could teach nothing useful,
because I myself did not know what it was necessary to
teach.
This constant feeling of dissatisfaction with himself, this
searching for the meaning of life, was a permanently active force,
leading him forward on the path of his moral progress.
In February [1859], Tolstoy was admitted a member of the
Moscow Society of Admirers of Russian Literature.
On February 4, 1859, a meeting of the Society was held, under
the presidency of A. S. Khomyakov.
Tolstoy was present at this meeting and was one of the newly
elected members; and, in accordance with the rules of the Society,
he had to make an inaugural address. In it, as stated in the
records of the Society, he mentioned the advantage of the purely
artistic element in literature over all temporary tendencies.
Unfortunately, this speech has never been preserved. In the
minutes of the sitting it is stated that at first it was resolved
to have the address printed, together with the works of the
Society, but afterward, the works not being published, the speech
was returned to the author, who has probably mislaid it along with
useless papers. [The Moscow Society of Admirers of Russian
Literature, "The Collection of Minutes." One of the few remaining
copies is in the British Museum.]
We can get some idea of this speech from the excellent reply
made by A. S. Khomyakov, which we quote in toto:
The Society of the Admirers of Russian Literature,
in adding you, Count Tolstoy, to the number of its
members, bids you welcome as a worker in the field of
pure art. In your address you defend the tendency of
pure art, placing it above all other temporary and casual
tendencies of literary activity. It would be strange if
the Society did not sympathize with you, but I beg leave
to say that the justice of your views, so skillfully
expounded by you, does not exclude the rights of the
contemporary and the casual in the domain of letters.
That which is always just, that which is always
beautiful, that which is unchangeable like the
fundamental laws of the soul -- that undoubtedly
occupies, and must occupy, the foremost place in the
thoughts, in the impulses, and therefore in the words of
man. That, and that alone, is handed down from
generation to generation, from nation to nation, as a
precious inheritance, always being multiplied and never
forgotten. But, on the other hand, there exists in the
nature of man, and in the nature of society, as I had the
honor to state, a constant demand for self-exposure;
there are moments, important moments, in history when
this self-denunciation acquires special decisive rights,
and comes forward in the domain of letters with greater
precision and greater sharpness.
In the historic process of the life of a nation, the
temporary and the casual acquire the significance of the
universal, of the all-human, if only for the reason that
all generations, all people, can and do understand the
painful cries and the painful confessions peculiar to a
particular generation or a particular people. The rights
of literature, as subordinate to eternal beauty, do not
annihilate the rights of literature as the instrument of
criticism and of the disclosure of human defects, while
at the same time they help to heal social sores. There
is boundless beauty in the serene truth and harmony of
the soul; but there is also true and high beauty in the
penitence which restores truth and guides men or
communities to moral perfection. Let me add that I
cannot share the one-sided views (as they seem to me) of
German aesthetics.
Of course, art is quite free: in itself it finds
its justification and its aim. But freedom of art,
abstractedly understood, has nothing to do with the inner
life of the artist.
The artist is not the theory, not the domain of
thought and intellectual activity: he is a man, and
always a man of his time, usually its best
representative, steeped in its spirit, and that both in
its established and its still developing tendencies.
By the very sensitiveness of his organization,
without which he could not be an artist, he, more than
others, enters into all the painful as well as joyful
sensations of the world which surrounds him.
By always devoting himself to the true and the
beautiful, he involuntarily reflects in word, thought,
and imagination the contemporary epoch in its mixture of
truth, which gladdens a pure heart, and falsehood, which
perturbs its harmonious repose.
Thus flow together the two streams of literature of
which we spoke; thus a writer, a servant of pure art,
becomes at times a trenchant social critic, and that
unwittingly and sometimes even against his will. I beg
leave, Count, to take you as an example. You are
treading the particular path of literary art
unflinchingly and rightly, but are you really quite alien
to the tendency which you call denunciatory literature?
Now in the picture of the consumptive driver dying
on the stove in the midst of a group of comrades, who are
evidently indifferent to his sufferings, is it not
possible that you revealed some social disease, some kind
of vice? In describing this death, did you not feel pain
at the callous indifference of those good-natured but
unawakened human souls? Yes, and therefore you were and
must be an involuntary teacher. I wish you good speed on
the grand path you have chosen.
Success be with you in the future as it has been
hitherto, or let it be still greater, for your gift is
not a transitory gift, not one to be soon exhausted.
But, believe me, in letters the eternal and artistic
constantly absorb the temporary and transient, developing
and ennobling them, and all the various streams of the
domain of human letters constantly flow together, forming
one harmonious current. ["Russian Archive", 1986, No. 11
p491. Article of V. N. Lyaskovskiy, "A.S. Khomyakov:
His Biography and His Teaching."]
The prophecy of Khomyakov was fulfilled. Apart from the
denunicatory element of all Tolstoy's work of the first period,
twenty years later Tolstoy came forward with his own penitence, and
then with his denunciation of contemporary evils. And in this
cause he has concentrated all his powerful artistic gifts.
CHAPTER XII
The Second Journey Aborad -- His Brother's Death
In February 1860, Fet wrote to Tolstoy to consult him as to an
intention which he had of buying some land and devoting himself to
agriculture. Tolstoy's answer was very sympathetic, he approved of
Fet's plans, offered his help, mentioning certain lands for sale,
and after this businesslike part of the letter, of no general
interest, he expressed the following important thoughts about some
works of Turgenev and Ostrovskiy:
I have read "On the Eve". This is my opinion. To
write stories is in general a mistake, and especially so
on the part of those who feel unhappy and do not exactly
know what they desire from life. However, "On the Eve"
is much better than "A Nest of Nobles", and there are in
it excellent negative characters: the artist and the
father. The other characters not only fail to be types,
but their conception, their situation, is not typical, or
else they are quite trivial. However, this is Turgenev's
usual mistake. the young lady is wretchedly drawn:
"Oh,how I love you...she had long eyelashes...." In
general, it always astonishes me in Turgenev that with
his intelligence and poetic sensitiveness he is not able
to avoid insipidity, and that even in his methods. There
is more of this insipidity in his negative methods,
reminding one of Gogol. There isno humanity, no sympathy
with the characters, but monsters are represented whom he
abuses but does not pity. This painfully jars with the
liberal tone and bearing of all the rest. This method
may have been good in times gone by and in those of
Gogol. Besides, one must add that if one does not pity
one's most insignificant characters, then one should cut
them up like mincemeat, or else laugh them down till
one's sides ache; but not treat them as Turgenev does,
filled with spleen and dyspepsia. In general, however,
no one else now could write such a story, although it
will not meet with success.
"The Tempest" by Ostrovskiy is to my mind a pitiful
work, but it will succeed. Neither Ostrovskiy nor
Turgenev is to blame, but the times....Another thing is
now required. It is not for us to learn but to teach
Tommy and Mary at least a little of what we know. Goodby
dear friend.
Tolstoy had arrived at the conclusion that a man endowed with
brains and enriched with knowledge must, before deriving pleasure
from them for himself, give a share in the benefit of them to those
who are deprived of both. Accordingly, he had devoted to the
school the time he had free from his work on the estate. In these
occupations he passed the winter of 1859-60. At the same time,
while doing reading, serious reading, he had come to the following
conclusions:
1st February [1860] -- I have read La degenerescence
de l'esprit humain, and about there being physically a
higher degree of intellectual development. In this
state I mechanically thought of prayer. Prayer to whom?
What! is God conceived so clearly that one can beseech
and communicate with Him? If I do conceive such a one He
loses all magesty for me. A God whom one can beseech and
serve is the expression of the weakness of one's mind.
God is God precisely because I cannot imagine the whole
of His being. Besides, He is not a being but a Law and
a Power.
Let these lines remain as an indication of my
conviction of the power of the mind.
Then he reads Auerbah's storie, "Reynard the Fox" by Goethe,
and finally about the same time he jots down the following thought:
A strange religion is mine and that of our time, the
religion of progress. Who said that progress was good?
It is merely the absence of faith and the striving after
lines of activity -- represented as faith. Man requires
an impulse - Schwung -- Yes, that is it.
These thoughts were fully developed in his educational works,
as we shall see later on, and also in the self-analysis contained
in his confession quoted above.
Tolstoy's friends were watching his literary career with
intense interest, treating condescendingly and half-jokingly "the
foolishness and eccentricity", as they called them, of those
manifestations of the deep inner growth in Tolstoy, which most of
them wholly failed to understand.
Thus, Botkin casually wrote to Fet on March 6, 1860:
I learned with joy from Turgenev's letter that
Tolstoy has again set to work at his Caucasian novel. He
may play the fool as long as he likes, still I maintain
he is a man with great gifts. Any portion of his
foolishness is of more value to me than the wisest acts
of others. [A. Fet, "My Reminiscences, Part I" p324]
Turgenev's attitude was the same: here is part of his letter
to Fet of the same year:
But Lev Tolstoy still goes on in his queer way.
Such is evidently his destiny. When will he make his
last somersault and stand on his feet? [A. Fet, "My
Reminiscences, Part I" p325]
In the spring of 1860, Fet and his wife paid their usual visit
at Yasnaya Polyana on their way from town to the country Fet made
a short not of his stay there on this occasion.
Of course, we could not refuse ourselves the
pleasure of spending a couple of days in Yasnaya Polyana,
where to add to our joy, we found dear N. N. Tolstoy, who
for his original Oriental wisdom has earned the nickname
of Firdusi. How many delightful plans of staying in the
gable in Yasnaya Polyana were discussed in great detail
by us during those two days! It did not occur to any one
of us how unsound all those plans were.
Further on, Fet tells of the coming of Nikolay Tolstoy to
their place:
Once Nikolay Tolstoy arrived here in the middle of
May and told us that his sister Marie Tolstaya and his
brothers had persuaded him to go abroad on account of his
unbearable fits of coughing. He was very thin at this
time, apart from his usual slimness. From time to time
in his good-natured laughter could be heard that note of
irritability which is habitual with consumptive people.
I remember how he once got angry and pulled his hand from
the coachman, who had tried to kiss it. True, he said
nothing in the presence of the serf, but when the latter
went out to see to the horses, he began to complain with
annoyance in his voice to me and Borisov: "What made the
idiot kiss my hand? It never happened before." [A. Fet,
"My Reminiscences, Part I" p326]
Since we have to speak of Tolstoy's relations to his brother
during his life and at his death, it may be well to quote Fet's
character sketch of this remarkable man:
Count N. N. Tolstoy, who called on us almost every
evening, used to bring with him a moral interest and
vivacity, which it is difficult to describe in a few
words. At that time he was still wearing his uniform as
an artillery officer, and it was sufficient to give a
glance at his thin hands, his great thoughtful eyes and
hollow cheeks to be convinced that cruel consumption had
laid its merciless hold on this good natured and kindly
humorous man. Unfortunately, this remarkable man, of
whom to say that he was loved by those who knew him is
not enough, for they simply worshipped him, this man,
while in the Caucasus, had acquired that habit of
indulgence in alcoholic liquors which at that time was
common among officers. Though I afterwart knew N.
Tolstoy intimately and spent with him much time in far
off hunting fields, where it would have been easier to
drink than at evening parties, yet during our three
years' friendship I never noticed the slightest symptom
of his being overcome by wine or spirits. He would sit
in an armchair close to the table and sip his tea with
some cognac added to it. Being of a very modest
disposition, he needed a great deal of questioning to
make him talk. But once launched on any subject, he
would reveal all the acutness and mirth of his kind-
hearted sense of humor. He evidently adored his youngest
borther Lev. But one had to hear how ironically he
described his society adventures. He could so definitely
separate what is the real substance of life from its
gauzy outer seeming, that he treated with equal irony the
higher and lower strata of Caucasian life. The
celebrated hunter of the sect of old believers, Uncle
Epishka (in Tolstoy's "Cossacks" Yeroshka), was evidently
discovered and defined with the mastery of an artist by
N. Tolstoy. [A. Fet, "My Reminiscences, Part I" p217]
N. N. Tolstoy wrote very little. We only know of his "Memoirs
of a Sportsman."
E. Garshin in his "Reminiscences of Turgenev" quotes the
following opinion of his concerning N. Tolstoy:
The humility of life [said Turgenev] which was
theoretically worked out by Lev Tolstoy, was really
practised by his brother. He always lived somewhere in
the outskirts of Moscow, in poor lodgings were were more
like a hut, and gladly shared what he had with the
poorest man. He was a delightful character and a good
story-teller, but writing was almost physically
impossible for him. The very process of writing was a
difficulty with him, just as it is with a laborer whose
hands are so roughened by work that he can scarcely hold
the pen between his fingers. [E. Garshin, "Reminiscences
of Turgenev" Historical Review, November 1883.]
To the general joy of his friends, N. Tolstoy's journey abroad
was actually settled. This joy, however, was of short duration.
He levt Russia via St. Petersburg with his brother Sergey.
Turgenev, who had a strong regard for him, felt very anxious
and wrote to Fet fromSodene on June 1, 1860:
What you tell me of Nikolay Tolstoy's illness
grieves me deeply. Is it possible that this dear, good
fellow must perish? How could any one neglect such an
illness? Is it possible that he did not try to overcome
his indolence and go abroad for his health? He used to
travel to the Caucasus in most infernally uncomfortable
vehicles. Why not make him come to Sodene? One meets
here dozens of sufferers from chest complaints: the
Sodene waters are almost the best, if not the best for
such cases. I say all this to you at a distance of two
thousand versts, as if my words were of some help....If
Tolstoy has not yet started, he will not go....This is
how fate plays with us all. [A. Fet, "My Reminiscences,
Part I", pp 328, 329]
He repeats the same in the postscript of the same letter:
If N. Tolstoy has not yet gone, throw yourself at
his feet and implore him, then drive him by force abroad.
The air here, for instance, is so mild, nothing of the
kind exists in Russia. [Ibid]
Of course Tolstoy was very much alarmed by his brother's
illness. Here is a letter written about that time by him to Fet,
in which, besides his anxiety about his brother, he expressed
certain views on agricultural work:
...That besides your literary work you wish to find
a place on the earth and burrow about in it like an ant -
- such an idea was not only bound to suggest itself to
you, but you are sure to realize it better than myself,
being, as you are, a good man with a healthy outlook on
life. However, it is not for me at the present moment to
patronizingly approve or disapprove of you, for I am
burdened with a sense of great inconsistency. Farming in
the big way I am doing, oppresses me; personal labor on
the land I can only as yet contemplate at a distance. On
the other hand, I am oppressed by family worries, the
illness of Nikolenka, of whom there is yet no news from
abroad, and the departure of my sister in three days'
time depress me. In general, I feel undone. Owing to my
sister's helplessness and the desire to see Nikolas, I
will tomorrow procure a passport for abroad and will
perhaps accompany them, especially if I do not get any
news or get bad news from Nikolas.
At that time a pause ensued in the literary activity of both
Tolstoy and his friend Fet, who, though feebly, yet accurately
reflected the inner process going on in Tolstoy's life.
The following are examples of the well-reasoned letters
written by Druzhinin to Tolstoy and Fet, inciting them to literary
work. His letter to Tolstoy is particularly interesting:
I hasten, my amiable friend Tolstoy, to answer your
letter concerning your attitude to literature. As you
will probably understand, every writer is attacked by
moments of doubt and dissatisfaction with himself; it
does not matter how strong and natural this feeling is,
nobody relinquishes literature in consequence, but all
write on till the end of life. But all your good and
evil impulses stick to you with peculiar tenacity, and
therefore you are more bound to think over it than
anybody else, and you should consider the whole matter in
a genial manner.
In the first place, remember that compared with the
labor of poetry and thought, all other labors seem
trivial. Qui a bu, boira, and for a writer to give up
his activity at the age of thirty means depriving himself
of one-half of all the interests of life. And this is
only one of the difficulties of the matter; there is much
of wider significance.
CHAPTER 13
After his return from abroad, Tolstoy passed through St.
Petersburg. In the beginning of May [1861], he was in Moscow, and
soon afterward in Yasnaya Polyana.
Russian was then celebrating the coming of a new era, the
liberation of the peasantry from serfdom.
All those who were honest, educated, and of progressive
opinions turned their energy in the direction of social reform.
One of the first among them was Lev Tolstoy.
With the beginning of social work his life became so many-
sided that one must turn away from the strict chronology of the
story and give a parallel description of his principal kinds of
contemporary activity. Every direction that his labors took was
connected with facts of his personal and family life.
At the beginning of the 1860s, the social activity of Tolstoy
manifested itself chiefly in two spheres: in the administrative as
a peace mediator, and in the ducational as a teacher, organizer of
peasant schools, and educational writer.
We intend to give a description of both branches of activity,
but before that it is necessary to narrate some facts of Tolstoy's
personal life.
On his return home, he hastened to call on his good neighbors,
Fet and Turgenev. A correspondence ensued between them. Turgenev
wrote to Fet from Spasskoye:
[Turgenev writes to Fet} Fetti carissime! I send you
a note from Tolstoy, to whom I wrote today asking him to
come at the beginning of next week without fail, so that
we might together invade you in hour Stepanovka while the
nightingales are still singing and the spring smiles
"bright, beatific--impartial." Expect me at the end of
next week in any case, and till then be quite well, don't
worry, and throw, if only a one-eyed glance, at your
orphan muse.
The letter contained the following note from Tolstoy:
I embrace you from all my heart, dear friend, for
your letter and your friendship, and for your being Fet.
Turgenev I would like to see, but you ten times more. It
is so long since we have seen each other, and so much has
happened to both of us since. I am very glad about your
farming operations when I hear and think of them, and I
am a little proud that I have, in at least a small
measure, contributed toward them. We both of us are in
a position to understand the advantage. A friend is a
good thing to have; yet he may die, may for one reason or
other go away, or one may be unable to keep up with him.
But nature is still better...she is cold and difficult to
deal with, and important and exacting, but then she is
such a friend! One cannot lose her untiil death, and
when one dies, one is absorbed in her. I now, however,
associate less with this friend, I have other interests
which engage me; and yet, without the consciousness that
this friend is here at hand, and that were one to stumble
one could catch hold of her -- life would be a sad thing
....
[Fet writes in his "Reminiscences"] In spite of
these kind promises, a carriage appearing at the coppice
and turning from the crossing to our porch was a surprise
to us, and we were delighted to embrace Turgenev and
Tolstoy. The few buildings on our estate at the time
made Turgenev exclaim in wonder, spreading out his large
hands: "We look and look, where is Stepanovka, but in
reality we see a greasy pancake and on it a lump, and
this is Stepanovka."
When the visitors had rested a little from their
journey, and the hostess had made use of the two hours
before dinner to give it a more substantial and cheering
appearance, we plunged into a most lively conversation,
such as can be held only among men not wearied by life.
[A. Fet, "My Reminiscences, Part I" p368]
During this visit, an unfortunate event occurred -- the
quarrel between Turgenev and Tolstoy. It is very fully described
by Fet, from whom we borrow the greater part of the description,
adding a few corrections and filling some gaps, in accordance with
new materials at our disposal.
[Fet writes] In the morning at the usual time, i.e.,
about eight o'clock, our visitors came down to the dining
room in which my wife was sitting at the samovar at one
end of the table and I at the other, waiting for my
coffee, Turgenev at the right and Tolstoy at the left of
the hostess.
Being aware of the importance which Turgenev
attached to his daughter's education, my wife inquired
whether he was pleased with his English governess.
Turgenev showered praises on the governess and among
other things related that the governess, with truly
English practicality, asked Turgenev to fix a sum of
money which his daughter could use for charitable
purposes. "Now," said Turgenev, "the governess requests
my daughter to take the old clothes of the poor and after
mending them herself, to return them to the owners."
"And do you consider this right?" asked Tolstoy.
"Of course I do; it brings the charitable person
nearer to real want."
"And I think that a richly dressed girl who
manipulates dirty, ill-smelling rags is acting a false
and theatrical farce."
"I beg you not to say this," exclaimed Turgenev, his
nostrils dilating.
"Why should not I say what I am convinced of?"
answered Tolstoy.
Turgenev said: "Then you think that I do not bring
up my daughter properly?"
Tolstoy's answer to this was that he thought what he
said, and without venturing upon personalities, expressed
his thoughts. [Memoirs of Countess S. A. Tolstaya]
Fet had not time to cry out to Turgenev to desist when, pale
with wrath the latter said: "If you persist in speaking in this
way, I will box your ears." With these words he left the table,
and, catching hold of his head in great excitement, stepped into
the next room. He came back a second after and said, turning to
Fet's wife: "For God's sake, forgive my hasty action, which I
deeply repent."
He then left the room again. After this, the visitors took
their leave.
At the first halting place from Novoselkiy, the property of P.
N. Borisov, Tolstoy sent a letter to Turgenev with a demand for
satisfaction. then he went on further to Boguslav, the halting
place half way between Bet's estate and his own estate Nikolskoye.
He sent for pistols and bullets to Nikolskoye and without waiting
for an answer to his first letter, sent a second one with a
challenge.
In this letter to Turgenev, he said that he did not care to
fight in a vulgar manner, that is to say, when two authors come
with a third one, with pistols, and the duel ends in champagne-
drinking -- he wanted to fight in real earnest, and he asked
Turgenev to come to the frontier with pistols.
Tolstoy spent a sleepless night waiting for an answer.
At last came a letter -- Turgenev's answer to the first
letter. Turgenev wrote:
[Turgenev writes] L.N. Tolstoy. Dear Sir -- In
answer to yours, I can only repeat what I considered it
my duty to declar at Fet's house. being carried away by
a feeling of animosity which I could not help, and the
causes of which it is useless to enter into, I offended
you without any positive provocation on your part, and I
asked pardon for it. What happened this morning shows
clearly that all attempts at rapprochement between such
different natures as mine and yours will lead to no good,
and I do my duty to you the more willingly as this letter
will probably be the last sign of any relations between
us. With all my heart I trust it will satisfy you, and
I give my consent before hand to any use you may care to
make of it.
With my respects, I have the honor to remain your
faithful servant, Iv. Turgenev. Spasskoye, May 27,
1861.
A postscript followed the same day.
[Turgenev writes] 10 o'clock p.m. Ivan Petrovich
has just brought me back my letter, which my servant sent
by mistake to Novoselkiy instead of forwarding it to
Boguslav. I earnestly beg you to forgive this unexpected
and disagreeable misadventure. I hope my messenger will
still find you in Boguslav.
Tolstoy wrote to Fet, probably on the same day:
[Tolstoy writes] I could not refrain from opening
yet another letter from Turgenev in answer to mine. I
wish you all that is good in your relations with this
man, but I despise him. I have written to him and how
have nothing more to do with him, except so far as,
should he desire it, to give him satisfaction.
Notwithstanding all my apparent indifference, I did not
feel at my ease, and I felt that I ought to demand from
Turgenev a more positive apology, which I did in my
letter from Novoselkiy. Here is his answer, which I
accepted as satisfactory, merely answering that the
grounds upon which I excuse him are not opposite features
in our characters, but -- such as he can himself
understand.
Besides this, owing to his delay, I have sent
another letter in rather harsher terms and with a
challenge: to this I have received no answer, but, if I
do receive one, I will send it to you unopened. So this
is the end of an unfortunate business; if it gets beyond
the threshold of your house, please let it pass with this
accompaniment.
Meanwhile, Turgenev thus answered his challenge:
[Turgenev writes] Your servant says that you desire
to receive an answer to your letter, but I don't see what
I can add to what I have sais already. Maybe when I
acknowledge your right to deman satisfaction by arms, you
will prefer to be satisfied with my expressed and
repeated apology. As to that, it is for you to choose.
I can without affectation that I would willingly face
your fire in order to wipe out the effect of my really
insane words. The fact of my saying what I did is so
foreign to the habits of all my life that I can ascribe
it to nothing but the irritation caused by the extreme
and constant antagonism of our views. This is not an
apology, I mean, not justification, but an explanation.
Such incidents being ineffaceable and irreparable, I
consider it my duty, in parting from you forever, to
repeat once more that in this affair you were right and
I was wrong. Let me add, that it is no question of my
willingness or unwillingness to show myself a brave man
simply, but whether I acknowledge your right to challenge
me to a duel -- according to usual formalities, of
course, i.e., with seconds -- as well as to forgive me.
You have chosen what you prefer, and to me remains to
abide by your decision.
Again, allow me to assure you of my respect. Iv.
Turgenev.
In his desire to reconcile his friends, Fet very likely
attempted something of the kind, judging by the following extract
from his memoirs:
[Fet writes] L. Tolstoy has sent me the following
note:
Turgenev...which I beg you to transmit to him as
accurately as you transmit to me his nice utterances,
notwithstanding my repeated requests not to speak of him.
Count L. Tolstoy
And I beg you yourlesf not to write to me any more,
as I will not open your letters, any more than those of
Turgenev.
I need not say [remarks Fet] that I did my best to
bring the affair, which unfortunately occurred in my
house, to a clear issue. For this purpose I went to
Spasskoye.
I remember the indesbribably sarcastic mood of the
immortal Turgenev. "What an unheard-of idea," he
exclaimed, "to demand that all shall be of our opinion,
and, if that cannot be, to demand a formal apology and
conclude the matter with pistols." So said the uncle to
me, but what he said to Ivan Sergeyich I don't know. As
to my efforts to patch up the affair, then ended, as one
sees, in a formal rupture with Tolstoy, and at the
present moment I cannot remember how our friendly
relations were renewed. [A. Fet, "My Reminiscences, Vol.
I" p368]
Some time elapsed, says the Countess S. A. Tolstaya, and while
in Moscow, Tolstoy was one day in one of those charming moods which
sometimes came over him, full of humility and love, and wishing and
striving for the good and great. While in this mood he could not
bear to have an enemy. Therefore he wrote a letter to Turgenev on
September 25th [1861], in which he expressed his regret that their
relations were hostile. "If I offended you," he wrote, "forgive
me; I am very unhappy to know I have an enemy."
This letter was sent to the bookseller Davidov, who had
business transactions with Turgenev. For some reason it was not
delivered to Turgenev in time, and meanwhile he was alarmed by
certain silly rumors, which he thus related to Fed in his letter of
November 8th [1861] from Paris:
[Turgenev writes to Fet] Byb the by, one more tale
the last one, concerning the unfortunate affair with
Tolstoy. On my way through St. Petersburg, I heard from
"reliable people" (Oh, those reliable people!) that
copies of the last letter of Tolstoy to me, the one in
which he "despises" me are circulating all over Moscow,
and that these copies are spread about by Tolstoy
himself. This made me very angry, and I have sent him a
challenge from here for the time of my return to Russia.
Tolstoy replied that the circulation of copies is a sheer
fiction, and at the same time enclosed a letter in which
he asked forgiveness and renounced his challenge. Of
courst this must put an end to the affair, and I only ask
you to inform him (for he writes that my address to him
on my part he would consider an offence) that I renounce
my challenge and so on, and I hope that all this is
buried forever. His letter (the apologetic one) I
destroyed, but the other one, which according to him had
been sent through the bookseller Davidov, I have not
received at all. And now to all this affair de
profundis. [A. Fet, "My Reminiscences, Vol. I" p368]
We find the following note in Tolstoy's diary about this
letter from Turgenev to Tolstoy:
[Tolstoy writes in his diary] October. Yesterday
I received a letter from Turgenev in which he accuses me
of telling peole that he is a coward, and he says that I
distribute copies of my letter. I wrote to him that this
was nonsense, and I also sent him a letter saying "You
call my action dishonorable, and you desire to give me a
regular slap in the face, but I regard myself as to
blame, I beg your pardon and retract my challenge.
[Countess Tolstaya writes in her memoirs] This
letter was written under the impulse of the idea that if
Turgenev is devoid of the sense of personal honor and
needs honor before the public, he may use this letter;
but that he (Tolstoy) is above it and despises public
opinion. Turgenev was weak enough to agree to it, and he
replied that he considered himself satisfied.
In another letter to Fet of January 7, 1862, Turgenev writes
about the same:
[Turgenev writes to Fet] and now, to ask a plain
question: have you seen Tolstoy? Only today have I got
the letter he sent me in September through the bookstores
of Davidov (the punctuality of Russian tradesmen is
remarkable indeed!). In this letter he speaks of his
intention to offend me, apologizes, etc. But almost at
the same time, in consequence of different gossip, of
which, I believe, I informed you, I had sent him my
chellenge, etc. All this drives one to the conclusion
that our constellations move discordantly in the ether,
and it would be best for us, as he proposes, not to meet.
But you may write or tell him (when you see him) that
without phrases and witticisms, I like him very much at
a distance, I respect him and watch his career with
sympathy, but when we come together everything takes a
different aspect. It cannot be helped! We must go on
living as if we existed on different planets or in
different ages. [A. Fet, "My Reminiscences" p384]
Probably Fet said something to Tolstoy in the way of a message
from Turgenev and again caused irritation against himself, of which
he informed Turgenev, for the latter wrote to him, among other
things, the following:
[Turgenev writes to Fet] Paris, January 14, 1862.
Dearest Afanasiy Afanasyevich -- In the first place I
feel it necessary to apologize to you for the utterly
unexpected tile (Tuile, as the French have it) which fell
on your head because of my letter. It is a slight
consolation to me that I could not foresee such a sally
from Tolstoy, but intended it all for the best. It
proves, however, that it is a wound not to be touched at
all. Once more please forgive my involuntary sin. [A.
Fet, "My Reminiscences" p384]
With this we may wind up the narrative of a deplorable
incident, which like a clap of thunder discharged the tension of
the atmosphere between the two great men and perhaps helped
afterward to bring them together on a more sincere and sounder
basis.
We must add that the description of this matter in Garshin's
"Reminiscences of Turgenev," printed in the "Historical Review" for
November 1883, is full of misstatements as to place and time and
was probably not gathered from first-hand sources.
In 1861 and 1862 Tolstoy occupied the post of a Peace Mediator
of the fourth section of the Krapivenskiy District. His employment
in this capacity is hardly known in literature -- fortunately its
memory is still green among some contemporaries, who were at that
time intimate with him. Their remarks are undoubtedly of great
interest.
The reputation which Tolstoy won as a manager of his own
estate on new principles, i.e., those of one who does not oppress
and sweat his peasants, had almost proved an obstacle to his
getting the above-mentioned appointment. Correspondence passed and
information was given in a sense unfavorable to him in reference to
the post. We give here the more important extracts from the
material in our possession concerning this affair. The Marshal of
Nobility of the province, V. P. Minin, wrote to the Minister of the
Interior, Valuyev, complaining of the Governor of Tula province
Lunskoy for having appointed Tolstoy Peace Mediator. These were
his words:
[Marshal of Nobility writes to Minister of the
Interior] Being aware of a hostile attitude to him on
the part of the Krapivenskiy Nobility, due to his
management of his own estate, the Marshal is afraid lest,
with the Count's appointment to the post, some unpleasant
conflicts may take place, which may hinder the peaceful
settlement of such an important matter.
Then the Marshal pointed out the transgression by the Governor
of certain formalities as regards the appointment, hoping that
these might serve to annul it.
The Minister of the Interior replied to the Marshal of
Nobility that there must be some misunderstanding, and he would
write about it to the Governor.
In reply to the Minister's inquiry, the Governor sent the
following interesting confidential report, which shows that at the
time the high official spheres marched in advance of Russian
society, which had not yet awakened to the situation:
[Governor of Tula province writes to the Minister of
the Interior] (Confidential) To this I have the honor
to add, that what gave rise to the present correspondence
may be the appointment of Count L. Tolstoy as a Peace
Mediator of the Krapivenskiy district, contrary to the
opinion of the Marshals of Nobility, both of the province
and the district, who object to his election on the
alleged ground that he is disliked by the local nobility.
Being acquainted with Count Tolstoy, and knowing him
for a well-educated man and one in great sympathy with
the present reform, and taking also into consideration
the expressed desire of some landowners of the
Krapivenskiy district to have him as their Peace
Mediator, I cannot replace hiim by another person quite
unknown to me. The more so as Count Tolstoy was pointed
out to me by your Excellency's predecessor [Lanskoy],
among other persons, as one enjoying the best reputation.
Lieutenant-General Darogan.
After this followed the confirmation of the appointment as
Peace Mediator by the Senate.
Interesting papers have lately appeared relating to Tolstoy's
activity as Peace Mediator.
These materials throw a new light on his personal character,
as in all the suits of which records are produced he appears as a
true champion of the peasants against the harsh tyranny of the
landowners and police officers, and one may easily believe that the
fears of the Marshal of the Nobility were not without foundation.
Out of the fifteen suits quoted in those papers, we will
choose the most characteristic.
In one case, the landowner, one Mme. Artyukhova, complained of
her late house servant, Makr Grigoryev, that he had left her,
considering himself a "free man".
On this Tolstoy wrote:
[Tolstoy, as Peace Mediator, writes] Makr can go
away immediately with his wife wherever he likes, in
virtue of my orders. I beg you (1) to compensate him for
the three months and a half he has worked for you
illegally since the announcement of the Act, and (2) to
compensate his wife for the assault upon her, which was
still more illegal. If you are dissatisfied with my
resolution, you have a right to lodge a complaint with
the Assembly of the Justices of the Peace and with the
Council of the Province. I can give you no further
explanations. With my best respects, I remain, yours
faithfully, Count L. Tolstoy.
Mme. Artyukhova lodged a complaint before the Assembly of
Peace Mediators. As the Assembly consisted of Peace Mediators who
disapproved of Tolstoy's proceedings, they set aside his decision
in this case, as in many others, and they forwarded the case to the
Provincial Court. Fortunately, his course was there viewed wity
sympathy, and his decision in this case, as in many others, was
confirmed.
So Mark Grigoryev was set free and his wife was compensated
for the assault committed by Mme. Artyukhova.
An interesting affair is the case of the damage done by
peasants to a field belonging to one Mikhailovskiy.
The peasants tilled the landowner's field, and during their
rest allowed the horses to graze in the meadow of a neighboring
landowner. The latter complained to Tolstoy. Tolstoy first asked
the landowner to forgive the peasants this trespass, hoping
probably thus to improve the relations between the landowner and
the peasants, who had cause to complain of him. The landowner
refused to overlook the damage done, and he requested an assessment
of it to be made and the fine to be paid to him, claiming that it
should be eighty rubles.
A long correspondence arose out of this case. The landowner
Mikhailovskiy, in complaining to the Assembly of Peace Mediators,
described Tolstoy's action in this way:
[Landowner Mikhailovskiy writes] Hereupon Count Tolstoy
arrived at the village Panino, invited three peasants of
the nearest village, Borodino, as referees, and they went
together to the damaged meadow. The referees to whom he
proposed to assess the damages due for the meadow
declared that about three desyatins [a desyatin is about
three acres] of the meadow had been damaged, and the fine
they considered right would be ten rubles per desyatin.
To this Count Tolstoy did not agree and proposed to them
to make it only five rubles. The referees did not
contradict Count Tolstoy, and so the case of the Panino
peasants damaging the landowner's meadows was settled by
Tolstoy in this way, that the peasants had to pay the
landowner Mikhailovskiy for the three desyatins five
rubles each.
Considering this and other proceedings of Count Tolstoy to be
illegal, Mikhailovskiy said:
I am firmly convinced that a just Government, in its
solicitude for the improvement of the stauts of the
peasants, would not allow that such improvement and
enrichment of the peasants should be carried out in this
manner put in practice by the Peace Mediator, Count
Tolstoy.
The District Assembly of the Justices, in view of
Mikhailovskiy's petition, requested an explanation from tolstoy,
but in a paper under No. 323, of September 16, 1861, he replied
that "he did not think it necessary to give any information as
regards the petition of Mikhailovskiy, in virtue of paragraphs 29,
31, and 32 of the regulation Act in connection with the courts of
peasants' affairs. The resolution passed in this case by the
District Assembly, and presented to the Provincial Assembly, was
dismissed by the latter without any written report, with the
following remark: "To be added to the case."
Another case, slight as it is, shows us clearly how far
Tolstoy was from having selfish aims in all these proceedings, and
how ready he was to acknowledge a mistake of his own, being guided
in his actions only by a sincere wish for justice.
A certain Mme. Zaslonina, a landowner, complained of Tolstoy
to the Assembly for having issued a leave-of-absence passport to
her house serf. Tolstoy was present at the examination into the
affair, and he owned that he committed a blunder and offered to
cimpensate the lady for the loss she had suffered.
However, these affairs did not all end in such a satisfactory
manner for Tolstoy, as, in making himself the champion of the
people's right, he had to face a whole party of serfowners who
firmly stuck to their old customs and privileges. Thus the
landowner Ossipovich and his former serfs had a dispute as follows:
Part of the village had been burned and the landowner would not
allow the peasants to build on the same spot but requested them to
move their homesteads, refusing at the same time to give them
proper allowance for new buildings and to free them from obligatory
work and give them the time necessary for restoring their ruined
homes.
Toldtoy could see that on the one hand, the demands of the
peasants were reasonable, but on the other he knew the pitiful
situation of the ruined small landowner, and he did not think him
able to satisfy the demands of the peasants. He appealed therefore
to the nobles of the district to help their colleague to extricate
his needy peasants out of the difficulty or simply to help the
peasants directly. Both his proposals were dismissed, and the
peasants were urged to comply with all the demands of their
landowner.
The suit dragged on for some time, going from one court of
justice to another. Tolstoy saw that the case would be decided
against the peasants and that his opinion would be disregarded. He
then protested again, and when during the hearing of the case
before the Assembly he saw that the members of the tribunal
intentionally misrepresented the affair, he left the Assembly
without signing the resolutions relating to cases which had been
heard in his presence, being determined to exhaust all means to
procure a decision in the peasants' favor. The Assembly lodged a
complaint against him with the Provincial Assembly, but this
complaint met with no attention.
Again we see how Kostomarov got possession of the peasants
holdings by declaring them to be his house servants; that is to
say, to belong to a section of the peasants whom the new law did
not provide with land. Tolstoy took their part, and after many
trials he succeeded in securing their holdings for them.
The poorer landowners resorted to all sorts of subterfuges in
order to give to the peasants the smaller allotments of land, and
that of the worst quality. As soon as Tolstoy noticed this
tendency, he refused to confirm the charters regulating the mutual
relations of landowners and peasants, and he tried his best to
annul them.
We need hardly say that Tolstoy's sympathy for the peasants
was exceedingly distasteful to the landowners. They proclaimed
that Tolstoy had thrown a seed of discord between the landowners
and the peasantry, and had finally destroyed the patriarchal
relations between them; that he was provoking rebellion among the
peasants, who were encouraged by him to commit many unlawful acts;
that even the officials of the peasants' administrations, in order
to ingratiate themselves with Tolstoy, did not perform the duties
imposed upon them by the law, so that the result was perfect
anarchy in the villages and innumerable irregularities such as
staling, lawlessness, and so forth.
Of course, Tolstoy's proceedings as Peace Mediator made the
peasants put implicit confidence in him, and this annoyed the
landowners still more, so that he was faced with growing
difficulties in his task, and had soon to cease his efforts in the
hard struggle.
He felt, in fact, very much dissatisfied. As early as July
1861 he wrote in his diary:
[Tolstoy writes] The post of arbitrator has given me
little material for observation and has definitely
spoiled my relations with the landowners, besides
upsetting my health.
On February 12, 1862, Tolstoy wrote to the provincial Court of
Justice on peasant affairs:
[Tolstoy writes] As the appeals against my decisions
which have been made to the Provincial Court have no
valid ground, and yet these cases and many others have
been and are still being decided against my opinion, so
that almost every judgment pronounced in the district
under my charge is set aside and even the Starshinas
[elected peasant officials over groups of villages] are
removed by the Court of Arbitrators, under such
circumstances, giving rise to a want of confidence in the
arbitrator on the part of both peasants and landowners,
it becomes not only useless but impossible for the
arbitrator to continue to act. I respectfully request
the Provincial Court to have the above-mentioned appeals
investigated by one of its members, and at the same time
I find myself obliged to inform the provincial Court that
until such investigation takes place, I do not think it
convenient to carry on my duties and have therefore
transferred them to a deputy.
It was on March 9th that Tolstoy had accepted the office of
Peace Mediator, but he only performed his duties up to April 30th,
when under the pretext of illness, he handed them over to the
eldest candidate for that post in the 4th Division. The Senate at
last informed the Governor of Tula on May 26th, in a document No.
24,124, that a resolution had been passed to discharge the
artillery lieutenant, Count Lev Tolstoy, on the grounds of ill
health, from the duties of Peace Mediator of the Krapivenskiy
District and that this had been confirmed by the Imperial Senate.
[Footnote: D.T. Uspenskiy, "Archive Materials for the Biography of
Count L. N. Tolstoy", "Russian Thought", 1903, vol. ix.]
The following story, taken from the biography of Loewenfeld,
shows how groundless were the assertions of the landowners as to
Tolstoy's favoritism toward the peasants. One can see from it that
Tolstoy had defended the demands of the landowners with equal
fairness when he considered them just.
[From Lowenfeld's biography of Tolstoy] A witness of
Tolstoy's proceedings as a Peace Mediator, a German from
the Baltic Provinces and bailiff of a landowner in the
Tuls Province, had occasion to call upon him on a matter
of business at Yasnaya Polyana on his patron's belhaf.
What gave occasion to the visit was a disagreement on
certain points relating to peasant allotments. This
could only be settled on the spot, and the Peace Mediator
therefore went in April to the estate of his neighbor,
accompanied by a peasant boy of twelve years of age --
his little land surveyor, as the Count jokingly called
him, because he always carried with him the measuring
chain. Tolstoy received a peasant deputation, consisting
of two elders and one member of the village council, who
came to see him to talk over the matter.
"Well, friends, what do you want?" said Tolstoy.
The delegates stated the request of the village.
Instead of the pasture ground appointed to them, they
wanted another piece of land so as to increase their
allotment.
"I am very sorry, but I cannot do as you wish," said
the Count. "If I did so, I should cause a great loss to
your landlord," and he proceeded to explain quietly the
position of the matter.
"Well, arrange it somehow, little father," said one
of the delegates.
"No, I can do nothing," repeated the Count.
The peasants exchanged glances, scratched their
heads, and persisted, saying: "Do it somehow, little
father."
"If you only would, little father," continued the
spokesman, "you are sure to be able to manage it."
The other two delegates nodded their heads
approvingly.
The Count crossed himself and said: "In the name of
holy God, I swear that I cannot help you."
But even after this the peasants still repeated, "Do
it somehow, little father, be so kind," the count turned
in vexation to the bailiff and said: "One may be an
Amphion and move mountains and forests sooner than
convince these peasants.
During the whole interview, which lasted about an
hour, says our authority, the Count was the
personification of patience and friendliness. The
obstinacy of the peasants did not draw a harsh word from
him. [G. Lowenfeld, Count Tolstoy, his Life and Works,
p228]
The memoirs of a friend and relative of Tolstoy, Prince
Dmitriy Dmitriyevich Obolenskiy, refer to the same period:
[Obolenskiy writes] "In 1861, new elections took
place in Tula, and there was to be a dinner in honor of
those Peace Mediators who took part in the elections. In
the very same reception hall where Volotskiy and Prince
Cherkasskiy had quarrelled and were on the point of
fighting a duel about something connected with the
peasant question, Volotskiy first expressed his sympathy
with Cherkasskiy as his colleague, also a Peace Mediator
... this dinner was memorable to me. My uncle, T. A.
Rayevskiy, as the oldest man present, was chairman. Some
of the landowners subscribed to the dinner, and, of
course, I was one of the company. I had to sit next to
Count L. N. Tolstoy, a Peace Mediator at the time, whom
I then knew very well.
The first toast was naturally to the Tsar-Liberator,
and it was received with great enthusiasm.
"I drink to it with particular pleasure," said Count
Tolstoy to me. "No other toasts are needed, for in truth
it is to the Emperor only that we owe the emancipation."
However, other toasts followed. Especially
successful was the toast proposed by P. F. Samarin to the
Russian people -- a very awkward subject at the time.
But Petr Fedorovich had cleverly pointed out in his
speech that almost everywhere in the Tula Province the
relations with the peasants were on a very good foothin,
because the landowners, having used their power
moderately, the relations in question always had been
good and at present were still better than before. And
this was true: the reform went off peacefully in our
province, as compared with others.
In the year of the abolition of serfdom, Count
Tolstoy started his school in Yasnaya Polyana, in which
I took great interest. I was in the habit of visiting
the Count pretty often, and sometimes in the winter I
would go out hunting with him, stopping for rest in
places a long way off. I have had delightful times with
him. Who would recognize in the present venerable
philosopher the reckless sportsman who used to leap
ditches and ravines with great agility and to spend days
at a distance? It is difficult to imagine a better
companion. But I believe the Count was a poor Peace
Mediator, because of his absence of mind. I very well
remember the first charger of regulations coming from
him. It had been subscribed in this way:
"At the request of So-and-so, because of their
illiteracy, the house serf So-and-so signed the charger
of regulations. No name was added. Just as the Count
dictated: "Write, I have signed for So-and-so," the
house-serf had written word for word, not mentioning the
name either of the peasant or his owner. And the Count,
without reading what the house serf had written, sent off
the charter, duly sealed, to the Provincial Court. My
stepfather, who was then a member of the Court, and at
whose house I lived, received this charter. He only
shrugged his shoulders over such a document. [Prince
Obolenskiy, "Reminiscences," "The Russian Archive,"
1894.]
Tolstoy proved incapable in chancellor's office work, but his
heart and brain worked well as Peace Mediator, and he has left kind
memories of his activity in this direction. But he had greater
success, though he met with no fewer obstacles, in the matter of
education, which we treat in the following chapters.
CHAPTER 14
Tolstoy had several times started on educational work.
As far back as 1849, when he returned to Yasnaya Polyana from
St. Petersburg, along with other institutions and reforms by means
of which he tried to approach the people, he established a school
for peasant children. From his "A Russian Proprietor" we know how
unsuccessful these first attempts were. With his departure for the
Caucasus, the school was closed. He reopened it on his return to
Yasnaya Polyana after his resignation and his first journey abroad,
as was mentioned in the proper place.
On recommencing his school work, Tolstoy soon realized his
lack of theoretical knowledge and hastened to fill the void in his
education by reading, foreign travel, personal relations with
prominent educationists, and practical work in different schools.
Feeling himself thus restored, he for the third time and with
better zeal turned to his school and carried it up to a remarkably
high level.
In one of his educational articles, he thus relates his
endeavors and preparations to found a school:
[Tolstoy writes] Fifteen years ago, when I took up
the matter of popular education without any preconceived
theories or views on the subject, with the one desire to
advance the matter in a direct and straightforward
manner, I, as a teacher in my school, was at once
confronted with two questions: (1) What must I teach?
and (2) How must I teach it.?...
In the whole mass of people who are interested in
education, there exists, as there has existed before, the
greatest diversity of opinions. Formerly, just as now,
some in reply to the question of what ought to be taught,
said that outside the rudiments, the most useful
information to give in a primary school is taken from the
natural sciences; others, even as now, that this was not
necessary, and was even injurious; while some, as now,
proposed history or geography, and others denied their
necessity; some proposed the Ecclesiastic-Slavonic
language and grammar to be taken in connection with
religion; others found that superfluous and ascribed a
prime importance to "development". On the question of
how to teach, there has always been a still greater
diversity of answers. The most diversified methods of
instructing in reading and arithmetic have been
proposed...
When I encountered these questions and found no
answer for them in Russian literature, I turned to the
literature of Europe. After having read what had been
written on the subject, and having made the personal
acquaintance of the so-called best representatives of the
science of education in Europe, I not only failed to find
anywhere an answer to the question I was interested in,
but I convinced myself that this question does not even
exist in connection with any science of Education as
such; as every educationist of every given school firmly
believed that the methods he used were the best, because
they were founded on absolute truth, and that it would be
useless for him to look at them with a critical eye.
However, because, as I said, I took up the matter of
popular education without any preconceived notions, or
else because I took up the matter without getting hold of
laws from a distance as to how I ought to teach, but
became a schoolmaster in a village popular school in the
backwoods -- I could not reject the idea that there must
of necessity exist some criterion by means of which I
could solve the question of what to teach and how to
teach it. Should I teach by heart the psalter or the
classification of the organisms? Should I teach
according to the sound-alphabet, taken from the Germans,
or simply use the prayer-book? In the solution of this
question I was aided by a certain tact in teaching, with
which I am gifted, and especially by that close and
passionate interest which I took in the subject.
When I entered at once into the close and direct
relations with those forty tiny peasants that formed by
school (I call them peasants because I found in them the
same characteristics of perspicacity, the same immense
store of information from practical life, of jocularity,
simplicity, and loathing for everything false, which
distinguishes the Russian peasant), when I saw their
susceptibility, their readiness to acquire the
information which they needed, I felt at once that the
antiquated church method of instruction had outlived its
usefulness and was of no use to them. I began to
experiment on other proposed methods of instruction; but
because compulsion in education, both by my conviction
and my character, are repulsive to me, I did not exercise
any pressure, and the moment I noticed that something was
not readily received, I did not put any compulsion on the
pupils but looked for something else. From these
experiments it appeared to me and to those teachers who
gave instruction with me at Yasnaya Polyana and in other
schools on the same principles of freedom, that nearly
everything which in the educational world was written
about schools was separated by an immeasurable abyss from
the truth, and that many of the proposed methods, such as
object-lessons, the teaching of natural sciences, the
sound method, and others, called forth contempt and
ridicule, and were not accepted by the pupils. We began
to look for those contents and those methods which were
readily taken up by the pupils and hit upon that which
forms my method of instruction.
But this method stood in a line with all other
methods, and the question why it was better than the rest
remained unsolved as before....
At that time I found no sympathy in all the
educational literature, indeed not even any
contradiction, but simply complete indifference in regard
to the question which I put. There were some favorable
criticisms of certain trifling details, but the question
itself evidently did not interest any one. I was young
then, and this indifference grieved me. I did not
understand that with my question "How do you know what to
teach and how to teach?" I was like a man who, let us
say, in a gathering of Turkish pashas who were discussing
the question in what manner they could collect the
greatest amount of revenue from the people, should make
them the following proposition: "Gentlemen, before
considering how much revenue to collect from each, we
must first analyze the question on what your right to
exact that revenue is based." Obviously, all the pashas
would continue their discussion of the measures of
extortion, and would reply only with silence to his
irrelevant remark.
Tolstoy's letters from abroad show the interest which he took
in the school while he was away. During the whole of the time the
teaching in the school went on without ceasing. It continued with
greater regularity after his return to Yasnaya Polyana in the
spring of 1861, and in 1862, as Tolstoy says in his article on
Education:
[Tolstoy writes] Fourteen schools were opened in a
district containing ten thousand souls when I was a rural
judge, besides which there existed about ten schools in
the district among the clericals and on the manors among
the servants. In the three remaining districts of the
county there were fifteen large and thirty small schools
among the clericals and manorial servants....
Everybody will agree that, leaving aside the
question of the quality of instruction, such a relation
of the teacher to the parents and peasants is most just,
natural and desirable.
Finally, we may mention the names of the teachers of the
schools under Tolstoy's jurisdiction where his views on the
education of the people were supported. In the Golovenkovskiy
school, the teacher was one Aleksandr Serdobolskiy, a pupil of the
Kazan gymnasium; in the Trasnenskiy school, Ivan Aksentev, a pupil
of the Penza gymnasium; in Lomintsevok, Aleksey Shumilin, a pupil
of the Kaluga gymnasium; in the Bagucharov school, Boris Golovin,
a pupil of the tula theological seminary; in the Baburino school,
Alfonse Erlenwein, a pupil of the Kishinev gymnasium; and in
Yassenki, Mitrofan Butovich, a pupil of the Kishinev gymnasium; in
the Kolpeno school, Anatoliy Tomashevskiy, who finished his studies
in the Saratov gymnasium; in the Gorodnya, Vladimir Tokaschevich,
who finished his studies in the Penza gymnasium; in the Plekhanovo
school, Nikolay Peterson, who finished his studies in the Penza
gymnasium for the nobles; the Bogucharov village community chose
Sergey Gudim, an ex-student of the Kazan University, in the place
of its former teacher, Morozov. [Footnote: D.T. Uspenskiy,
"Archive Materials for Tolstoy's Biography." "Russian Thought",
1903, vol. ix.]
Perhaps some of these men may come across this biography and
its perusal may induce them to write down memories of their
collaboration with the great teacher.
In one of his articles on education, Tolstoy himself sets
forth in detail the organization of the school at Yasnaya Polyana:
[Tolstoy writes] The school is held in a two-storied
stone building. Two rooms are given up to the school,
one is a cabinet of physical curiosities, and two are
occupied by the teachers. Under the roof of the porch
hangs a bell with a rope attached to the clapper; in the
vestibule downstairs stand parallel and horizontal bars,
while in the vestibule upstairs there is a joiner's
bench. The staircase and the floor of the vestibule are
covered with snow or mud; here also hangs the program.
The order of instruction is as follows: at about
eight o'clock, the teacher living in the school, a lover
of external order and the administrator of the school,
sends one of the boys, who nearly always stay overnight
with him, to ring the bell.
In the village people rise with the fires. From the
school the fires have long been observed in the windows,
and half an hour after the ringing of the bell, there
appear in the mist, in the rain, or in the oblique rays
of the autumnal sun, dark figures by twos, threes, or
singly on the mounds (the village is separated from the
school by a ravine). The necessity of herding together
has long disappeared for the pupils. A pupil no longer
requires to wait and shout: "Oh boys, let's go to
school. She has begun." He knows by this time that
"school" is neuter and he knows a few other things, and
strange to say, for that very reason, has no longer any
need of a crowd...
The children have nothing with them -- neither
reading books nor copy books. No lessons are given to
take home.
Not only do they carry nothing in their hands, but
they have nothing to carry even in their heads. They are
not obliged to remember any lesson or anything that they
were doing the day before. They are not vexed by the
thought of the impending lesson. They bring with them
nothing but their impressionable natures and their
convictions that today it will be as jolly in school as
it was yesterday. They do not think of their classes
until they have begun.
No one is ever rebuked for being late, and they
never are late, except in the case of some of the older
ones, whose fathers now and then keep them back to do
some work. In such cases they come running to school at
full speed, and all out of breath.
So long as the teacher has not yet arrived, they
gather near the porch, pushing each other off the steps,
or sliding on the frozen crust of the smooth road, while
some go to the school rooms. If it is cold, they read,
write, or play, waiting for the teacher.
The girls do not mix with the boys. When the boys
have anything to do with the girls, they never address
anyone in particular but always all collectively: "Oh,
girls, why don't you skate?" or "I guess the girls are
frozen," or "Now girls, all of you against me!" There is
only one girl, from the manor, with very great general
ability, about ten years of age, who is beginning to make
herself conspicuous among the herd. This girl alone the
boys treat as their equal and as a boy, except for a
delicate shade of politeness, condescension, and reserve.
Popular education has always and everywhere been to
me an incomprehensible phenomenon. The people want
education, and every separate individual unconsciously
seeks education. The more highly cultured class of
people -- society, the officers of the Government --
strive to transmit their knowledge and to educate the
less educated masses. One would think that such a
coincidence of necessities would lead to satisfaction
being given to both the class which furnishes the
education and the one that receives it. But the very
opposite takes place. The masses continually counteract
the efforts made for their education by society or by the
Government, as the representatives of a more highly
cultured class, so that these efforts are frequently
frustrated.
As with every conflict, so also here, it was necessary to
solve the question: Which is more lawful, the resistance or the
action itself? Must the resistance be broken, or the action be
changed?
The question has been somehow always settled in favor of
violence. But some sound reasons ought to be produced for the use
of such violence. What are they? To this question Tolstoy gives
the following answer. The arguments may be religious,
philosophical, experimental, and historical, and then he discusses
each of these kinds of arguments separately:
[Tolstoy writes] But in our time, when religious
education forms but a small part of education, the
question what good ground the school has for compelling
the young generation to receive religious instruction in
a certain fashion remains unanswered from the religious
point of view.
The philosophical arguments cannot afford a reason
for coercion.
All the philosophers, beginning with Plato and
ending with Kant, tend to this one thing, the liberation
of the school from the traditional fetters which weigh
heavily upon it. They wish to discover what it is that
man needs, and on these more or less correctly divined
needs they build up their new school.
Luther wants people to study Holy Writ in the
original, and not according to the commentaries of the
holy fathers. Bacon enjoins the study of Nature from
Nature, and not from the books of Aristotle. Rousseau
wants to teach life from life itself, as he understands
it, and not from previous experiments. Every step
forward taken by the philosophy of history consists only
in freeing the school from the idea of instructing the
younger generation in that which the elder generations
considered to be science, in favor of the idea of
instructing them in what they themselves need. This one
common and, at the same time, self-contradictory idea is
felt in the whole history of educational theories: it is
common, because all demand a greater measure of freedom
for the school; contradictory, because everybody
prescribes laws based on his own theory, and by that very
act that freedom is curtailed.
The educational experiments tend still less to
convince us of the lawfulness of compulsory education.
Not only is the experiment sad in itself, but the school
stupefies the children by distorting their mental
faculties; it tears them away from the family during the
most precious time of their development, deprives them of
the happiness of freedom, and converts the child into a
jaded, crushed being, wearing an expression of fatigue,
fear, and ennui, repeating with its lips strange words in
a strange language; and in reality the experience of
school work gives nothing besides these, for it takes
place amid conditions destroying any possible value in
the experiments.
School, so it would appear to us, ought to be a
means of education and at the same time, an experiment on
the young generation, constantly giving new results.
Only when experiment is at the foundation of school-work,
and every school is, so to speak, an educational
laboratory, will the school keep pace with the universal
progress and experiment will be able to lay firm
foundations for the science of education.
The historical arguments are as feeble as the
philosophical. This progress of life, of technical
knowledge, of science, proceeds faster that the progress
of the school, and the school therefore remains more and
more behind the social life, and becomes ever worse and
worse.
The argument that as schools have existed and are existing,
therefore they are good, Tolstoy meets by describing his personal
experience of schools in Marseilles, Paris and other towns in
Western Europe, which brought him to the conclusion that the
greater part of the people's education is acquired not at school
but in life, and that free, open instruction by means of public
lectures, sights, meetings, books, exhibitions, and so on, quite
surpasses all school tuition.
Finally, Tolstoy addresses himself especially to Russian
educationists, saying that if we are, for example, to acknowledge
the existence of German schools as desirable, in spite of their
defects, on the ground of historic experiment, still the question
remains: On what grounds are we Russians to defend the school for
the people, when no such schools yet exist with us? What historic
reasons have we to declare that our schools must be the same as
those of the rest of Europe?
[Tolstoy writes] What are we Russians to do at the
present moment? Shall we all come to some agreement and
take as our basis the English, French, German, or North
American view of education and any one of their methods?
Or shall we, by closely examining philosophy and
psychology discover what in general is necessary for the
development of a human soul, and for making out of the
younger generation the best men possible according to our
conception? Or shall we make use of the experience of
history -- not in imitating those forms which history has
evolved, but in comprehending those laws which humanity
has worked out through suffering? Shall we say frankly
and honestly to ourselves that we do not know and cannot
know what future generations may need but that we feel
ourselves obliged to study this need, and that we wish to
do so; that we do not wish to accuse the people of
ignorance for not accepting our education, but that we
shall accuse ourselves of ignorance and self-conceit if
we persist in educating the people according to our
ideas?
Let us cease looking upon the people's resistance to
our education as upon a hostile element, but let us
rather see in it an expression of the people's will,
which alone ought to guide us. Let us finally adopt the
view which we are so plainly told, both by the history of
educational methods and the whole history of education,
that if the educating class is to know what is good and
what is bad, the classes which receive the education must
have full power to express their dissatisfaction, or, at
least, to swerve from the education which instinctively
does not satisfy them -- that the only criterion of
educational methods is liberty.
The article ends in the following avowal:
We know that our arguments will not convince many.
We know that our fundamental convictions that the only
method of education is experiment, and its only criterion
freedom, will sound to some like trite commonplace, to
some like an indistinct abstraction, to others again like
a visionary dream. We should not have dared to disturb
the repose of the theoretical pedagogues and to express
these convictions, which are contrary to all experience,
if we had to confine ourselves to the reflections made in
this article; but we feel ourselves able to prove step by
step, and taking one fact after another, the
applicability and propriety of our convictions however
wild they may appear, and to this end alone do we devote
the publication of the periodical "Yasnaya Polyana".
The magazine "Yasnaya Polyana", which was in fact itself an
interesting educational experiment, lasted for one year. Twelve
numbers were issued.
The first issue began with the following appeal to the public:
[Tolstoy writes in "Yasnaya Polyana" No. 1]
Entering on a new work, I am under some fear, both for
myself and for those thoughts which have been for years
developing in me, and which I regard as true. I am
certain beforehand that many of these thoughts will turn
out to be mistaken. However carefully I have endeavored
to study the subject and have involuntarily looked upon
it from one side, I hope that my thoughts will call forth
the expression of a contrary opinion. I shall be glad to
afford room for all opinions in my magazine. Of one
thing only am I afraid -- that these opinions may be
expressed with acridity, and that the discussion of a
subject so dear and important to all as that of national
education may degenerate into sarcasms, personalities,
and journalistic polemics; and I will not say that
sarcasms and personalities could not affect me, or that
I hope to be above them. On the contrary, I confess that
I fear as much for myself as for the cause itself; I fear
being carried away by personal polemics instead of
quietly and persistently working at my subject.
I therefore beg all future opponents of my views to
express their thoughts so that I may explain myself and
substantiate my statements in those cases in which our
disagreement is caused by our not understanding one
another, and might agree with my opponents when the error
of my view is proved. Count L. N. Tolstoy
Each issue contained one or two theoretical articles, then
reports of the progress of the schools under the management of
Tolstoy, bibliography, description of school libraries, accounts of
donations, and a supplement in the shape of a book for reading.
The motto of the magazine was the saying: Glaubst zu schieben
und wirst geschoben, that is to say, "You mean to push, but in
reality it is you who are pushed."
This magazine has become a bibliographical rarity. True,
Tolstoy's own principal articles have been included in the fourth
volume of the full edition of his works, but besides those
articles, there appeared in the magazine many different short
notices, descriptions and reports of great interest for teachers in
a theoretical as well as in a practical sense.
In his article "On methods of teaching to read and write,"
Tolstoy tries in the first place to prove that reading is not the
first step in instruction, but only an intervening one.
[Tolstoy writes] Since it is not the first, then it
is not the principal one.
If we want to find the foundation, the first step in
education, why should we look for it perforce in the
rudiments instead of much deeper? Why should we stop at
one of the endless number of the instruments of education
and see in it the alpha and the omega of education, when
it is only one of the incidental, unimportant
circumstances of education?
By "Education" we do not mean merely a knowledge of
"Reading and Writing."
We see people who are well acquainted with all the
facts necessary to know for the purpose of farming, and
with a large number of interrelations of these facts,
though they can neither read nor write; or excellent
military commanders, excellent merchants, managers,
superintendents of work, master mechanics, artisans,
contractors, and people simply educated by life, who
possess a great store of information and of sound
reasoning based on that information, who can neither read
nor write. On the other hand we see those who can read
and write, and who have acquired no new information by
means of those accomplishments.
Among the reasons which cause a contradiction between the real
needs of the people and the tuition imposed upon the people by the
cultured classes, Tolstoy points out certain features in the
historic development of educational institutions.
[Tolstoy writes] First were founded, not the lower,
but the higher schools: at first the monastic, then the
secondary, then the primary schools....The rudiments are
in this organized hierarchy of institutions the last
step, or the first from the end, and therefore the lower
school is to respond only to the exigencies of the higher
schools.
But there is also another point of view, from which
the popular school appears as an independent institution,
which is not obliged to perpetuate the imperfections of
the higher institution of learning, but which has an aim
of its own, viz., that of supplying popular education.
The school for reading and writing exists among the
people in the shape of the workshop, and, as such,
satisfies the need for those accomplishments, and reading
and writing are for the people a certain kind of art or
craft.
Having made clear the gist of this matter of writing and
reading, and pointed out its place in the life of the people,
Tolstoy goes on further to investigate different methods of
teaching to read and write.
After having examined the defects and merits of the old
fashioned methods of teaching to read letter by letter, and the
method of learning by sound; after having further discussed the
comical and pedantic German Lautieranschauungsunterrichtsmethode,
he came to the conclusion that all methods are good and all are
bad, that the talent and ability of the teacher are at the
foundation of any method, and he finally addresses to the teacher
the following advice:
[Tolstoy writes] Every teacher of reading must be
well grounded in the one method which has been evolved by
the people, and must further verify it by his own
experience; he must endeavor to find out the greatest
number of methods, employing them as auxiliary means;
must, by regarding every imperfection in the pupil's
comprehension, not as showing a defect in the pupil, but
a defect in his own instruction, endeavor to develop in
himself the ability of discovering new methods. Every
teacher must know that every method invented is only a
step, on which he must stand in order to go farther; he
must know that if he himself will not do it, another will
adopt that method, and will, on its basis, go farther,
and that, as the business of teaching is an art,
completeness and perfection are not obtainable, while
development and improvement are endless.
With still greater detail and clearness does Tolstoy present
his educational ideas in his article "Education and Instruction".
In the first place, he states the fact that the majority of
educationists, Russian and European, confuse these two ideas. Then
he tries to restate the distinction between these conceptions,
giving his own definitions to the three principal educational terms
-- Education, Training, and Instruction..
[Tolstoy writes] Education in the broad sense of the
term is, according to our conviction, the sum total of
all those influences which develop man, give him a
broader outlook and new knowledge, children's games and
their sufferings, punishments inflicted by their parents,
books, work, study, whether compulsory or free, art,
science, life -- all these educate.
Training is the influence exercised by one man on
another for the purpose of making him adopt certain moral
habits.
Instruction is the transmission of knowledge from
one man to another (one can be instructed in chess, or
history, or boot-making). Teaching, an aspect of
instruction, is the influence exercised by one man upon
another for the purpose of leading him to acquire certain
accomplishments (to sing, to do carpentering, to dance,
to row, to recite). Instruction and teaching are means
of education when they are exercised without compulsion,
and means of training when teaching is compulsory, and
when instruction is directed in an exclusive way, i.e.,
when only those subjects are given which the teacher
regards as necessary.
There are no rights of education. I do not
acknowledge such, nor have they been acknowledged, nor
will they ever be, by the young generation under
education, which always and everywhere is set against
compulsion in education.
Education is compulsory, instruction is free. Where
lies to right to compulsion?
Where do we find the justification of any compulsion
by humanity? [To this question Tolstoy gives the
following answer:]
If such an abnormal condition as the use of force in
culture -- education -- has existed for ages, the causes
of this phenomenon must be rooted in human nature. I see
these causes -- (1) in the family, (2) in religion, (3)
in the State, and (4) in society (in the narrower sense,
which in our country embraces only the official circles
and the gentry).
While not approving of the influence of the first three
sources of compulsion, Tolstoy admitted that it was intelligible.
It is difficult to hinder parents from bringing up
their children to be different from what they are
themselves; it is difficult for a believer not to strive
to bring up his child in his own faith; finally, it is
difficult to claim that Governments should not educate
the officials whom they require
But by what right does the privileged, progressive
society educate by its own standard the people alien to
itself? this can be explained by nothing but gross
egotistical error.
What is the reason of this error?
I think it is that we do not hear the voice of those
who attack us; we do not hear it, because it does not
speak in print or down from the professor's chair. But
it is the mighty voice of the people, which one must
listen to carefully in order to hear it.
Tolstoy then began the examination of the methods of this
educational compulsion, i.e., those practiced in the schools from
the lowest to the highest, and he found nothing cheering in them.
He criticized especially the organization of our universities.
Without rejecting university instruction on principle, Tolstoy
declared:
[Tolstoy writes] I can understand a university,
corresponding to its name and its fundamental idea, as a
collection of men for the purpose of their mutual
culture. Such universities, unknown to us, spring up and
exist in various corners of Russia; in the universities
themselves, in the students' clubs, people come together,
read and discuss, until at last rules establish
themselves when to meet and how to discuss. There you
have real universities! But our universities, in spite
of all the empty talk about the seeming freedom of their
structure, are institutions which, by their organization,
in no way differ from female boarding schools and cadet
academies.
Besides the absence of freedom, of independence, one
of the chief defects of our university life is its
aloofness from real life.
See how the son of a peasant learns to become a
farmer; how the sexton's son, reading in the choir,
learns to be a sexton; how the son of a Kirgiz cattle
dealer becomes a herder; he enters very early into direct
relations with life, with Nature, and with men; he learns
early, while working, to make his work productive; and he
learns, being secure on the material side of life, that
is, so far as to be sure of a piece of bread, of clothes
to wear, and of a lodging. Now look at a student, who is
torn away from home, from the family, cast into a strange
city, full of temptations for his youth, without means of
support (because the parents provide means only for bare
necessities, while all is spent on frivolity), in a
circle of companions who by their society only intensify
his defects; without guides, without an aim, having
pushed off from the old and having not yet landed at the
new. Such, with rare exceptions, is the position of a
student. From this results that which alone can result;
you have officials who are fit only for Government posts;
or professional officials, fit for society, or people
aimlessly torn away from their former surroundings, with
a spoiled youth, and finding no place for themselves in
life, so-called people with university culture --
advanced, that is, irritable, sickly Liberals.
The university is our first and our chief
educational institution. It is the first to arrogate to
itself the right of education, and it is the first, so
far as the results which it obtains indicate, to prove
the impropriety and impossibility of university
education. Only from the social point of view is it
possible to justify the fruits of the university. The
university trains not such men as humanity needs, but
such as corrupt society needs.
Tolstoy foresaw the timid objections to his radical solution
of the question on the part of those fearing a change, and he
answered these at once, concluding his answer with the following
reply:
[Tolstoy writes] "What are we to do then? shall
there, really, be no county schools, no gymnasia, no
chairs of the history of Roman law? What will become of
humanity?" I hear.
There certainly shall be none, if the pupils do not
need them, and you are not able to make them good.
"But children do not always know what they need;
children are mistaken," and so forth, I hear.
I will not enter into this discussion. this
discussion would lead us to the question: Can man's
nature be judged by a tribunal of men? and so forth. I
do not know that, and do not take that stand; all I can
say is that if we know what to teach, you must not keep
me from teaching Russian children by force, French,
medieval genealogy, and the art of stealing. I can prove
everything as you do.
"So there will be no gymnasia and no Latin? Then
what am I going to do?" I again hear.
Don't be afraid! There will be Latin and rhetoric,
and they will exist another hundred years, simply because
the medicine is bought, so we must drink it (as a patient
said). I doubt whether the thought, which I have
expressed, perhaps indistinctly, awkwardly,
inconclusively, will become a common possession in
another hundred years; it is not likely that within a
hundred years will die those ready-made institutions,
schools, gymnasia, universities, and that within that
time will grow up freely formed institutions, having for
their basis the freedom of the learning generation.
Of course, such audacious ideas could not be accepted by
educationists, who during the 1860s have been at the head of
national instruction in russia. Offended science did not even
deign to take such ideas seriously. In "The Collection of
Criticisms Upon Tolstoy" by Zelinskiy, a book very carefully
composed, there are only two serious articles devoted to the
magazine "Yasnaya Polyana", and to the school of the same name.
The are printed in "The Contemporary" of 1862.
To one of these, the article of E. Markov, Tolstoy replied in
his magazine by an article, "the Progress and Definition of
Instruction."
The gist of markov's argument, given in a resume at the end of
his article, consists in an open acknowledgment of the right of
compulsory education on the part of society, and its right of
rejecting free instruction, after making which he proceeds to
express his approval of contemporary systems of instruction. As to
the school in Yasnaya Polyana, he speaks with enthusiasm of its
practice but holds that it is inconsistent with the theories of its
founder and guide, L.N. Tolstoy.
In his reply to Markov, Tolstoy repeats and explains what has
been said by him in his preceding articles, and he comes to the
conclusion that their principal difference is the fact that Markov
believes in progress and he does not.
In explanation of his want of belief in progress, he says:
[Tolstoy writes] The process of progress has taken
place in all humanity from time immemorial, says the
historian who believes in progress, and he proves this
assertion by comparing, let us say, England of the year
1685 with the England of our time. Even if it were
possible to prove, by comparing Russia, france, and Italy
of our time with ancient rome, Greece, Carthage, and so
forth, that the prosperity of the modern nations is
greater than that of antiquity, I am still struck by one
incomprehensible phenomenon; they deduce a general law
for all humanity from the comparison of one small part of
European humanity in the present and the past. Progress
is a common law of humanity, they say, except for Asia,
Africa, America, and australia, except for one thousand
mission people.
We have noticed the law of progress in the dukedom
of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, with its three thousand
inhabitants. We know China, with its two hundred million
inhabitants, which overthrows our whole theory of
progress, and we do not for a moment doubt that progress
is the common law of all humanity, and that we, the
believers in that progress, are right, and those who do
not believe in it are wrong, and so we go with cannons
and guns to impress the idea of progress upon the
Chinese. Common sense, however, tells us that if the
history of the greater part of humanity, the whole so-
called East, does not confirm the law of progress, but on
the contrary, overthrows it, that law does not exist for
all humanity, but only as an article of faith for a
certain part of it.
I, like all people who are free from the
superstition of progress, observe only that humanity
lives, that the memories of the past augment as much as
they disappear; the labors of the past frequently serve
as a basis for the labors of the present, and just as
frequently as an impediment; that the well-being of
people now increases in one place, in one stratum, and in
one sense, and now diminishes; that, not matter how
desirable it would be, I cannot find any common law in
the life of humanity; and that it is as easy to
subordinate history to the idea of progress as to any
other idea or to any imaginable historical fancy.
I will say even more; I see no necessity for finding
common laws for history, independently of the
impossibility of finding them. The common eternal law is
written in the soul of each man. The law of progress, or
perfectibility, is written in the soul of each man, and
is transferred to history only through error. As long as
it remains personal, this law is fruitful and accessible
to all; when it is transferred to history, it becomes an
idle, empty prattle, leading to the justification of
every insipidity and to fatalism. Progress in general in
all humanity is an unproved fact, and does not exist for
all the Eastern nations; therefore, it is as unfounded to
say that progress is the law of humanity as it is to say
that all people are fair except the dark-complexioned
ones.
The propositions stated are developed in detail by Tolstoy in
his article, but as this subject over steps the limits of our
narrative, we will conclude by mentioning one more paper entitled
"A Project For A General Plan of People's Schools Organization."
This article contains some witty criticisms, and a readable review
of the Government regulation concerning schools in 1862.
Tolstoy's general critical remarks on the regulation can be
summed up thus: (1) The regulation is based upon the American
system; the people are to pay school rates, and the schools are to
be maintained by the Government with the sum collected. But what
is good in a democratic republic may turn out very bad in a
despotic state, where the law expressing the so-called "will of the
people" becomes a gross invasion of the rights of the people. (2)
The general inefficiency of the project follows from its
inadaptability to the needs of the people, owing to entire
ignorance of Russian life on the part of the author. (3) The
control of popular education sanctioned by this regulation will
prove an obstacle to the popular education already existing, which
is freely spreading.
After having finished this brief summary of Tolstoy's opinions
on education, we must give our own conclusion, which is in
opposition to the conclusion of M. Markov and is this, that the
practice of the school at Yasnaya Polyana does not in the least
contradict Tolstoy's views, but, on the contrary, amounts to their
direct application, which is accomplished with unique success.
CHAPTER 15
THE WORK OF THE YASNAYA POLYANA SCHOOL
In his educational articles of practical interest, Tolstoy
gives an artistic description of several incidents in school life,
a subject n which he took a warm and sincere interest, not like a
stern pedant demanding obedience, but like a boy joining in the
joys and sorrows of his school companions, giving them his whole
soul, and sharing his great spiritual riches with them.
By putting together the incidents thus described, one sees the
gigantic figure of the great educationist in all its grandeur.
I. The Working of the School
It was not cold outside -- a moonless winter night with clouds
in the sky. We stopped at the cross-roads; the older, third-year
pupils stopped near me, asking me to accompany them farther; the
younger ones looked awhile at me and then ran off down hill. The
young ones had begun to study with a new teacher, and they no
longer had that confidence in me that the older boys had.
"Come, let us go to the preserve," (a small forest within two
hundred steps of the house), said one of them. Fedka, a small boy
of ten, of a tender, impressionable, poetical, and impetuous
nature, was the most persistent in his demands. Danger seemed to
form his chief condition for enjoyment...
He knew that there were wolves in the forest then, and so he
wanted to go to the preserve. The rest joined in, so we went, all
four of us, into the wood. another boy, I shall call him Semka, a
physically and morally sound lad of about twelve, nicknamed Vavilo,
walked ahead and kept exchanging calls with somebody in his ringing
voice. Pronka, a sickly, meek, but uncommonly talented boy, the
son of a poor family -- sickly, I think, mainly on account of
insufficient food -- was walking by my side.
Fedka was walking between me and Semka, talking all the time
in his extremely soft voice, telling us how he had herded horses
here in the summer, or saying that he was not afraid of anything,
or asking, "Suppose some one were to jump out at us!" and insisting
on my answering him. We did not go into the forest itself -- that
would have been too terrible -- but even near the forest it was
getting darker; we could hardly see the path, and the fires of the
village were hidden from view.
Semka stopped and began to listen.
"Stop, boys! What is that?" he suddenly said.
We held our tongues, but we could hear nothing; still it added
terror to our fear.
"Well, what should we do if one should jump out and make
straight for us?" Fedka asked.
We began to talk about robbers in the Caucasus. They recalled
a story of the Caucasus I had told them long ago, and I told them
more stories about abreks, Cossacks, and Khadzhi Murat. Semka was
strutting ahead of us, stepping broadly in his big boots, and
evenly swaying his strong back. Pronka tried to walk by my side,
but Fedka pushed him off the path, and Pronka, who apparently
always submitted to such treatment on account of his poverty, still
rushed up to my side during the most interesting passages, though
sinking knee-deep in the snow.
Everybody who knows anything about peasant children has
noticed that they are not accustomed to any kind of caresses --
tender words, kisses, being fondly touched with the hand, and so
forth....It was for this reason that I was startled when Fedka, who
was walking by my side, in the most terrible part of the story
suddenly touched me lightly with his sleeve, and then grasped two
of my fingers with his whole hand, and did not let them go.
The moment I was silent, Fedka begged me to proceed, and that
in such an imploring tone and with so much agitation that I could
not refuse.
"Don't get in my way!" he once angrily called out to Pronka,
who had run on in front; he was really quite savage with him -- he
had such a mingled feeling of terror and joy, as he was holding on
to my finger, that he could not bear any one daring to interrupt
his pleasure.
"More, more! That's fine!"
We passed the forest and were approaching the village from the
other end.
"Let us go back again," all cried when the lights became
visible. "Let us take another walk!"
We walked in silence, now and then sinking in the loose,
untrodden snow; the white darkness seemed to be swaying before our
eyes; the clouds hung low, and seemed to be piled over us -- there
was no end to that whiteness over which we alone crunched through
the snow; the wind rustled through the bare tops of the aspens, but
we were protected from the wind behind the forest.
I finished my story by telling them that the abrek, being
surrounded, began to sing songs, and then threw himself on his
dagger. All were silent.
"Why did he sing a song when he was surrounded?" asked Semka
"Didn't you hear? He was getting ready to die!" Fedka replied
sorrowfully.
"I think he sang a prayer," added pronka.
All agreed....
We stopped in the grove, beyond the threshing floors, at the
very end of the village. Semka picked up a stick from the snow and
began to strike the frozen trunk of a lime tree. The hoar frost
fell from the branches upon his cap, and the lonely sound of his
beating was borne through the forest.
"Lev Nikolayevich," Fedka said (I thought he wanted to say
something again about the countess), "why do people learn singing?
I often wonder why they really do?"...
It feels strange to me to repeat what we spoke on that
evening, but I remember we said everything, I think, that there was
to be said on utility and on plastic and moral beauty.
A rare happiness fell to the writer of these lines, as to
Fedka, who held Tolstoy by his fingers and was rapt in ecstasy. I
more than once walked with Tolstoy on the sam spot (Zakas).
Listening to his tales, I have experienced the same feeling, which
cannot be expressed in better words than those used by Fedka: "Go
on, go on! ah, how nice!"
2. The Lesson In Composition
Once last winger [Tolstoy goes on], I forgot everything after
dinner as I read Snegirev's book, and even returned to the school
with the book in my hands. It was a lesson in the Russian
language.
"Well, write something on a proverb!" I said
The best pupils, Fedka, Semka, and a few others, pricked up
their ears.
"What do you mean by `on a proverb'? What is it? Tell us!"
the questions ran.
I happened to open the book at the proverb: "He feeds with
the spoon and pricks his eye with the handle."
"Now imagine," I said, "that a peasant has taken a beggar to
his house and then begins to rebuke him for the good he has done
him, and you will see that `he feeds with spoon and pricks his eye
with the handle.'"
"But how are you going to write it?" asked Fedka and all the
rest, who had pricked up their ears. They retreated, having
convinced themselves that this matter was beyond their strength,
and they betook themselves to the work which they had begun.
"Will you write it yourself?" one of them said to me.
Everybody was busy with his work; I took a pen and ink and
began to write.
"Well," said I, "who will write it best? I am with you.
I began the story, printed in the fourth issue of the "Yasnaya
Polyana" magazine, and I wrote down the first page. Every unbiased
man who has the artistic sense and feels with the poorer classes
will, upon reading this first page, written by me, and the
following pages of the story, written by the pupils themselves,
separate this page from the rest, as if he were taking a fly out of
the milk; it is so false, so artificial, and so badly expressed.
I must remark that in the original form it was more monstrous
still, as much has been corrected, thanks to the hints given by the
pupils.
Fedka kept looking up from his copy book to me, and upon
meeting my eyes, he smiled, winked, and repeated: "Write, write,
or I'll give it to you!" He was evidently amused to see a grown
person write a theme.
Having finished his theme worse and faster than usual, he
climbed on the back of my chair and began to read over my
shoulders. I could not proceed; others came up to us, and I read
out to them what I had written.
They did not like it, and none of them praised it. I felt
ashamed, and, to soothe my literary vanity, I began to tell them
the plan of what was to follow. The further I got in my story, the
more enthusiastic I became; I often corrected myself, and they kept
helping me out. One would say that the old man should be a
magician; another would remark: "No, that won't do, he must be just
a soldier; the best thing will be if he steals from him; no, that
won't go with the proverb," and so forth.
All were exceedingly interested. It was evidently a new and
exciting sensation for them to be present at the process of
creation and to take part in it. Their judgments were all, for the
most part, to the same effect, and they were just, whether they
spoke of the very structure of the story or of the incidents and
the characters given to the personages. Nearly all of them took
part in the composition; but, from the outset, those who
distinguished themselves were the positive Semka, by his marked
artistic power of description, and Fedka, by the correctness of his
poetical conception, and especially by the glow and rapidity of his
imagination.
Their demands had so little of the accidental in them and were
so definite, that more than once, after beginning a discussion, I
had to give way to them. I was strongly possessed by the demands
of a regular structure and of an exact correspondence of the idea
of the proverb to the story; while they, on the contrary, were only
concerned about the demands of artistic truth. I, for example,
wanted that the peasant, who had taken the old man to his house,
should himself repent of his good deed, while they regarded this as
impossible and introduced a cross old woman.
I said: "The peasant was at first sorry for the old man and
afterward did not like giving away the bread."
Fedka replied that that would make the story improbable.
"From the first he did not obey the old woman, and would not submit
later on."
"What kind of a man is he, according to you?" I asked.
"He is like Uncle Timofey," said Fedka, smiling. "He has a
scanty beard, goes to church, and he has bees."
"Is he good but stubborn?" I asked.
"Yes," said Fedka, "he will not obey the old woman."
From that time the old man was brought into the hut, the work
became animated. They evidently for the first time felt the charm
of clothing artistic incidents in words. Semka distinguished
himself more than the rest in this respect; the correctest details
were poured forth one after the other. The only fault that could
be found with him was that these details sketched only the actual
moment, without connection with the general feeling of the story.
I hardly could write their descriptions as fast as they gave them,
and only asked them to wait and not forget what they had told me.
Semka seemed to see and describe that which was before his
eyes; the stiff, frozen bast shoes, with the dirt oozing from them
as they thawed, and the half-burned scraps into which they were
shrivelled when the old woman threw them into the oven.
Fedka, on the contrary, saw only such details as brought out
for him the particular feeling which he had for particular
individuals. Fedka saw the snow drifting behind the peasant's leg-
rags, and the expression of compassion with which the peasant said,
"Lord, how it snows!" (Fedka's face even showed how the peasant
said it, and besides this, he swung his hands and shook his head.)
He saw the cloak, all rags and patches, and the torn shirt, under
which could be seen the shrunken body of the old man, wet from the
melting snow. He created the old woman, who growled, as, at the
command of her husband, she took off his bast shoes, and the
pitiful groan of the old man as he muttered through his teeth,
"Softly, motherkin, I have sores here."
Semka needed mainly objective pictures; bast shoes, a cloak,
an old man, a woman, all almost independent of one another; but
Fedka had to make others feel the pity with which he was filled
himself. He ran ahead of the story, telling how he would feed the
old man, how the latter would fall down at night, and would later
teach a boy in the field to read, so that I was obliged to ask him
not to be in such a hurry and not to forget what he had said. His
eyes sparkled with positive hears; his swarthy, thin little hands
were clasped convulsively; he was angry with me, and he kept urging
me on: "Have you written it, have you written it?" he kept asking
me.
He treated all the rest despotically; he wanted to talk all
the time, giving the story not as a story is told, but as it is
written, that is, artistically clothing in words the sensuous
pictures. thus, for example, he would not allow words to be
transposed; if he once said, "I have sores on my feet," he would
not permit me to say, "On my feet I have sores." His soul, now
softened and irritated by the sentiment of pity, that is, of love,
clothed every image in an artistic form, and denied everything that
did not correspond to the idea of eternal beauty and harmony.
The moment Semka was carried away into giving disproportionate
details about the lambs in the inclosure, and so forth, Fedka grew
angry and said, "What a lot of bosh!" I only needed to suggest
what the peasant was doing, while his wife went to the gossip, to
call forth at once in Fedka's imagination a picture with lambs
bleating at the inclosure, with the sighs of the old man and the
delirium of the boy Seryozhka; I only needed to suggest an
artificial and false picture to make him immediately remark angrily
that that was not necessary.
For example, I suggested the description of the peasant's
looks, to which he agreed; but to my proposition to describe what
the peasant was thinking when his wife had run over to the gossip,
there immediately rose before him this very way of expressing his
thought, "If you got in the way of Savoska, the corpse, he would
pull all your locks out!" He said this, leaning his head on his
hand the while, with such a tone of fatigue and quiet gravity --
although in his usual good-natured voice -- that the boys shook
with laughter.
The chief quality in every art, the feeling of measure, was
developed in him to an extraordinary degree. He writhed at the
suggestion of any superfluous feature, made by some one of the
boys.
He directed the structure of the story so despotically, and
with such right to this despotism, that the boys soon went him, and
only he and Semka, who would not give in to him, though working in
another direction, were left. We worked from seven to eleven
o'clock; they felt neither hunger nor fatigue, and even got angry
at me when I stopped writing; they undertook to relieve me in
writing, but they soon gave that up, as matters would not go well.
It was then for the first time that Fedka asked my name. We
laughed because he did not know.
"I know," he said, "how to call you; but how do they call you
in the manor? We have such names as Fokanychev, Zyabrev,
Yermilin."
I told him.
"Are we going to print it?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then we shall have to print work by Makarov, Morozov, and
Tolstoy."
He was agitated for a long time and could not sleep and I
cannot express the feeling of agitation, joy, fear, and almost
regret, which I experienced during that evening. I felt that with
that day a new world of enjoyment and suffering was opened up to
him -- the world of art; I thought that I had received and insight
into what no one has a right to see -- the germination of the
mysterious flower of poetry.
I felt both dread and joy, like the seeker after the treasure
who suddenly sees the flower of the fern -- I felt joy, because
suddenly and quite unexpectedly there was revealed to me that stone
of the philosophers which I had vainly been trying to find for two
years -- the art of teaching the expression of thought; and dread,
because this art made new demands -- brought with it a whole world
of desires, which stood in no relation to the surroundings of the
pupils, as I thought in the first moment. There was no mistaking.
It was not an accident, but a conscious creation....
I gave up the lesson, because I was to much agitated.
"What is the matter with you? You are so pale -- are you
ill?" my companion asked me. Indeed, only two or three times in my
life have I experienced such a strong sensation as on that evening,
and for a long time I was unable to render an account to myself of
what I was experiencing. I distinctly felt that I had criminally
looked through a glass hive at the work of the bees, concealed from
the gaze of mortal man; it seemed to me that I had vaguely felt
something like repentance for an act of sacrilege,...and at the
same time I was happy as a man must be happy who beholds that which
no one has beheld before.
3. The First Lesson In History
Tolstoy writes: I had intended to explain in the first lesson
in what way russia differed from other countries, where its
frontiers were, the nature of the structure of its government, then
to say who was the present ruler, and how and when the Emperor
ascended the throne.
"Teacher: Where do we live, in what country?"
"A Pupil: In Yasnaya Polyana."
"Another Pupil: In the field."
"Teacher: No, in what country is Yasnaya Polyana and the
Government of Tula?"
"Pupil: the Government of Tula is seventeen versts from us.
Where is it? Government is a Government, and that is all there is
to say about it."
"Teacher: No. Tula is the capital of the Government, but a
Government is something different. Well, what country is it?"
"Pupil (who has learned some geography before): The earth is
round like a ball."
By means of questions as to what country a German, whom they
knew, had lived in before and where they would get if they were to
keep traveling all the time in one direction, the pupils were led
up to answer they that lived in russia. Some, however, replied to
the question where we should get if we traveled all the time in one
direction, that we should get nowhere. Others said that we should
get to the end of the world.
"Teacher (repeating the pupil's answer): You said that we
should come to some other countries; where will Russia end and
other countries begin?"
"Pupil: Where the Germans begin."
"Teacher: So, if you meet Gustav Ivanovich and Karl Fedorovich
in Tula, you will say that the Germans have begun and that there is
a new country?"
"Pupil: No, when the Germans begin thick."
"Teacher: No, there are places in Russia where the Germans are
thick. Ivan Fomich is from one of them, and yet that is still
russia. Why is it so?"
Silence.
"Teacher: Because they obey the same laws with the Russians."
"Pupil: One law? How so? The Germans don't come to our
church and they eat meat on fast-days."
"Teacher: I do not mean that kind of law, but they obey one
Tsar."
"Pupil (skeptical Semka): That is funny. Why have they a
different law, and yet obey the Tsar?"
The teacher feels the need of explaining what a law is, and so
he asks what is meant by "obeying a law," or "being under one law."
"Girl (independent manorial girl, hurriedly and timidly): To
accept the law means `to get married.'"
The pupils look inquiringly at the teacher. The teacher
begins to explain that the law consists in putting a man in jail
and in punishing him for stealing or killing.
"Skeptic Semka: And have not the Germans such a law?"
"Teacher: There are also laws with us about the gentry, the
peasants, the merchants, the clergy (the word `clergy' perplexes
them)."
"Skeptic Semka: And have not the Germans such a law?"
"Teacher: In some countries there are such laws, and in
others there are not. We have a Russian Tsar, and in the German
countries there is a German Tsar."
This answer satisfies all the people and even skeptical Semka.
Thinking it was now time to pass on to explain what is meant
by the classes, the teacher asks them what classes of society they
know. the pupils begin to enumerate them: the gentry, the
peasants, the popes, the soldiers. "Any more?" asks the teacher.
"The manorial servants, the burghers, the samovar-makers." The
teacher asks them to distinguish these classes.
"Pupils: The peasants plough, the manorial servants serve
their masters, the merchants trade, the soldiers serve, the
samovar-makers get the samovars ready, the popes serve the mass,
the gentry do nothing..."
Then in the same order and under similar difficulties there
follows an explanation of the idea of "Classes of Society,"
"frontiers," and other terms applied to the State.
The lesson lasts about two hours. The teacher is convinced
that the pupils have retained a great deal of what has been said,
and he continues his subsequent lessons in the same strain,
convincing himself only much later that his method was wrong, and
that all that he has been doing has been the merest nonsense.
4. The Second Lesson In History
"The holding of this class has remained a memorable event in
my life, [says Tolstoy]. I shall never forget it. The children
had long been promised that I should tell them history, going
backward, while another teacher would begin from the beginning, so
that we should finally meet. My evening scholars had left me, and
I came to the class of Russian history. They were talking about
Svyatoslav. They felt dull. On a tall bench sat in a row, as they
always put themselves, three peasant girls, with their heads tied
with kerchiefs. One was asleep. Mishka pushed me. "Look there,
our cuckoos are sitting there -- one is asleep." And they were
like cuckoos!
"You had better tell us from the end," said some one, and all
got up.
I sat down and began to talk. As always, the hubbub, the
groans, the tussling, lasted about two minutes. Some were crawling
under the table, some on the table, some under the benches, and on
their neighbors' shoulders and knees, till at last all was silent.
I began with Aleksandr I, told them of the French Revolution, of
Napoleon's successes, of his seizing the government, and of the war
which ended in the peace of Tilsit. The moment we reached Russia
there were heard sounds and words expressing lively interest on all
sides.
"Well, is he going to conquer us, too?"
"Never mind, Aleksandr will give it to him!" said some one who
knew about Aleksandr, but I had to disappoint them -- the time had
not yet come for that -- and they felt uncomfortable when they
heard that the Tsar's sister was spoken of as a bride for Napoleon,
and that aleksandr spoke with him on the bridge, as if he was his
equal.
"Just wait!" exclaimed Petka, with a threatening gesture.
"Go on and tell us!"
When Aleksandr declined to submit to him, that is, when
Aleksandr declared war, all expressed their approbation. When
Napoleon came against us at the head of twelve nations and stirred
up the Germans and Poland, their hearts sank from agitation.
A German, a friend of mine, was standing in the room.
"Ah, you were against us, too," said Petka (the best
storyteller).
"Keep quiet!" cried the others.
The retreat of our army tortured my audience, and on all sides
were asked questions why? and curses were heaped on Kutuzov and
Barclay.
"Your Kutuzov is no good!"
"Just wait," said another.
"Well, did he surrender?" asked a third.
When we reached the battle of Borodino, and when in the end I
was obliged to say that we did not gain a victory, I was sorry for
them -- it was evident that I gave them all a terrible blow.
"Though our side did not win, theirs did not either!"
When Napoleon came to Moscow and was waiting for the keys of
the city and for submission, there was a burst of protest, as they
had thought they were unconquerable. The conflagration of Moscow
was, naturally, approved of by all. Then came the victory,
Napoleon's retreat.
"When he came out of Moscow, Kutuzov rushed after him and went
to fight him," I said.
"He made him rear!" Fedka corrected me.
Fedka, red in his face, was sitting opposite me, and was
bending his thin, tawny fingers with excitement. That is his
habit. The moment he said this, the whole room groaned with pride
and delight. A little fellow in the back row was being badly
squeezed, but nobody paid any attention.
"That's better! There, take the keys now!" and so forth.
Then I continued, describing our pursuit of the French. It
pained the children to hear that some one was too late at Berezina,
and that we let them pass; Petka even groaned with pain.
"I should have shot him dead for being late."
Here we even had some pity for the frozen Frenchmen. Then,
when we crossed the border and the Germans, who had been against
us, joined us, some one remembered the German who was standing in
the room.
"How is that? At first you are against us, and when the power
is losing, you are with us!" and suddenly all rose and shouted at
the German, so that the noise could be heard in the street. When
they quieted down I went on, telling them about our following up
Napoleon as far as Paris, placing the real king on the throne,
celebrating our victory, and feasting. But the recollection of the
Crimean War spoiled the whole thing.
"Just wait," said Petka, shaking his fist; "let me grow up and
I will show them!"
If we had at that moment had a chance at the Shevardino
redoubt and Mount Malakhov, we should certainly have taken them
back.
It was late when I ended. As a rule the children are asleep
at that time. No one was sleeping, and the eyes of the little
cuckoos were burning. Just as I got up, Taraska crawled out from
underneath my chair, to my great astonishment, and look
vivaciously, and, at the same time, seriously at me.
"How did you get down there?"
"He was there all the time," some one said.
"There was no need to ask him whether he had understood; you
could see that by his face.
"Well, are you going to tell about it?" I asked.
"I?" He thought a while. "I will tell the whole thing."
"I will tell it at home."
"So will I."
"And I."
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
All flew down under the staircase, some promising to give it
to the Frenchmen, others scolding the German, and others repeating
how Kutuzov had made him "rear".
"Sie haben ganz Russisch erzachlt," the German who had been
hooted said to me in the evening. "You ought to hear how they tell
the story in our country! You said nothing about the German
struggle for freedom."
I fully agreed with him that my narrative was not history but
a fanciful tale to rouse the national sentiment.
Consequently, as a study of history, this attempt was even
less successful than the first.
* * * * * * * *
To give a full picture of Tolstoy as a schoolmaster, we must
add his views on the teaching of music. He gives a concise summary
of his conclusions in four short paragraphs.
[Tolstoy writes] From the small experience which I have
had in teaching music, I have become convinced:
(1) That the method which consists in writing the
sounds down in figures is the most convenient.
(2) That teaching time independently of sound is
again the most convenient method.
(3) That, in order that musical instruction should
produce permanent effect and be cheerfully received, it
is necessary from the very outset to teach the art and
not the skill of singing and playing. Young ladies may
be made to play Burgmuner's exercises, but the children
of the people it is better not to teach at all than to
teach mechanically.
(4) That the aim of musical instruction must consist
in giving the pupils that knowledge of the common laws of
music which we possess, but by no means in transmitting
that false taste which is developed in us.
Drawing occupied a conspicuous place in the school course, but
Tolstoy did not teach it himself, as he did not think he was
competent, and this task was undertaken by a fellow teacher.
In the spring of 1862, Tolstoy was very tired after his work
as Peace Mediator, and at the school, and having some fear of
consumption, he resolved to try the Koumiss treatment.
Accompanied by his man-servant Aleksey and two schoolboys, he
went to the province of Samara in the middle of May [1862].
He wrote from Moscow to his aunt Tatyana, informing her that
he and his companions were all well and giving her certain advice
and messages in connection with the school.
They went by rail to Tver and then on by a steamer, which was
to take them down the river Volga to Samara.
On the voyage, Tolstoy probably was in that very happy mood
which is so often enjoyed by all travellers upon the Volga. The
great river in its spring overflow, the soft murmur of the steamer
as it moved, the fascinating spring nights with their starlit
skies, the mirror-like river, the lights of the shore and the
vessel, the pilgrims, monks, Tartars, and other passengers, who, in
spite of the great variety of types, conditions, nationalities, and
religions, bear on them a distinctive Great Russian cachet;
possibly thoughts of the great historic past of the river and its
banks -- all these make an incomparably gladdening and softening
impression and bring with them many thoughts and dreams.
Tolstoy probably had some similar sensations, for on May 20th
[1862] he wrote in his diary:
[Tolstoy writes] On board steamer. It seems as if
I were again awakening to life and to the understanding
of it. The thought as to the absurdity of progress
pursues me. With the intelligent and the silly, with old
men and with children, I keep discussing this one thing.
On his way, Tolstoy stopped with his relation Vladimir
Ivanovich Yuskhov in Kazan.
Then, from Samara itself, he wrote to his aunt:
[Tolstoy writes] May 27, 1862...I have had a
splendid journey; I like the locality very much; my
health is better, i.e., I cough less. Aleksey and the
boys are alive and well, as you may tell their
parents..."
He next wrote from the place where he was undergoing his
treatment:
[Tolstoy writes] June 28, 1862...Aleksey and myself have
become stouter, especially aleksey, but we cough a
little, and again especially Aleksey. We are living in
a Kibitka [a Tartar tent]. I found my friend Stolipin
was an Ataman [Cossack commander] at Uralsk, where I
visited him. I brought from there a clerk, but I do not
dictate or write much. Laziness quite overpowers one
when taking koumiss. In a fortnight I intend returning
home. I am troubled by want of news in these wilds, and
also by the consciousness that I am dreadfully behindhand
with the publication of the journal. I kiss your hands.
Please write in detail about Seryozha, Masha, the
student, whom I greet.
Enclosed are letters from the boys to their
teachers.
While he was spending a peaceful time in the Bashkir Steppes,
an unexpected event took place in the school at Yasnaya Polyana.
There can be no doubt that the powerful preaching of freedom
of speech and action at the school could not but attract the
attention of the authorities, and Yasnaya Polyana was denounced to
those whom it concerned as a center of criminal revolutionary
propaganda. In the summer of 1862, the police appeared in the
school and made a perquisition.
A full description of this is to be found in the reminiscences
of E. Markov in his article printed in "The European Messenger."
[E. Markov writes] I cannot help mentioning a
characteristic episode, known only to a very few persons,
but which had been the cause of Tolstoy's giving up
educational work. As a peace mediator of the first
elected group, Tolstoy warmly sympathized with the
liberation of the serfs, and he naturally acted in a
direction which provoked a large majority of landowners
against him. He has received a number of threatening
letters; they threatened to knock him down or shoot him
in a duel; and he has been denounced to the authorities.
It so happened that just at the very time when the
magazine "Yasnaya Polyana" was started by Tolstoy,
proclamations of different revolutionary parties made
their appearance in St. Petersburg, and the police were
actively engaged searching for the hidden printing press.
Some one of Tolstoy's political enemies craftily
insinuated that certain secret leaflets containing
appeals for cooperation could be printed only in the
printing office of a magazine published -- horrible
dictu! -- not in a town, as all respectable people would
have it done, but in the country. In fabricating this,
they only omitted to give a glance at the title-page,
where it was stated in big type that the review was
published in the most respectable printing office of M.
N. Katkov in Moscow. The denunciation, nevertheless,
created a real storm.
In the absence of Tolstoy, his house was being kept
by his elderly aunt, and his sister, also married to a
Tolstoy, was staying there with her children on a visit.
Our common friend, G. A. Auerbach, and myself were
spending the summer with our families at a distance of
about five versts from Yasnaya Polyana, in a house let to
us by a landowner in the same Raspberry Abattis where
Yasnaya Polyana was. One early morning a messenger from
Yasnaya Polyana arrived. We were requested to come as
soon as possible on important business. Auerbach and I
jumped into a wagonette and hurried on as hard as we
could. On our entering the courtyard, we were faced with
a real invasion; there were post chaises drawn by teams
of three horses with their bells, conveyances of local
inhabitants, the head of the police district, the
commissary of rural police, local policemen, witnesses,
and in addition to all this -- gendarmes. The colonel of
the gendarmes arrived with jingling and bustle at the
head of this fearful expedition into Tolstoy's peaceful
abode, to the great consternation of the village people.
After some difficulty, we succeeded in entering the
house. The poor ladies were almost fainting. Everywhere
there were watchmen, everything was opened, shifted
about, and turned upside down -- tables, drawers,
wardrobes, chests of drawers, boxes, caskets, etc.
Crowbars were used in the stables to lift the floors; the
ponds in the park were searched by means of nets in order
to catch the criminal printing press, instead of which
only innocent carp and crabs made their appearance.
It need hardly be said that in the first place, the
unfortunate school had been turned upside down; but,
finding nothing there, the searchers went in the same
noisy, bustling procession, with sounding bells, to pay
a visit apparently to all the seventeen schools of the
peace districts, everywhere turning over tables and
ransacking cupboards, carrying off exercise books and
school manuals, putting teachers under arrest, and
creating the wildest conjectures in the heads of the
peasants, who were generally unfavorable to schools. [E.
Makarov, "The Living Soul in School: Thoughts and
Reminiscences of An Old Educationalist," "Messenger of
Europe," p. 584, February 1900.]
Prince D. D. Obolenskiy speaks of the same incident in his
reminiscences, with the addition of some interesting details:
[Prince D. D. Obolenskiy writes] The school of
Yasnaya Polyana was getting on splendidly. But as most
of the school teachers were students, the authorities did
not very much favor the institution and suspected that
there must be something politically unsound in Yasnaya
Polyana. Even an officer of the gendarmes called, but of
course could not find anything, for there was nothing to
find. Only in one room in the house of Yasnaya Polyana,
which was converted into a schoolroom, the attention of
the officer was attracted by a photographic apparatus.
In 1862 this was still a novelty, especially in the
provinces and villages. "What is that?" sternly inquired
the officer. "Whose photos are taken here?" The
students, of course, did not like his visit, and one of
them said for fun, "Kergen's, from nature." "How
Kergen?" inquired the officer. But the laughter
explained to him that it was a joke, and he left the
place biting his lips. ["Sketches and Reminiscences by
Prince D. D. Obolenskiy," "The Russian Archive, Book X,
1894.]
Zakharyin Yakunin Tells the following in his "Reminiscences of
the Countess A. A. Tolstaya:
[Zakharyin Yakunin writes] Relating to her this
humiliating incident, Tolstoy added: "I often say to
myself, what a very lucky thing it is that I was not at
home! If I had been, I should by this time have been
tried for murder." It is easy to explain these strong
words used by Tolstoy forty-two years ago, if one
remembers the great shock suffered by his dearest friends
at the time -- his aunt and his sister. It is enough to
say that the Police Commissioner of Tula, Kobelyatskiy,
gave permission to Tolstoy's sister to leave the study
for the drawing room and then to go to bed only after he
had read before her, and in the presence of two
gendarmes, all those intimate letters which we mentioned
in their place, as well as Tolstoy's diary, and
everything Tolstoy had written and kept hidden from all
since the age of sixteen...
The owner of Yasnaya Polyana did not wish to leave
such unnecessary harshness unpunished, so he cut short
his medical treatment and went home. He wrote to
Countess A. A. Tolstaya immediately upon receiving news
of the police invasion and asked her to communicate all
the details of the affair to those in power who knew him
well and on whose protection he could rely, i.e., to
Count B. A. Perovskiy, Countess H. D. Bludova, and
others. What Tolstoy requested was not the punishment of
those who committed the outrage, but the restoration of
his good name in the eyes of the peasants around him and
security against similar incidents in the future.
This affair I positively do not wish to and cannot
leave alone," he wrote; "all the employment in which I
had found happiness and peace is spoiled. Auntie is so
ill from fright that she will probably not recover. The
people look upon me no longer as an honest man -- an
opinion, on their part, which I have earned during many
years -- but as a criminal, an incendiary, or a coiner,
who has escaped merely owing to his slyness...."
"Ah, friend! you have been caught...you needn't talk
to us any more about honesty and justice -- you have
almost been handcuffed yourself."
"As to the landowners, it goes without saying there
is one outburst of delight. Please tell me at once,
after consulting Perovskiy or Aleksey Tolstoy, or whom
you like, how I am to write and to transmit my letter to
the Emperor. I have no other choice than either to
receive a satisfaction as public as the insult (it is too
late for any redress), or else to expatriate myself, upon
which I have firmly decided. To Herzen I will not go;
Herzen has his own way, and I have mine. Nor will
conceal matters, but will loudly proclaim that I am
selling my estate in order to leave Russia, where it is
impossible to know for one minute what have to expect."
It is a long letter written on eight large pages.
In forming her at the end that the colonel of gendarmes
on leaving had threatened Yasnaya Polyana with a new
search till he should find out "what was hidden," Tolstoy
added:
"Loaded pistols are in my room, and I am waiting to
see how all this will end."
I remember Tolstoy telling me that he felt extremely
hurt by this meddling of the police in his affairs, the
more so as the visit and the search of the police were
made during his absence. He made up his mind to complain
of it to the Emperor Aleksandr II, and at the latter's
visit to Moscow, when he met him in the Aleksandrovsk
Garden, he personally handed him a petition. The Emperor
received his petition, and I believe sent one of his
adjutants to apologize.
But the authorities were far from pacified, and a
correspondence between the Ministers of the Interior and of
Instruction ensued on the subject of the review "Yasnaya Polyana."
We quote extracts from this correspondence printed in the
reminiscences of Usov:
[Usov writes] The Minister of Interior informed the
Minister of Instruction on October 3, 1862:
The careful reading of the educational review
"Yasnaya Polyana, edited by Count Tolstoy, leads to the
conclusion that this review, in preaching new methods of
tuition and principles of popular schools, frequently
spreads ideas which, besides being incorrect, are
injurious in their teaching. Without entering into a
full examination of the doctrines of the review, and
without pointing out any particular articles or
expressions -- which, however, could be easily done -- I
consider it necessary to draw the attention of your
Excellency to the general tendency and spirit of the
review, which very often attacks the fundamental rules of
religion and morality. The continuation of the review in
the same spirit must, in my opinion, be considered the
more dangerous as its editor is a man of remarkable and
one may say even a fascinating talent, who cannot be
suspected to be a criminal or an unprincipled man. The
evil lies in the sophistry and eccentricity of his
convictions, which, being expounded with extraordinary
eloquence, amy carry away inexperienced teachers in this
direction, and thus give a wrong turn to popular
education. I have the honor to inform you of this,
hoping that you may consider it useful to draw the
special attention of the censor to this publication.
Having received this report, the Minister of Instruction
issued an order for the examination of all the printed books of the
review "Yasnaya Polyana, and, on October 24th of the same year
[1862], informed the Minister of the Interior that in accordance
with the examination made by his subordinates, and the report
presented to him, he saw nothing dangerous or contrary to religion
in the review "Yasnaya Polyana." One only came at times across
extreme views upon the subject of education, which might very well
be criticized in scientific educational reviews, but not forbidden
by the censor.
[Minister of Public Instruction writes, 1862] On
the whole, I must say that Count Tolstoy's work as an
educationist deserves full respect, and the Minister of
Public Instruction is bound to help him and give him
encouragement, even though not sharing all his views,
which, after maturer consideration, he will probably give
up himself. [E. Solovev, "Leo tolstoy: His Life and
Literary Activity," p. 73. Published by Pavlenkov, St.
Petersburg, 1897.]
The liberal Ministry of Public Instruction was mistaken.
Tolstoy did not give up his ideas; but all those attacks had
prevented the further development of his school work in Yasnaya
Polyana.
CHAPTER 16
Notwithstanding the apparent success of his educational work,
Tolstoy could not be entirely satisfied with it; however grand the
building which he had so cleverly planned, he was not sure of the
firmness of its foundation. For him, this foundation was non-
existent. His analytical brain prevented him from resting on
unstable foundations, and a really firm one he had not found.
This dissatisfaction was expressed in his "Confession" in the
following words in reference to this period:
[Tolstoy writes] I believed that I had found a
solution abroad, and armed with that conviction, I
returned to Russia the same year in which the peasants
were freed from serfdom, and accepting the office of a
country magistrate or arbitrator, I began to teach the
uneducated people in the schools, and the educated
classes by means of the journals which I published.
Things seemed to be going on well, but I felt that my
mind was not in a normal state, and that a change was
near. I might then perhaps have come to that state of
absolute despair to which I brought fifteen years later,
if it had not been for a new experience in life which
promised me safety -- the home life of a family man. For
a year I occupied myself with my duties as a arbitrator,
with the schools, and with my newspaper, and my work
became so involved that I was harassed to death; my
arbitration was one continual struggle; what to do in the
schools became less and less clear, and my newspaper
shuffling more and more repugnant to me. It was always
the same thing, trying to teach without knowing how or
what. So that I fell ill, more with mental than physical
sickness, gave up everything, and started for the steppes
to breathe a fresher air, to drink mare's milk and live
a mere animal life.
Soon after my return, I married.
The following incident in the life of Tolstoy took place about
the same time:
Still a passionate gambler, he often fell victim to his own
excesses. thus in the beginning of 1862, tolstoy lost 1,000 rubles
in a game of billiards to Katkov, the well-known publicist and
editor of "Moscow News."
He was unable to meet this debt and in lieu of payment gave
his unfinished novel "The Cossacks" to be printed in the magazine,
the "Russian Messenger", published by Katkov himself. It appeared
in January 1863 in its unfinished shape, and in consequence of
disagreeable recollections connected with it, Tolstoy gave it up
and never finished the story.
Being informed of this incident by Botkin, Turgenev wrote
about it to Fet:
[Turgenev writes] Tolstoy has written to Botkin that
he played against luck in Moscow and got from Katkov
1,000 rubles as a deposit for his Caucasian novel. May
God grant he returns to his true work, if even in this
manner. His "Childhood" and "Youth" have appeared in an
English translation, and it seems they are popular. I
asked a friend of mine to write an article on it in the
"Revue des Deux Mondes". One ought to have intercourse
with the people, but to long for it like a woman who is
enceinte is ridiculous.
At that time Tolstoy used very often to visit the house of Dr.
Bers, with whom he was to be more closely connected by family ties.
We were still little girls [said the Countess
Tolstaya to the biographer Loewenfeld] when Tolstoy first
visited our house. He was then already a well-known
writer and lived in Moscow in a gay, noisy style. One
day Tolstoy rushed into our room and joyfully informed us
that he had just sold his "Cossacks" to Katkov for a
thousand rubles. We thought the price very low. Then he
explained that he had to do it; that he had lost that sum
of money at a game of "China billiards," and that it was
for him a matter of honor to settle the debt immediately.
He intended to write the second part of "The Cossacks,"
he has never done it. His news so much upset us little
girls that we cried, walking up and down the room.
About this time, Tolstoy again became friendly with Fet, the
estrangement from whom had been the result of the quarrel with
Turgenev. Of this renewal of their friendly relations, Fet speak
thus:
[Fet writes] If my memory -- which keeps correctly
not only events of importance in my life, but even the
precise words used on any odd occasion -- did not retain
the circumstances of our reconciliation with Tolstoy
after his ill-tempered postscript, it only proves that
his anger against me was like a hailstorm in July, which
was bound to melt by itself. Yet I suppose it did not
occur without Borisov's help. However this may be,
Tolstoy again appeared on our horizon and with the
enthusiasm peculiar to him began to speak of his
friendship with the family of Dr. Bers.
Having accepted the offer of the Count to introduce
me to the Bers family, I met the doctor, a polite and
well-mannered old man, and a beautiful, distinguished
looking brunette, his wife, who was evidently the ruler
of the household. I refrain from describing the three
young ladies, the youngest of whom possessed a beautiful
contralto voice. Notwithstanding the careful supervision
of their mother and their perfect modesty, they all
possessed the charm which the French call du chien. The
dinner table and the dinner of the domineering hostess
were irreproachable." [A. Fet, My Reminiscences", Vol.
I]
Of the attitude of Tolstoy to the bers family and his gradual
preparation for the marriage we learn from a private letter of
Tolstoy's sister-in-law:
[Tatyana Bers writes] His relations with our house
are of long standing: our grandfather Islenev and
Tolstoy's father were neighboring landowners as well as
friends. Their families had been in constant
communication, and it is through this that my mother and
Tolstoy were like sister and brother in their childhood.
He used to call on us when he was an officer. My mother
was then already married and on very friendly terms with
Tolstoy's sister, and at her house as a child I often met
Tolstoy. He used to get up all sorts of games with his
nieces and myself. I was about ten at that time, and I
have but little recollection of him. When he returned
from abroad in the year of his marriage, he had not seen
us for several years, and coming to Pokrovskoye (near
Moscow), he found my two elder sisters already grown up.
He brought with him a teacher, Keller, from aborad, and
engaged a few more teachers in Moscow for his school,
which occupied his attention very much.
He almost always came on foot to Pokrovskoye (12
versts). We went out with him for long walks. He took
great interest in our life and became very intimate with
us. Once we -- my mother and we three sisters -- went
for a fortnight to grandfather's country place in the
province of Tula, of course driving, and he joined our
company. On the way we called at Yasnaya Polyana. He
lived with his aunt Tatyana Aleksandrovna Yergolskaya and
his sister Marie, who were the ladies that my mother
stopped with. The next day a picnic was arranged at
Yasnaya Polyana, in the coppice, with the families of
Auerbach and Markov. Haymaking was going on in the
abatis, and we all climbed up a haystack. After this,
Tolstoy followed us to "Tvitzi," my grandfather's
property, and there, at the card-table, occurred the
declaration in "primary letters," as described in "Anna
Karenina." In September we moved to Moscow, where he too
followed, and on the 17th of the month the intended
wedding was made known in Moscow. During the whole of
his stay in Moscow he was everywhere and always lively,
gay, and witty -- he was like a volcano throwing out
sacred sparks and fire. I remember him often at the
piano; he would bring music, rehearsed the cherubic song
of Bornianskiy with us, and many other songs. He
accompanied me every day and called me Mme. Viardot,
urging me to be always singing.
This is how Countess Tolstaya herself tells about her wedding,
in a conversation with Loewenfeld. We amplify and correct the
narrative which we heard from the Countess:
[Sonya Tolstaya says] The Count visited our house
constantly at that time. We thought he was courting our
elder sister, and my father was perfectly sure of it
down to the last minute, when Tolstoy asked him for my
hand. This was in 1862. We went with our mother in
August to visit our grandfather via Yasnaya Polyana. My
mother wanted to call on tolstoy's sister, and we, the
three sisters and our younger brother, therefore remained
for a few days there. Nobody was astonished at the
Count's attention to us, our acquaintance being, as I
have told you, of long standing, and the Count had always
been very kind to us. "Tvitzi," our grandfather's
property, or rather that of his wife, nee Isleneva -- for
his own land he lost by card-playing -- was fifty versts
from Yasnaya Polyana. A few days later Tolstoy arrived
and, in a word, here took place a scene similar to that
described in "Anna Karenina," when Levin made his love
declaration in "primary letters," and Kitty guessed it at
once. Up to the present, said the Countess with a smile,
proving that the mere recollection of it caused her
pleasure, I cannot understand how I made out the meaning
of the letters then. It must be true that souls attuned
to one another give out the same sound even as do equally
tuned chords."
The sentence exchanged by Tolstoy and the lady who became his
wife, which had been written only in primary letters, were the
following:
I. y. f. e. a. f. i. a. t. m. a. y. s. L. Y. a. T. m. d.
i. This meant: "In your family exists a false idea as
to me and your sister Liza. You and Tanichka must
destroy it."
The Countess guessed the sentence and nodded affirmatively.
Then he wrote:
Y. y. a. d. f. h. r. m . t. v. o. m. a. a. a. t. i. o.
h., which meant: "Your youth and desire for happiness
remind me too vividly of my advanced age and the
impossibility of happiness."
Nothing more was said between them, but they understood and
were sure of one another.
They went to Moscow, whither Tolstoy followed them. He lived
in town, and the family of bers were generally in Pokrovskoye-
Glebovo, twelve versts from Moscow, where they had lived every
summer for twenty years. Tolstoy was their daily visitor. All in
the house were perfectly sure that he was going to propose to the
elder daughter. But on September 17th [1862], the Saint's Day of
Sofya Andreyevna, Tolstoy handed her a letter in which he made her
a proposal of marriage. Of course this was joyfully accepted by
her; but her father was displeased; he did not like to give the
younger daughter in marriage before the elder one, as it was
against old customs, and he at first refused his consent. But the
persistence of Tolstoy and the firmness of Sofya Andreyevna induced
him to yield.
In Tolstoy's diary we find the following vivid reflections of
these events. After one of the visits to the family Bers, he wrote
down on August 23rd [1862]:
[Tolstoy writes] I am afraid of myself. What if it
is only the desire to love, but not love? I try to look
only at her weak side, and yet I love.
At the same time he felt the loneliness of his public life.
[Tolstoy writes] I got up in good health, with an
especially clear head; my writing came easily, but the
subject matter is poor. Then I felt so sad as I have not
for long. I have no friends, none. I am alone. There
were friends when I served Mammon, and there are none
when I serve the truth."
At last, on August 26th [1862] he wrote:
[Tolstoy writes] I went to the Bers's at Pokrovskoye
on foot. I felt at peace, comfortable. Sonya gave me a
story to read. What energy of truth and simplicity! She
is troubled with its indefiniteness. I read it all
without agitation, without any symptoms of jealousy or
envy, but the words "of excessively unattractive
appearance and inconstancy of views" hit me splendidly.
I consoled myself by the thought that it was not about
me.
Unfortunately this story was never given to the world; it was
destroyed by the author.
On August 28th [1862], his birthday, when he was thirty-four
years old, we once more see in his diary marks of hesitation, self-
accusation, and a struggle.
[Tolstoy writes] I got up in the usual sadness. I
have planned a society for apprentices. A sweet,
quieting night. You ugly face, don't think of marriage;
your calling is of another kind, and much has been given
for it.
But want of family happiness got the upper hand, and the
desire of love turned at last into real passionate love, which knew
no bars whatever. And yet notwithstanding the power of this
passion, Tolstoy here too displayed his honesty and love of truth.
After having already made his proposal and been accepted, he handed
to his betrothed all the diaries of his bachelor days, with all his
expressions of self-reproach and his perfectly sincere description
of his youthful escapades, and the excesses and moral conflicts
which he had gone through.
The reading of the diary was blow which caused deep suffering
to the young girl, who had seen in her hero the ideal of all
virtues. The suffering was so great and the struggle she went
through so hard that at times she hesitated and wondered whether
she should not sever the link. But love swept away all hesitation,
and after nights of weeping she returned him his diary with a look
in which he read forgiveness and a stronger and still more
courageous love than before.
The wedding was fixed for a very early date, the end of the
week following the formal proposal -- September 23rd [1862].
The marriage took place at the Kremlin in the Court church,
and immediately after it the newly married couple drove away in a
dormeuse to Yasnaya Polyana, where they were met by Tolstoy's
brother and his aunt tatyana Aleksandrovna.
The brother of Countess Tolstaya, S. A. bers, in his
reminiscences thus describes his sister.
[S. A. Bers (Sonya's brother) writes] My late father
did not approve of schools for girls, so that Tolstoy's
wife was brought up at home, but she went through an
examination and received the diploma of a teacher. While
a girl she kept her diary, tried to write stories, and
showed some talent for painting. [S. A. Bers,
"Reminiscences of Count L. N. Tolstoy", p13]
Soon after his marriage, Tolstoy wrote to Fet:
[Tolstoy writes] Fetoushka, Dear Old Fellow -- I
have been married for two weeks and am happy and a new,
quite new man. I wished to come to see you, but I cannot
manage it. When shall I see you? Having come to myself,
I value you very much indeed, and there is between us too
much in common and unforgettable -- Nikolenka and much
besides. Come to make my acquaintance. I kiss Marya
Petrovna's hands. Goodby dear friend. I embrace you
with all my heart. [A. Fet, "My Reminiscences"]
With his marriage, Tolstoy entered upon a new phase of life,
the family phase, "yet unknown to him, but promising salvation," as
he says in his "Confession". We shall see in our further narrative
how far these expectations of Tolstoy were justified. The spirit
of analysis did not spare even this harbor of salvation and
destroyed this allusion also. But all-powerful reason lifted him
a step higher. In the next volume we hope to peep into this
mysterious process so far as is possible.
During this period Tolstoy wrote, besides those already
mentioned, the following books: The Snowstorm; The Recollections
of a billiard-Marker; Two Hussars; Family Happiness; and
Polikushka; and he also began a new story entitled The Cloth-
Measurer.
"The Snowstorm" presents a winter landscape. While reading
it, you not only see before you the storm, the snowbound road and
the wandering drivers with their vehicles, but you hear all the
sounds of the storm, and feel in the elements a kind of soft,
evanescent life.
In the "Recollections of a Billiard-Marker" is presented a
pure, sweet, human soul gradually lost in the midst of town
debauchery.
In "Two Hussars" are pictured two generations: the old, which
indulged in all kinds of excesses but which at the same time was
unsophisticated and sincere, and therefore lived in harmony with
nature; and beside it the young generation -- viciously cautious,
calculating, and hypocritical. The harmony of nature is broken,
and the harmony of consciousness not yet found, and the soul,
depraved by vice, sounds with horrible discord.
"Family Happiness" is a quiet, touching story of family
affection and the author's experience.
"Polikushka" -- a tragedy of serfdom, the trifling of the
sentimental gentry with the peasant's soul, which possesses hidden
under its coarse appearance the finest moral traits that break at
the mere touch of the perverted and decadent nobility.
The critics of the 1860s paid very little attention to these
remarkable works.
They looked for a certain public standard and had not enough
sensibility to perceive the higher moral beauty with which these
works were imbued.
The silence of the critics induced one of them to write an
article entitled "The Phenomena of Contemporary Literature Passed
Over By Our Critics. Count Tolstoy and His Works."
We consider it out of place to enter into detailed criticism
of these works, and we mention them only as facts, proving the
unceasing inner creative work of Tolstoy.
END OF LEO TOLSTOY: HIS LIFE AND WORK, Volume I by Pavel Biryukov
(
geocities.com/cmcarpenter28)