The Life of Tolstoy: First Fifty Years

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Title: The Life of Tolstoy: First Fifty Years - Fifth Edition
Author: Maude, Aylmer
Language: English
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THE LIFE OF TOLSTOY

FIRST FIFTY YEARS

[Illustration: _Portrait of Tolstoy when commencing Anna Karénina,
1873, by Kramskóy._]

THE LIFE OF TOLSTOY

FIRST FIFTY YEARS

AYLMER MAUDE

'A man so various that he seemed to be
Not one, but all mankind's epitome.'

DRYDEN

Fifth Edition

New York
Dodd, Mead and Company
1911

First Edition September 1908
Second Edition October 1908
Third Edition September 1910
Fourth Edition January 1911
Fifth Edition April 1911

PREFACE

THE reason I have written this work is because so many among us are
interested in Tolstoy and so few seem to understand him. It would seem
therefore that an English Life of Tolstoy is needed, and having lived
in Russia for twenty-three years, known Tolstoy well for several years,
visited him frequently in Moscow, and stayed with him repeatedly at
Yásnaya Polyána, I am perhaps as well qualified as any one to write
it, especially as I have long made a careful study of his views. My
wife and I have translated several of his works, have known people
closely connected with him, and some ten years ago we took part in
an unsuccessful 'Tolstoy' Colony; besides which I went to Canada at
his wish to make arrangements for the Doukhobór migration, of which I
subsequently wrote the history.

Moreover, I am impartial. That is to say, I have taken pains to
understand Tolstoy's views, and to see the good there is in them; but
being a Westerner, I see also certain things Tolstoy overlooks, and I
know that these things knock big holes in some of his most cherished
'principles.'

The book has had the great advantage of being carefully revised by his
wife, the Countess S. A. Tolstoy, who both verbally and in writing has
rendered me most valuable assistance.

I owe sincere thanks also to my friend P. I. Birukóf, Tolstoy's Russian
biographer. He modestly speaks of his own work as 'a collection of
those materials for the biography of Leo Tolstoy which are accessible
to me.' I have no hesitation in saying that his care and integrity in
gathering and using those materials, entitle him to the gratitude of
all who deal with the same subject.

There is one small matter of typography which needs a word of
explanation. I have sought to tell as much of the story as possible
in Tolstoy's own words, and have also had occasion to quote other
writers. At times the Russian text quoted contains allusions or
expressions which might perplex an English reader unless a word or
two of explanation were added. To introduce paragraphs of explanation
would interrupt the narrative, besides lengthening the book. To have
recourse to frequent footnotes in cases where two or three words of
explanation are all that is required is unsightly and unsatisfactory;
so I have adopted the plan of using square brackets [ ] to enclose such
explanations. The ordinary round parentheses ( ) I have kept for their
common use, and for cases where, for clearness' sake, words are added
that are not contained in the original.

Beyond indicating the varying value of sums of money mentioned, I have
not troubled the reader with the fluctuations of the rouble, which
went from over 38 pence before the Crimean war, to 19 pence after the
Russo-Turkish war of 1878. If he wants a concise history of the Russian
currency, he can find it in the preface to my edition of _Sevastopol_.

In that as in other matters I have tried to be accurate without being
pedantic. It is Tolstoy and his views that I aim at presenting to
English readers; and I have kept in the background, as far as I could,
the obstacles resulting from the Tower of Babel.

AYLMER MAUDE.

GREAT BADDOW,
CHELMSFORD, _20th August 1910_.

CONTENTS

PREFACE v

NOTE ON PRONUNCIATION OF RUSSIAN NAMES xiii

I. ANCESTRY AND PARENTAGE 1

II. YOUTH AND EARLY MANHOOD 16

III. THE CAUCASUS 59

IV. THE CRIMEAN WAR 93

V. PETERSBURG; LOVE AFFAIR; DROUZHÍNIN 138

VI. TRAVELS ABROAD 166

VII. AT YÁSNAYA AGAIN; TOURGÉNEF; ARBITER; MAGAZINE 214

VIII. THE SCHOOL 246

IX. MARRIAGE 282

X. NEARING THE CRISIS 329

XI. CONFESSION 399

XII. WORKS: 1852-1878 427

CHRONOLOGY 450

INDEX 457

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PORTRAIT OF TOLSTOY WHEN COMMENCING _Anna Karénina_,
1873. By Kramskóy _Frontispiece_

_Facing page_

TOLSTOY IN 1848, AFTER LEAVING THE UNIVERSITY 48

MAP OF SEVASTOPOL 113

PROMINENT RUSSIAN WRITERS, 1856: TOURGÉNEF, SOLOGOÚB,
TOLSTOY, NEKRÁSOF, GRIGORÓVITCH, AND PANÁEF 142

TOLSTOY IN 1856, THE YEAR HE LEFT THE ARMY 152

TOLSTOY IN 1860, THE YEAR HIS BROTHER NICHOLAS DIED 200

TOLSTOY IN 1862, THE YEAR OF HIS MARRIAGE 290

TOLSTOY'S LIBRARY, SHOWING THE WOODEN CROSSPIECE FROM
WHICH HE WISHED TO HANG HIMSELF 402

NOTE ON PRONUNCIATION OF
RUSSIAN NAMES

The spelling of Russian names in Latin letters in a work of this kind,
presents great difficulties. To begin with, we have as yet (though it
is much needed) no accepted method of transliteration from Russian
into English; and though it is not difficult for any one to frame
or select his own system of transliteration--as I have done for my
translations--this does not entirely meet the case when one has to deal
with the names of people, many of whom have adopted a spelling of their
own.

On the one hand, a man has a right to decide how he will have his own
name spelt; but on the other hand, the inclusion of a dozen different
systems of transliteration in one book, is apt to create confusion.

I have had to do the best I could under the circumstances. To pronounce
the names correctly, in accord with the system of transliteration I
have adopted, the reader should note the following:

I. Lay stress on the syllable marked with an accent.

II. Vowel sounds are broad and open:

_a_ as in f_a_ther.
_e_ as _a_ in f_a_te.

But _e_ initial and unaccented is pronounced _ye_.

_i_ as _ee_ in m_ee_t.
_o_ as in l_o_ch.
_u_ as _you_.

In diphthongs the broad sounds are retained:

_ou_ as _oo_ in b_oo_t.
_ya_ as in _ya_rd.
_ye_ as in _ye_s.
_yo_ as in _yo_re.
_ay_ as _eye_.
_ey_ as in th_ey_.
_oy_ as in b_oy_.

III. _y_ with a vowel forms a diphthong; _y_ at the end of a
word, after a consonant, sounds something like _ie_ in hyg_ie_ne.

IV. Consonants:

_G_ is hard, as in _g_o.
_Zh_ is like _z_ in a_z_ure.
_R_ is sounded strongly, as in _r_ough, ba_rr_en.
_S_ is sharp, as in _s_eat, pa_ss_.

Where I know of a spelling deliberately adopted by the owner of a name,
I have felt bound to follow it. For instance, the name which under my
system of transliteration I should have spelt 'Suhotín,' appears in
the book as Soohoteén, but in such cases, on the first occasion on
which the name occurs, I have given my usual transliteration in square
brackets.

I hope the day is not distant when some system will be generally agreed
upon in this matter. Any system would be better than the present
anarchy.

CHAPTER I

ANCESTRY AND PARENTAGE

Ancestors. Count Peter. Russian titles. Tolstoy's grandfather and
father. His maternal grandfather and mother. First recollections. Aunty
Tatiána. Antecedents.

1353

IN the annals of the Russian nobility it is recorded that a man named
Idris came from 'the lands of Cæsar,' that is to say, from the Holy
Roman Empire, in the year 1353 with two sons and 3000 followers, and
settling at Tchernígof in Little Russia was received with favour by
the reigning Grand Duke, who granted him much land. A great-grandson
of this Idris, Andrew by name, migrated to Moscow, where he was well
received by the reigning Grand Duke Vasíly, who conferred upon him the
surname of Tolstóy.

1645

As, however, the annals of the Russian nobility were to a large extent
concocted in the reign of Peter the Great, it is extremely doubtful
whether this story is reliable. Be that as it may, it is certain that
Peter Tolstoy, born in 1645, was a Russian who distinguished himself
in the service of the State. During the struggles which preceded
the acquisition of power by Peter the Great, he made the mistake of
allying himself with that autocrat's ambitious half-sister, Sophia.
The defeat of her Guards, the Streltsí, caused him quickly to transfer
his allegiance to Peter, whose favour he eventually managed to secure.
When drinking with his chosen companions in later days, the Tsar would
often pat Tolstoy's head, saying, 'Little head, little head, had you
been less wise, you would have come off your shoulders long ago.'

1697, 1716, 1717

This Peter Tolstoy held a commission in the Guards, and fought in
the Azof campaign of 1696; but later on he went abroad to study
shipbuilding when Peter the Great was seeking volunteers for that
purpose. He was sent in 1701 as Ambassador to the Sublime Porte, and
in the years 1710-1713, when political affairs were critical, he twice
suffered severe imprisonment in the Seven Towers--the stronghold
wherein the Sultan occasionally confined the ambassadors of States
with whose conduct he felt dissatisfied. Returning to Russia in 1714,
Tolstoy obtained the favour of Prince Ménshikof and became a Minister
of State. He married; but his wife does not appear to have been of
sufficient importance for any one to have said anything about her. He
accompanied Peter the Great to Holland and France, and rendered him
an important though discreditable service. Peter the Great's son, the
refractory Alexis, who disliked his father's reforms, had escaped from
Russia and was living with his mistress Euphrosyne at St. Elmo, near
Naples. By threats and promises, and by the aid of this woman, Tolstoy
induced the unfortunate Tsarévitch to return to Russia, and when he had
got him there, took a leading part in his trial and secret execution.

30 Aug. 1725

For this service Tolstoy received large estates and was promoted to the
headship of the Secret Chancellery. On the day of the coronation of
Peter's second wife, Catherine, Tolstoy was made a Count. His coat of
arms shows seven towers, in memory of his imprisonment by the Sultan,
and is appropriately supported by two wolf-hounds rampant, looking
outwards.

6 May 1727, 1729

On the death of Peter the Great, Tolstoy actively supported Ménshikof
in securing the throne for Catherine the First, and he was one of the
seven members of the Upper Secret Council which practically ruled
Russia. On the question of choosing a successor to Catherine, he
ventured however to oppose Ménshikof. The latter was too powerful for
him; and forfeiting his title of Count and deprived of all offices
rewards and estates, Tolstoy, at the age of eighty-two, was banished
for life to the Solovétz Monastery, situated on an island in the White
Sea. Here, two years later, he died. Ménshikof himself, one may remark
in passing, finished his life that same year in Siberia, having been
banished by an order signed by the boy he had placed on the throne. To
be a Russian Minister of State in those days was almost as dangerous as
it is in our times to be a revolutionary conspirator.

The title of Count was revived in the family in 1770, for the benefit
of Peter Tolstoy's grandson; whose son, Count Elias Tolstoy (he figures
in _War and Peace_ as the elder Count Rostóf), was the grandfather of
Leo Tolstoy, whose life this book narrates.

There is one matter which it may be as well to explain at the outset,
as English readers are so often puzzled by it: I refer to the nature
of Russian titles of nobility. The only really Russian title is that
of _Knyaz_, commonly translated 'Prince.' It is borne by descendants
of Rúrik, by descendants of the Lithuanian Prince Ghedimin, and
by descendants of various Tartar Khans whose dominions Russia has
annexed. It has also been conferred by Imperial Decree on a dozen or
more other Russian families. Though _Knyaz_ is translated 'Prince,'
_Velíky Knyaz_, curiously enough, is not translated 'Great Prince,' but
'Grand Duke,' and this indicates how difficult it is to find suitable
equivalents for these titles. Not till the time of Peter the Great were
the German titles, Count (_Graf_) and Baron, introduced into Russia.
Both of these are now common among the Russo-German landlords of the
Baltic Provinces; and less so among real Russians.

It must be borne in mind that there is no law of primogeniture in
Russia. Each son and daughter inherits the family title, so that there
are usually several, and sometimes many, people with equal rights to
use the same title. Though springing from one stock, they may be only
distantly connected. There are for instance other Counts Tolstoy,
contemporaries of Leo Tolstoy and distant cousins of his. One of these,
the poet Count Alexis Tolstoy, was a well-known author and dramatist.
Another, the reactionary Count Dmítry Tolstoy, was successively Head of
the Holy Synod, Minister of Education, and Minister of the Interior.

Tolstoy's grandfather already mentioned, Count Elias Tolstoy, was an
easy-going generous trustful and extravagant man, who married a wealthy
Princess Gortchakóf, but ran through her money and his own, and at
last to secure a means of livelihood, procured the post of Governor
of Kazán. This he was able to do, thanks to his family influence. It
is recorded to his credit that, contrary to the general custom of the
time, he accepted no bribes (except from the Government contractor, who
was considered the natural financial prop of a Provincial Governor),
though his wife accepted presents without his knowledge.

Their eldest daughter married a Count Osten-Saken. She became guardian
of Leo Tolstoy and of his brothers and sister, after they had lost
their parents. Another daughter married V. I. Úshkof. Leo Tolstoy was
under her charge when he lived in Kazán and studied at its University.

The first fact known to us about his father, Count Nicholas Tolstoy, is
characteristic of the manners of his class and day. When he was only
sixteen, his parents arranged a _liaison_ between him and a peasant
girl, such connections being considered necessary for the health of
young men. A son was born, and Tolstoy records his 'strange feeling of
consternation when (in after years) this brother of mine, fallen into
destitution and bearing a greater resemblance to my father than any of
us, used to beg help of us, and was thankful for the ten or fifteen
roubles we used to give him.'

1812, 1814

Nicholas Tolstoy was not yet seventeen when Napoleon invaded Russia;
but in spite of his parents' efforts to dissuade him, he insisted on
entering the army, and thanks to his mother's family influence, quickly
obtained an appointment as Adjutant to Prince Andrew Gortchakóf, a
General in command. He went through the campaigns of 1813 and 1814; and
in the latter year he and his orderly, while on their way to rejoin the
Russian army in Germany, after taking despatches to Petersburg, were
captured by the French. The orderly managed to hide his master's gold
coins in his boots, and for months never risked taking them off, though
his feet grew sore and he suffered extreme discomfort. Thanks to this
devotion, Nicholas Tolstoy, after reaching Paris, was able to live in
comfort.

Having attained the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel, he left the army when
the war was over, and, disillusioned with military service, returned
to Kazán, where his father (completely ruined by that time) was still
Governor.

1820

In 1820 Count Elias died, leaving his estate so encumbered that his son
declined to accept the inheritance. The young man had to face the task
of providing for his old mother, who was accustomed to great luxury,
as well as for his sister and a distant cousin, Tatiána Alexándrovna
Érgolsky, who had been adopted into the family; and so a marriage was
arranged for him with the wealthy but plain Princess Marie Volkónsky,
who was no longer very young.

His father's life, Tolstoy tells us, was then

passed in attending to the estate, a business in which he was not
very expert, but in which he exercised a virtue great for those
days: he was not cruel, but perhaps even lacked firmness. During
his lifetime I never heard of corporal punishment. If it ever was
administered to the serfs, the cases were so rare and my father
took so little part in them, that we children never heard them
mentioned. It was after his death that I learnt, for the first
time, that such punishment ever took place at home.

Like most men who served in the army in the early years of
Alexander's reign, he [Count Nicholas Tolstoy] was not what is
now called a Liberal, but out of self-respect he considered it
impossible to serve during the latter [reactionary] part of
Alexander's reign, or under Nicholas. During all my childhood and
youth, our family had no intimate relations with any Government
official. I, of course, understood nothing about this in childhood,
but I understood that my father never humbled himself before any
one, nor altered his brisk, merry, and often chaffing tone. This
feeling of self-respect, which I witnessed in him, increased my
love and admiration for him.

Leo Tolstoy's mother's family, the Volkónskys, were descended from
Rúrik (the first ruler mentioned in Russian history) as well as from
St. Michael the martyr, Prince of Tchernígof; and through them, even
more than on his father's side, Tolstoy is connected with many of the
leading families of the Russian aristocracy. Prince Nicholas Volkónsky,
his mother's father, came into conflict with the most powerful of the
favourites of Catherine the Great, for Tolstoy tells us that:

Having attained the high position of Commander-in-Chief, he lost
it suddenly by refusing to marry Potémkin's niece and mistress,
Varvára Engelhardt. To Potémkin's suggestion that he should do so,
he replied: 'What makes him think I will marry his strumpet?'

He married instead, a Princess Catherine Troubetskóy, and after
retiring from the service, settled down on his estate at Yásnaya
Polyána. His wife soon died, leaving him only one surviving child, a
daughter, Tolstoy's mother. Tolstoy writes of this grandfather:

He was regarded as a very exacting master, but I never heard any
instance of his being cruel or inflicting the severe punishments
usual in those days. I believe such cases did occur on his estate,
but the enthusiastic respect for his importance and cleverness
was so great among the servants and peasants whom I have often
questioned about him, that though I have heard my father condemned,
I have heard only praise of my grandfather's intelligence, business
capacity, and interest in the welfare both of the peasants and of
his enormous household.

Later, a strange chance brought Prince Volkónsky again into touch with
Varvára Engelhardt, whom he had refused to marry. She married a Prince
Sergius Golítsin, who consequently received promotions and decorations
and rewards; and Tolstoy tells us:

With this Sergius Golítsin and his family, my grandfather formed so
close a friendship that my mother from her childhood was betrothed
to one of his ten sons.... This alliance, however, was not destined
to be consummated, for the young man died prematurely of fever.

In a portrait of Prince N. Volkónsky which has been preserved in the
family there is much that corresponds to Leo Tolstoy's own appearance.
'Both,' as his brother-in-law remarks, 'have high, open foreheads and
large organs of the creative faculty, and in both the organs of musical
talent are exceedingly prominent and are covered by thick, overhanging
eyebrows, from beneath which small, deep-set, grey eyes literally
pierce the soul of the man on whom they are turned.'

1822

Prince N. Volkónsky died in 1820, and two years later his daughter
married Count Nicholas Tolstoy. Of her Tolstoy tells us:

I do not remember my mother. I was a year-and-a-half old when she
died. By some strange chance no portrait of her has been preserved,
so that as a real physical being I cannot picture her to myself. I
am in a way 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 has come about not merely because all who spoke to
me of my mother tried to say only what was good, but because there
actually was much good in her.

She was well educated, spoke five languages, played the piano well,
and had a wonderful gift for improvising tales in the most delightful
manner. It is said that at balls her young lady friends would leave
the dance and gather in a dark room to hear her tell a story, which
shyness induced her to do where she could not be seen. Tolstoy remarks
that 'her most valuable quality was that though hot-tempered, she was
yet self-restrained. "She would get quite red in the face and even
cry," her maid told me, "but would never say a rude word."' She had one
quality Tolstoy values very highly--that of never condemning any one.
It was a quality shared by her eldest son, Nicholas; and Leo Tolstoy
says:

In the _Lives of the Saints_ by D. Rostóvsky, there is a short
story which has always touched me exceedingly, of a certain monk,
who to the knowledge of all his brethren had many faults, but whom
an old monk, in a dream, saw occupying a place of honour among the
saints. The old man asked in astonishment, 'How could this monk, so
unrestrained in many ways, deserve so great a reward?' The answer
was: 'He never condemned any one.'

Tolstoy adds: 'If such rewards did exist, I think my brother and my
mother would have received them.'

Another feature Tolstoy records of his mother is 'her truthfulness
and the simple tone of her correspondence.' He tells us that in his
imagination his mother

appeared to me a creature so elevated, pure and spiritual, that
often in the middle period of my life, during my struggles with
overwhelming temptations, I prayed to her soul begging her to aid
me; and such prayer always helped me much.

1828

Five children were born to Nicholas and Marie Tolstoy. First came
four sons, of whom Leo was the youngest. His name in Russian is Lyóf
Nikoláyevitch (Leo, son-of-Nicholas) Tolstóy. Leo Tolstoy is the way
he signs himself when using the Latin alphabet; and when pronouncing
his name it should be remembered that the accent falls on the second
syllable, and that that syllable rhymes with 'boy.' The fancy spellings
_Tolstoi_ and _Tolstoï_ are due to the fact that some of the early
translators and reviewers, not being able to read Russian, relied on
French versions, and did not know how Tolstoy spells or pronounces his
own name. He was born on 28th August 1828[1] at Yásnaya Polyána, with
a caul--which both in Russia and in England is considered a sign of
good-fortune.

[1] The dates mentioned in the text are usually old style
(twelve days behind our calendar), unless the contrary is
expressly stated.

A year and a half later a daughter, Marie, was born; and in giving
birth to her the mother died, on 7th March 1830.

Pilgrims, monks, nuns, and various half-crazy devotees were frequent
visitors at the house, and even took up their abode there. One of these
was a nun, Márya Gerásimovna, who in her youth had made pilgrimages
to various holy places dressed as a man. After the birth of four boys
Tolstoy's mother longed for a daughter, and promised Márya Gerásimovna
that she should be godmother if by prayer she enabled her to obtain her
desire. The next child really was a daughter. The promise was kept,
and thereafter Márya Gerásimovna, though she lived partly in the Toúla
convent, was free of the Tolstoys' house and spent much of her time
there.

Tolstoy gives us his earliest reminiscences in an autobiographical
fragment published in 1878:

These are my first recollections. I cannot arrange them in order,
for I do not know which come first or last. Of some of them I
do not even know whether they happened in a dream or when I was
awake. I lie bound[2] and wish to stretch out my arms, but cannot.
I scream and cry, and my screams are disagreeable to myself,
but I cannot stop. Some one--I do not remember who--bends over
me. This all happens in semi-darkness. I only know there were
two people there. My cries affect them: they are agitated by my
screams, but do not untie me as I want them to, and I scream
still louder. To them it seems necessary that I should be bound,
but I know it is unnecessary and I wish to prove this to them,
and I again burst into cries which are unpleasant to myself but
are yet unrestrainable. I feel the injustice and cruelty--not of
people, for they pity me, but--of fate, and I pity myself. I do
not know and shall never know, what it was all about: whether I
was swaddled while still a baby at the breast, and struggled to
free my hands; whether they swaddled me when I was more than a
year old, to prevent my scratching some sore, or whether I have
gathered into this one recollection (as one does in a dream) many
different impressions. The one sure thing is, that this was the
first and strongest impression of my life. And what remains on my
memory is not my cries nor my suffering, but the complexity and
contradictoriness of the impressions. I desire freedom, it would
harm no one, but I who need strength am weak, while they are strong.

[2] Russian babies are usually swaddled tightly with bands,
making them look like fresh mummies.

The next impression is a pleasant one. I am sitting in a tub, and
am surrounded by a new and not unpleasant smell of something with
which they are rubbing my tiny body. Probably it was bran, put
into the water of my bath; the novelty of the sensation caused by
the bran aroused me, and for the first time I became aware of, and
liked, my own little body with the visible ribs on my breast, and
the smooth, dark, wooden tub, the bared arms of my nurse, the warm,
steaming, swirling water, the noise it made, and especially the
smooth feel of the wet rim of the tub as I passed my hands along it.

My next recollections belong to the time when I was five or six,
and there are very few of them, and not one that relates to life
outside the walls of the house. Nature, up to the age of five, did
not exist for me. All that I remember, happened in bed or in our
rooms. Neither grass, nor leaves, nor sky, nor sun existed for me.
It cannot be that no one ever gave me flowers and leaves to play
with, that I never saw any grass, that they never shaded me from
the sun; but up to the time when I was five or six years old, I
have no recollection of what we call Nature. Probably, to see it,
one has to be separate from it, and I was Nature.

The recollection that comes next after the tub is that of
Ereméyevna. 'Ereméyevna' was the name with which they used to
frighten us children. Probably they had long frightened us with
it, but my recollection of it is this: I am in bed and feel
well and happy as usual, and I should not remember it, but that
suddenly the nurse, or some one of those who made up my life,
says something in a voice new to me, and then goes away; and in
addition to being happy I am also frightened. And besides me there
is some one else like me. (Probably my sister Mary, whose crib
stood in the same room.) And I now remember a curtain near my bed;
and both my sister and I are happy and frightened at the strange
thing happening to us, and I hide in my pillow: hide, and glance
at the door from behind which I expect something new and merry. We
laugh, and hide, and wait. And then some one appears in a dress
and cap quite unknown to me, but I recognise that it is the same
person who is always with us (whether my nurse or aunt I do not
remember), and this some one says something about bad children
and about Ereméyevna in a gruff voice which I know. And I squeal
with fear and pleasure, and really am frightened, and yet am glad
to be frightened, and wish her who is frightening me not to know
that I have recognised her. We become quiet, but presently begin
whispering to one another again, on purpose that Ereméyevna may
come back.

I have another recollection similar to this of Ereméyevna (but
as it is clearer it probably belongs to a later date) which has
always remained inexplicable to me. In this recollection the chief
part is played by our German tutor, Theodore Ivánitch, but I am
sure I was not yet in his charge; so the event must have taken
place before I was five. It is my first recollection of Theodore
Ivánitch, and it took place at so early an age that I can remember
no one else: neither my brothers nor my father nor any one. If
I have some notion of some one individual person, it is only of
my sister, and this only because she, like me, was afraid of
Ereméyevna. With this recollection is joined my first conception
of the fact that our house had a top story. How I climbed
there--whether I went by myself or whether any one carried me--I
have quite forgotten, but I remember that many of us are there,
and we all form a circle holding each other's hands; among us are
some women I did not know (for some reason I remember that they
were washer-women), and we all begin to go round and to jump; and
Theodore Ivánitch jumps, lifting his legs too high and too loudly
and noisily, and I at one and the same instant feel that this is
bad and depraved, and notice him and (I believe) begin to cry--and
all is over.

That is all I remember up to the age of five. Neither my nurses,
aunts, brothers, sister, nor my father, nor the rooms, nor my toys,
do I remember. My more distinct recollections begin from the time I
was moved downstairs to Theodore Ivánitch and the elder boys.

When I was moved downstairs to Theodore Ivánitch and the boys, I
experienced for the first time and therefore more strongly than
ever since, the feeling which is called the sense of duty, the
consciousness of the cross every man is called upon to bear. It
was hard to leave what I was accustomed to from the beginning of
things, and I was sad, poetically sad, not so much at parting from
people: sister, nurse, and aunt, as at parting with my crib, the
curtain and the pillow; and I feared the new life into which I was
entering. I tried to see the jolly side of this new life awaiting
me; I tried to believe the caressing words with which Theodore
Ivánitch lured me to him. I tried not to see the contempt with
which the boys received me, the youngest boy. I tried to think
it was a shame for a big boy to live with girls, and that there
was nothing good in the life upstairs with nurse; but my heart
was terribly sad, I knew I was irreparably losing my innocence
and happiness; and only a feeling of personal dignity and the
consciousness of doing my duty upheld me. (Often in after-life I
have experienced similar moments at the parting of crossroads,
when entering on a fresh course.) I experienced quiet grief at the
irreparableness of my loss; I was unable to believe that it would
really happen. Though I had been told that I should be moved to
the boys' rooms, I remember that the dressing-gown with a cord
sewn to its back, which they put on me, seemed to cut me off for
ever from upstairs, and I then for the first time observed--not
all those with whom I had lived upstairs, but--the chief person
with whom I lived, and whom I did not remember before. This was my
Aunty Tatiána Alexándrovna Érgolsky. I remember her short, stout,
black-haired, kindly, tender, and compassionate. It was she who put
the dressing-gown on me, and embracing me and kissing me, tied it
round my waist; and I saw that she felt as I did, that it was sad,
terribly sad, but had to be; and for the first time I felt that
life is not a game but a serious matter.

'Aunty' Tatiána Alexándrovna Érgolsky, mentioned in the above
reminiscences, was a very distant relative who being left an orphan,
had been brought up by Tolstoy's paternal grandparents. She was very
attractive and affectionate. She loved and was loved by Count Nicholas,
Leo's father, but stood aside that he might marry the rich Princess
Marie Volkónsky and repair the family fortunes. Six years after his
wife's death Count Nicholas asked Tatiána to marry him and be a mother
to his children. Not wishing (Tolstoy tells us) to spoil her pure,
poetic relations with the family, she refused the first but fulfilled
the second of these requests.

The joyousness of Tolstoy's boyhood was largely due to the care and
affection of this excellent woman, and in the most firmly rooted of
his principles--such as his detestation of corporal punishment and his
approval of complete chastity--it is easy to trace her unconscious
influence.

Here for instance is one episode:

We children were returning home from a walk with our tutor, when
near the barn we met the fat steward, Andrew, followed by the
coachman's assistant, 'Squinting Kouzmá' as he was called, whose
face was sad. He was a married man and no longer young. One of us
asked Andrew where he was going, and he quietly replied that he
was going to the barn, where Kouzmá had to be punished. I cannot
describe the dreadful feeling which these words and the sight of
the good-natured crestfallen Kouzmá produced on me. In the evening
I told this to my Aunt Tatiána, who hated corporal punishment and,
wherever she had influence, never allowed it for us any more than
for the serfs. She was greatly revolted at what I told her, and
rebuking me said, '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 done.

To sum up what we know of Tolstoy's antecedents: he was descended on
his father's side and still more on his mother's, from aristocratic
families who were more or less in passive opposition to the Government,
and who shared the humanitarian sympathies current in the early years
of the reign of Alexander I. A cousin of Tolstoy's mother was one of
the Decembrists, and on the accession of Nicholas I in 1825 took part
in their abortive attempt to establish Constitutional Government. He
was exiled to Eastern Siberia for thirty years, doing hard labour in
irons part of the time. His wife (another Princess Marie Volkónsky)
voluntarily accompanied him, as Nekrásof has told in a well-known
Russian poem. Several members of the family towards the end of their
lives retired into convents or monasteries.

We find strong family love uniting the homes of Tolstoy's parents and
grandparents; and even after their death, Tolstoy's nature ripened
in a congenial atmosphere of family affection; and many of his most
pronounced sympathies and antipathies are not peculiar to himself, but
were shared equally by other members of the family.

CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER I

P. Birukof: _Lyof Nikolayevitch Tolstoy. Biografiya_: Moscow, 1906.
(The Russian edition is much more readable and accurate than the
English.)

Referred to hereafter as _Birukof_.

S. A. Behrs: _Vospominaniya o Grafe L. N. Tolstom_, Smolensk, 1894,
is very valuable as being the work of one who spent twelve summers at
Yasnaya, and knew Tolstoy intimately.

Referred to hereafter as _Behrs_.

There is an English edition of this book: _Recollections of Count Leo
Tolstoy_, London, 1893, but it is incomplete, and inferior to the
Russian in many ways. It gives the author's name wrongly as C. A. Behrs.

Leo Tolstoy, _First Recollections_, a fragment: Tolstoy's collected
works, Moscow, 1892.

Supplement to _Novy Mir_, Graf Lyof Tolstoy: St. Petersburg, 1903.

Referred to hereafter as _Novy Mir_.

CHAPTER II

CHILDHOOD AND EARLY MANHOOD

Yásnaya Polyána. Aunt Tatiána. The German Tutor. The brothers:
Nicholas, Sergius and Demetrius. Doúnetchka. The house-serfs. A
family scene. Pilgrims and saints. Death of father and grandmother.
Flying. Personal appearance. Corporal punishment. Originality. Riding
lessons. The Countess Osten-Saken. Aunt P. I. Úshkof. Books. Abstract
speculations. Kazán University. Imprisonment. Diary. Demetrius. Books:
Dickens and Rousseau. Yásnaya again. Petersburg. Consistency. Rudolph
the Musician. Women. Gambling. Gipsy girls. Money difficulties. The
liberty of Russian nobles.

YÁSNAYA POLYÁNA (Bright Glade), where Tolstoy was born, had been
an ancestral estate of the Volkónskys and belonged to his mother,
the Princess Marie. It is situated ten miles south of Toúla, in a
pleasantly undulating country. The estate, which is enclosed by an
old brick wall, is well wooded and has many avenues of lime-trees, a
river and four lakes. In Tolstoy's grandfather's time, sentinels kept
guard at the small, round, brick towers, which now stand neglected at
the entrance of the main birch avenue leading to the house. Something
of the great confidence in himself and readiness to despise others,
which despite all his efforts to be humble, characterise Tolstoy, may
be due to the fact that he was born and grew up on an estate where for
generations his ancestors had been the only people of importance.

'Aunty' Tatiána Alexándrovna Érgolsky had been brought up by his
grandmother on an equality with her own children. She (Tatiána) was
resolute, self-sacrificing, and, says Tolstoy,

must have been very attractive with her enormous plait of crisp,
black, curly hair, her jet-black eyes, and vivacious, energetic
expression. When I remember her she was more than forty, and I
never thought about her as pretty or not pretty. I simply loved
her eyes, her smile, and her dusky broad little hand, with its
energetic little cross vein.

We had two aunts and a grandmother; they all had more right to us
than Tatiána Alexándrovna, whom we called Aunt only by habit (for
our kinship was so distant that I could never remember what it
was), but she took the first place in our upbringing by right of
love to us (like Buddha in the story of the wounded swan), and we
felt her right.

I had fits of passionately tender love for her.

I remember once, when I was about five, how I squeezed in behind
her on the sofa in the drawing-room and she caressingly touched me
with her hand. I caught it and began to kiss it, and to cry with
tender love of her....

Aunty Tatiána had the greatest influence on my life. From early
childhood she taught me the spiritual delight of love. She taught
me this joy not by words; but 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, quiet life.

Another, though a much less important, influence was that of the tutor,
Theodore Rössel (who figures as Karl Ivánovitch Mauer in Tolstoy's
early sketch, _Childhood_). Tolstoy owes his excellent knowledge of
German and French to the fact that his father, following a custom
common among well-to-do Russians, engaged foreign teachers and let his
children learn languages not so much from books as by conversation,
while they were still quite young. Rössel's 'honest, straightforward,
and loving nature' helped to develop the boy's good qualities.

Tolstoy got on well, too, with his brothers, who were five-and-a-half,
two, and one year older than himself, as well as with his little sister
Marie, his junior by a year-and-a-half.

He not only loved, but deeply respected, his eldest brother Nicholas
(pet name, Nikólenka), whose influence lasted until, and even after,
his death in 1860. Of him Tolstoy says:

He was a wonderful boy, and later a wonderful man. Tourgénef used
to say of him very truly, that he only lacked certain faults
to be a great writer. He lacked the chief fault needed for
authorship--vanity, and was not at all interested in what people
thought of him. The qualities of a writer which he possessed were,
first of all, a fine artistic sense, an extremely developed sense
of proportion, a good-natured gay sense of humour, 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 for hours together he could tell fairy-tales or
ghost-stories, or amusing tales in the style of Mrs. Radcliffe,
without a pause and with such vivid realisation 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 twisted moustaches,
intertwined in the most varied attitudes and engaged in the most
diverse occupations. These drawings were also full of imagination.

It was he who, when I was five and my brothers, Dmítry six and
Sergéy seven, announced to us that he possessed a secret by means
of which, when disclosed, all men would become happy: there would
be no more disease, no trouble, no one would be angry with anybody,
all would love one another, and all would become 'Ant-Brothers.'...
We even organised a game of Ant-Brothers, which consisted in
sitting under chairs, sheltering ourselves with boxes, screening
ourselves with handkerchiefs, and cuddling against one another
while thus crouching in the dark.... The Ant-Brotherhood was
revealed to us, but not the chief secret: the way for all men
to cease suffering any misfortune, to leave off quarrelling and
being angry, and become continuously happy; this secret he said
he had written on a green stick, buried by the road at the edge
of a certain ravine, at which spot (since my body must be buried
somewhere) I have asked to be buried in memory of Nikólenka.
Besides this little stick, there was also a certain Fanfarónof
Hill, up which he said he could lead us, if only we would fulfil
all the appointed conditions. These were: first, to stand in a
corner and not think of a white bear. I remember how I used to get
into a corner and try (but could not possibly manage) not to think
of a white bear. The second condition was to walk without wavering
along a crack between the boards of the floor; and the third was,
for a whole year not to see a hare, alive or dead or cooked; and
it was necessary to swear not to reveal these secrets to any one.
He who fulfilled these, and other more difficult conditions which
Nikólenka would communicate later, would have one wish, whatever it
might be, fulfilled.

Nikólenka, as I now conjecture, had probably read or heard of the
Freemasons--of their aspirations toward the happiness of mankind,
and of the mysterious initiatory rites on entering their order; he
had probably also heard about the Moravian Brothers [in Russian
_ant_ is _mouravéy_].

Writing when he was over seventy, Tolstoy adds:

The ideal of ant-brothers lovingly clinging to one another, though
not under two arm-chairs curtained by handkerchiefs, but of all
mankind under the wide dome of heaven, has remained the same for
me. As I then believed that there existed a little green stick
whereon was written the message which could destroy all evil in
men and give them universal welfare, so I now believe that such
truth exists and will be revealed to men, and will give them all it
promises.

It was, however, Tolstoy's second brother, Sergius (or Sergéy: pet
name, Seryózha), whom Tolstoy in his young days most enthusiastically
admired and wished to imitate. Sergius was handsome, proud,
straightforward, and singularly sincere. Of him Leo Tolstoy says:

I loved and wished to be like him. I admired his handsome
appearance, his singing (he was always singing), his drawing,
his gaiety and especially (strange as it may seem to say so) the
spontaneity of his egotism. I myself was always aware of myself
and self-conscious; I always guessed, rightly or wrongly, what
other people thought or felt about me, and this spoilt my joy in
life. This probably is why in others I specially liked the opposite
feature--spontaneity of egotism. And for this I specially loved
Seryózha. The word _loved_ is not correct. I loved Nikólenka; but
for Seryózha I was filled with admiration as for something quite
apart from and incomprehensible to me.

Of the third brother, Demetrius (or Dmítry: pet name, Mítenka), only a
year older than himself, Tolstoy tells us:

I hardly remember him as a boy. I only know by hearsay that as a
child he was very capricious. He was nearest to me in age and I
played with him oftenest, but did not love him as much as I loved
Seryózha, nor as I loved and respected Nikólenka. He and I lived
together amicably. I do not recollect that we quarrelled. Probably
we did, and we may even have fought.... As a child I remember
nothing special about Mítenka except his childish merriment.

Tolstoy says he was 'afraid of beggars, and of one of the Volkónskys,
who used to pinch me; but, I think, of no one else.'

A girl, Doúnetchka Temeshóf, was adopted as a member of the family. She
was a natural daughter of a wealthy bachelor friend of Tolstoy's father.

I remember how, when I had already learnt French, I was made to
teach her that alphabet. At first it went all right (we were both
about five years old), but later she probably became tired, and
ceased to name correctly the letters I pointed out. I insisted. She
began to cry. I did the same, and when our elders came, we could
say nothing owing to our hopeless tears.

In his later recollections of her he says:

She was not clever, but was a good, simple girl; and, above all, so
pure that we boys never had any but brotherly relations with her.

By which he means that there was no flirtation.

The relations between the family and its servants, who were serfs
(and of whom there were about thirty), were, as in many a Russian
family, often really affectionate. One instance of a serf's devotion
has already been quoted; and such cases were not rare. In _Childhood_
mention is made of the old housekeeper, Praskóvya Isáyevna, who was
completely devoted to the welfare of the family, and Tolstoy says: 'All
that I there wrote about her was actual truth.'

Here is another example illustrating both kindly toleration of minor
offences committed by a serf, and the family affection which sweetened
life:

My pleasantest recollections of my father are of his sitting with
grandmother on the sofa, helping her to play Patience. My father
was polite and tender with every one, but to my grandmother he was
always particularly tenderly submissive. They used to sit--Grandma
playing Patience, and from time to time taking pinches from a
gold snuff-box. My aunts sit in arm-chairs, and one of them reads
aloud. We children come in to say good-night, and sometimes sit
there. We always take leave of Grandma and our aunts by kissing
their hands. I remember once, in the middle of a game of Patience
and of the reading, my father interrupts my aunt, points to a
looking-glass and whispers something. We all look in the same
direction. It was the footman Tíkhon, who (knowing that my father
was in the drawing-room) was going into the study to take some
tobacco from a big leather folding tobacco-pouch. My father sees
him in the looking-glass, and notices his figure carefully stepping
on tip-toe. My aunts laugh. Grandmama for a long time does not
understand, but when she does, she too smiles cheerfully. I am
enchanted by my father's kindness, and on taking leave of him kiss
his white muscular hand with special tenderness.

An important feature of the life in which Tolstoy grew up was furnished
by the half-crazy saints who swarmed in Russia in those days, and are
still occasionally to be met with. Readers of _Childhood_ will remember
Grísha, an admirable specimen of that class, about whom Tolstoy makes
the following characteristic note in his memoirs:

Grísha is an invented character. We had many of these half-crazy
saints at our house, and I was taught to regard them with profound
respect, for which I am deeply grateful to those who brought me
up. If there were some among them who were insincere, or who
experienced periods of weakness and insincerity, yet the aim of
their life, though practically absurd, was so lofty that I am glad
I learned in childhood unconsciously to understand the height of
their achievement. They accomplished what Marcus Aurelius speaks
of when he says: 'There is nothing higher than to endure contempt
for one's good life.' So harmful and so unavoidable is the desire
for human glory which always contaminates good deeds, that one
cannot but sympathise with the effort not merely to avoid praise,
but even to evoke contempt. Such a character was Márya Gerásimovna,
my sister's godmother, and the semi-idiot Evdokímoushka, and some
others in our house.

How deeply these early impressions were engraved on Tolstoy's mind
is obvious from his earliest as well as his latest writings. Take,
for instance, the lines from _Childhood_ referring to Grísha's prayer
overheard by the children.

Much water has flowed away since then, many recollections of the
past have lost for me their meaning and become blurred fancies;
even the pilgrim Grísha himself has long since finished his last
pilgrimage; but the impression he produced on me and the feeling he
evoked, will never die out of my memory.

In Tolstoy's later life we shall again and again find this medieval
note recurring (with whatever of truth or falsity it contains), and the
assertion that it is not the usefulness or uselessness of a man's life
that matters, so much as his self-abnegation and the humility of his
soul.

To complete the picture of Tolstoy's early boyhood at Yásnaya Polyána,
we must think of him as interested in his father's dogs and horses
and hunting (in _Childhood_ he tells the true story of how he hunted
his first hare), and also in the games and masquerades with which
the family and visitors, as well as the servants, amused themselves,
especially at New Year.

In spite of his sensitive introspective nature, Tolstoy's childhood was
a happy one; and to it he always looks back with pleasure. He speaks
of 'that splendid, innocent, joyful, poetic period of childhood, up to
fourteen,' and he tells us that the impressions of early childhood,
preserved in one's memory, grow in some unfathomable depth of the soul,
like seeds thrown on good ground, till after many years they thrust
their bright, green shoots into God's world.

1837

When Tolstoy was eight years old the family moved to Moscow for his
elder brothers' education. The following summer they lost their father,
who, having gone to Toúla on business, fell down in the street on his
way to visit his friend Temeshóf, and died of apoplexy. What money he
had with him was stolen, but some unnegotiable bonds were brought back
to the Tolstoys in Moscow by an unknown beggar. The funeral took place
at Yásnaya Polyána; and Leo, who did not attend it, long fancied that
his father was not really dead. Looking at the faces of strangers in
the streets of Moscow, he felt almost certain he might at any moment
meet him alive again.

This event brought the problems of life and death vividly to the boy's
mind, and nine months later the impression was intensified by the
death of his grandmother, who never recovered from the shock of her
son's death. Hers was the first death Tolstoy witnessed, and he never
forgot the horror he felt when, as she lay dying of dropsy, he was
admitted to kiss her swollen white hand and saw her, dressed in white,
lying motionless on a high white bed. But he says:

I remember that new jackets of black material, braided with white,
were made for all of us. It was dreadful to see the undertakers'
men hanging about near the house, and then bringing in the coffin,
with its lid covered with glazed brocade, and my grandmother's
stern face, with its Roman nose, and her white cap and the white
kerchief on her neck, lying high in the coffin on the table; and
it was sad to see the tears of our aunts and of Páshenka; but yet
the new braided jackets and the soothing attitude adopted towards
us by those around, gratified us.... I remember how pleasant it
was to me to overhear during the funeral the conversation of some
gossiping female guests, who said, 'Complete orphans; their father
only lately dead, and now the grandmother gone too.'

Some time after this, an event occurred that is recorded on the first
page of Tolstoy's _Confession_:

I remember how, when I was about eleven, a boy Vladímir Milútin
(long since dead), a Grammar School pupil, visited us one Sunday
and announced as the latest novelty a discovery made at his School.
The discovery was that there is no God, and all that we are taught
about Him is a mere invention. I remember how interested my elder
brothers were in this news. They called me to their council and
we all, I remember, became animated, and accepted the news as
something very interesting and fully possible.

Various stories have been preserved relating to Tolstoy's boyhood, and
some of them are sufficiently characteristic to be worth repeating.

One incident which made a strong impression on the lad, keenly
sensitive as he always was to any shade of injustice, was the following:

Soon after the death of their father and grandmother, the orphan
Tolstoys, then living in rather straitened circumstances (owing to the
property being left in trust), were invited to a Christmas Tree at the
house of an acquaintance, and the young Princes Gortchakóf, nephews of
the then Minister of War, were also among the guests. All the children
received presents; but whereas the Gortchakófs had expensive ones, the
Tolstoys, to their annoyance, received cheap common ones.

Another occurrence that clung to his recollection through life, was
the friendly welcome they received one day when they made their way
uninvited into a private garden in Moscow; and the sad disappointment
they experienced when, returning a few days later unaccompanied by
a pretty and attractive girl who had been with them on the former
occasion, they were coldly informed that it was private ground, not
open to the public.

Other stories, told by Tolstoy himself or by the family, illustrate his
impulsive, imaginative, strenuous and rather erratic nature at this
period.

When he was about seven or eight years old he had an ardent desire to
fly, and persuaded himself that it was possible to do so. It was only
necessary to sit down tight on your heels, clasping your arms firmly
round your knees, and the tighter you held them the higher you would
fly. As Tolstoy was always ardent to put his beliefs into practice, it
is not very surprising that one day, soon after the family had moved
to Moscow, he stayed behind in the class-room when he should have come
down to dinner, and climbing out on the window-sill, some six yards
from the ground, threw himself out. He was picked up unconscious.
The ill results of his fall were fortunately confined to a slight
concussion of the brain; and after sleeping for eighteen hours on end
he woke up again quite well.

It would be a mistake to take his story, _Childhood_, as strictly
autobiographical; but it contains many passages which one knows from
other sources to be true of his own life, and one such is the passage
in which (speaking in the character of Nikólenka) he says:

I knew very well that I was plain, and therefore every reference
to my appearance was painfully offensive to me.... Moments of
despair frequently came over me: I imagined that there could be no
happiness on earth for a man with so broad a nose, such thick lips,
and such small grey eyes as mine. I asked God to perform a miracle
and change me into a handsome boy, and all I then had and all I
could ever possess in the future, I would have given for a handsome
face.

In fact, his personal appearance caused the sensitive lad much concern,
but his efforts to improve it were unsuccessful. On one occasion he
clipped his eyebrows, and the unsatisfactory results of that operation
occasioned him great grief.

He records in his Reminiscences the following incident, which certainly
intensified his lifelong antipathy to corporal punishment:

I do not remember for what, but for something quite undeserving of
punishment, St. Thomas [the resident French tutor who succeeded
Rössel] first locked me into a room, and secondly threatened to
flog me. I thereupon experienced a dreadful feeling of anger
indignation and disgust, not only towards St. Thomas himself, but
towards the violence with which I was threatened.

When quite a small boy he conceived an attachment for the nine-year-old
daughter of his father's friend, Islényef, and being jealous of her for
daring to talk to others, he angrily pushed her off a balcony, with
the result that she limped for a long time afterwards. A quarter of a
century later, when he married this lady's daughter, his mother-in-law
used laughingly to remind him of the incident, and say, 'Evidently
you pushed me off the balcony in my childhood that you might marry my
daughter afterwards!'

His sister relates that once when they were driving in a troika (_i.e._
three horses abreast) to Yásnaya, Leo got down during a break in the
journey and went forward on foot. When the carriage started again and
began to overtake him he took to running, and when the horses went
faster he also increased his speed, racing as hard as he could. He
was not overtaken till he had gone about two miles and was completely
tired out. He was lifted back into the carriage gasping for breath,
perspiring and quite exhausted. Any one not endowed with the remarkable
physical vigour that, in spite of frequent attacks of ill-health, has
characterised Tolstoy through life, would probably have done themselves
serious injury had they taxed their vital resources as recklessly as he
often did.

All accounts agree in representing him as an original and odd little
fellow, unwilling to do things like other people. He would for instance
enter a drawing-room and, carefully placing his feet together and
bending his head, would make his bow backwards, saluting each of the
company in turn.

Two incidents are recorded relating to the love of riding which has
remained a characteristic of his through life.

When his brothers were sent to a riding-school, Leo (in spite of his
father's assurances and those of the riding-master that he was too
small to begin and would tumble off) also obtained permission to learn
to ride. At his first lesson he duly tumbled off, but begged to be
replaced in the saddle; and he did not fall off again, but became an
expert horseman. In one of the short stories he wrote many years later
for the use of school-children, he tells how he once wished to ride
the old horse Raven after his brothers had each had a turn on it; and
how Raven being too tired to move from the stables, he beat it till he
broke his switch on its sides. He then demanded a stouter switch from
the serf in charge, but the man replied:

'Ah, master, you have no pity! Why do you beat him? He is twenty
years old, and is tired out; he can hardly breathe. Why, for a
horse, he is as old as Timoféyitch [a very old peasant living at
the place]. You might as well get on Timoféyitch's back, and drive
him beyond his strength like that, with a switch. Would you feel no
pity for him?'

I thought of Timoféyitch, and hearkened to the man. I got off
the horse's back; and when I noticed how its steaming sides were
working, and how heavily it breathed through its nostrils, swishing
its thin tail, I understood how hard it was for it. Till then I
had thought that it was as happy as I was myself. And I felt so
sorry for Raven that I began to kiss his sweaty neck and to beg his
pardon for having beaten him.

Since then I have grown up, but I always have pity on horses, and
always remember Raven and Timoféyitch when I see horses ill-treated.

He does not appear to have been very good at his lessons, and himself
somewhere mentions the dictum of a student who used to coach his
brothers and himself, and said of their aptitude for learning:

'Sergéy both wishes and can, Dmítry wishes but can't' (this was
not true), 'and Leo neither wishes nor can.' (This, I think, was
perfectly true.)

On the other hand, St. Thomas, the French tutor already referred to
(he figures in _Childhood_ as St. Jérôme), must have noticed the lad's
capacity, for he used to say, '_Ce petit a une tête: c'est un petit
Molière_' (This little one has a head: he is a little Molière).

1837

After the father's death the family property passed under the control
of the Court of Wards, and expenses had to be cut down. It was
therefore decided that, though the two elder brothers had to remain
in Moscow for the sake of their education, the three younger children
should return to Yásnaya Polyána, where living was cheaper, in charge
of their much loved Aunty Tatiána. Their legal guardian, the Countess
Alexandra ('Aline') Ilýnishna Osten-Saken, remained in Moscow with the
elder boys.

This lady had made what seemed a brilliant marriage with the wealthy
Count Osten-Saken, whose family was among the first in the Baltic
Provinces; but her married life was a terrible one. Her husband went
out of his mind and tried to kill her. While he was confined in an
asylum, the Countess gave birth to a still-born child. To save her from
this fresh shock, a girl born of a servant, the wife of a Court cook,
was substituted for the still-born baby. This girl, Páshenka, lived
with the Tolstoy family, and was already grown up when Tolstoy was
quite a child. Subsequently the Countess Alexandra lived first with her
parents and then with her brother, Tolstoy's father. Though she was a
devotee of the Orthodox Russo-Greek Church of which Tolstoy eventually
became so fierce an opponent, much in her character and conduct accords
with the precepts laid down in his later writings; and it is evident
that certain aspects of his understanding of the Christian character,
which strike most Englishmen as peculiar, far from being invented out
of his own head, are derived from a deeply-rooted Russian and family
tradition. He tells us:

My aunt was a truly religious woman. Her favourite occupation
was reading the Lives of the Saints, conversing with pilgrims,
half-crazy devotees, monks and nuns, of whom some always lived
in our house, while others only visited my aunt.... She was not
merely outwardly religious, keeping the fasts, praying much, and
associating with people of saintly life, but she herself lived
a truly Christian life, trying not only to avoid all luxury and
acceptance of service, but herself serving others as much as
possible. She never had any money, for she gave away all she had
to those who asked. A servant related to me how, during their life
in Moscow, my aunt used carefully on tip-toe to pass her sleeping
maid, when going to Matins, and used herself to perform all the
duties which it was in those days customary for a maid to perform.
In food and dress she was as simple and unexacting as can possibly
be imagined. Unpleasant as it is to me to mention it, I remember
from childhood a specific acid smell connected with my aunt,
probably due to negligence in her toilet: and this was the graceful
poetic Aline with beautiful blue eyes, who used to love reading and
copying French verses, who played on the harp, and always had great
success at the grandest balls! I remember how affectionate and kind
she always was, and this equally to the most important men and
women and to the nuns and pilgrims.

Tolstoy goes on to tell how pleasantly she bore the jests and teasing
that her devotion to the priests brought upon her.

I remember her dear good-natured laugh, and her face shining with
pleasure. The religious feeling which filled her soul was evidently
so important to her, so much higher than anything else, that she
could not be angry or annoyed at anything, and could not attribute
to worldly matters the importance others attach to them.

1840

In the summer of 1839 the whole family assembled at Yásnaya Polyána.
The next year, 1840, was a famine year. The crops were so poor that
corn had to be bought to feed the serfs, and to raise funds for this
purpose one of the Tolstoys' estates had to be sold. The supply of
oats for the horses was stopped, and Tolstoy remembers how he and his
brothers, pitying their ponies, secretly gathered oats for them in the
peasants' fields, quite unconscious of the crime they were committing.

1841

In the autumn of that year the whole family moved to Moscow, returning
to Yásnaya for the following summer. The next autumn their guardian,
the kind good Countess Alexandra Osten-Saken, died in the Convent
or 'Hermitage' founded by Óptin (a robber chief of the fourteenth
century) in the Government of Kaloúga, to which she had retired.

After her death her sister, Pelagéya Ilýnishna Úshkof, became their
guardian. She was the wife of a Kazán landowner. Aunty Tatiána and she
were not on friendly terms; there was no open quarrel between them,
but V. I. Úshkof (Pelagéya's husband) had been a suitor for Tatiána's
hand in his youth, and had been refused. Pelagéya could not forgive her
husband's old love for Tatiána.

The change of guardianship led to the removal of the family to Kazán,
and to the children being separated from Aunty Tatiána, much to her
grief.

The books which up to the age of fourteen, when he went to Kazán, had
most influenced Tolstoy were, he tells us, the Story of Joseph from the
Bible, the _Forty Thieves_ and _Prince Kamaralzaman_ from the _Arabian
Nights_, various Russian folk-legends, Poúshkin's _Tales_ and his poem
_Napoleon_, and _The Black Hen_ by Pogorélsky. The influence the story
of Joseph had on him, he says, was 'immense.'

In his aptitude for abstract speculation, as in other respects,
the boy was truly father to the man; and in a passage, certainly
autobiographical, in _Boyhood_, he says:

It will hardly be believed what were the favourite and most common
subjects of my reflections in my boyhood--so incompatible were
they with my age and situation. But in my opinion incompatibility
between a man's position and his moral activity is the surest sign
of truth....

At one time the thought occurred to me that happiness does not
depend on external causes, but on our relation to them; and that
a man accustomed to bear suffering cannot be unhappy. To accustom
myself therefore to endurance, I would hold Tatíshef's dictionaries
in my outstretched hand for five minutes at a time, though it
caused me terrible pain; or I would go to the lumber room and flog
myself on my bare back with a cord so severely that tears started
to my eyes.

At another time suddenly remembering that death awaits me every
hour and every minute, I decided (wondering why people had not
understood this before) that man can only be happy by enjoying the
present and not thinking of the future; and for three days, under
the influence of this thought, I abandoned my lessons, and did
nothing but lie on my bed and enjoy myself, reading a novel and
eating honey-gingerbreads, on which I spent my last coins....

But no philosophic current swayed me so much as scepticism, which
at one time brought me to the verge of insanity. I imagined that
except myself no one and nothing existed in the world, that
objects are not objects but apparitions, appearing only when I pay
attention to them and disappearing as soon as I cease to think of
them. In a word, I coincided with Schelling in the conviction that
what exists is not objects, but only my relation to them. There
were moments in which under the influence of this fixed idea, I
reached such a stage of absurdity that I glanced quickly round
hoping to catch Nothingness by surprise, there where I was not.

The philosophical discoveries I made greatly flattered my vanity:
I often imagined myself a great man, discovering new truths for
the benefit of humanity, and I looked on other mortals with a
proud consciousness of my own dignity; yet, strange to say, when
I came in contact with these mortals I grew timid before each of
them. The higher I stood in my own opinion the less was I able to
show any consciousness of my own dignity before others, or even to
avoid being ashamed of every word or movement of my own--even the
simplest.

At the time of the move to Kazán, a serf lad of about his own age was
presented to each of the young Tolstoys to attend on him. Alexis, the
one given to Leo Tolstoy, remained in his service all his life, and
died at Yásnaya a few years ago.

1841

For five and a half years, from the autumn of 1841 to the spring of
1847, the brothers lived at Kazán, returning each summer to Yásnaya for
the vacation. They all entered Kazán University. The aunt who was their
guardian, and with whom they lived the greater part of the time, was a
kind but not particularly clever woman. Her house was the centre of
much hospitality and gaiety.

1844

Leo Tolstoy prepared to enter the faculty of Oriental Languages, in
which a knowledge of Arabic and Turco-Tartar was required. He worked
hard, and matriculated in May 1844 before he was sixteen, passing in
French (for which he received the mark 5+; 5 being in an ordinary
way the highest mark, and the + indicating exceptional distinction),
German, Arabic, and Turco-Tartar very well, and in English, Logic,
Mathematics and Russian Literature, well; but he did indifferently
in Latin, and failed completely in History and Geography, getting
the lowest mark, a 1, for each of them. Of History he says, 'I knew
nothing,' and of Geography 'still less'; adding, 'I was asked to name
the French seaports, but I could not name a single one.' At the end of
the summer vacation he was admitted for re-examination in the subjects
in which he had failed, and passed successfully.

1844-1845

The winter season when Tolstoy, as a student at the University and a
young man of good position, entered Kazán society, was a particularly
gay one. He attended many balls, given by the Governor of the Province,
by the _Maréchal de la Noblesse_, and by private people, as well as
many masquerades, concerts, tableaux-vivants, and private theatricals.
He is still remembered by old inhabitants as having been 'present at
all the balls, soirées, and aristocratic parties, a welcome guest
everywhere, and always dancing, but, far from being a ladies' man, he
was distinguished by a strange awkwardness and shyness.' At Carnival
time in 1845 he and his brother Sergius took parts in two plays given
for some charitable object. His performance was a great success.

As to the nature of Kazán society and of his surroundings there,
accounts are contradictory. On the one hand, we have his own statement
that (imitating his brother Sergius in this as in other matters)
he became 'depraved.' Birukóf, too, speaks of 'the detestable
surroundings of Tolstoy's life in Kazán,' and another writer,
Zagóskin, a fellow-student of Tolstoy's at the University, says that
the surroundings in which the latter moved were demoralising and must
have been repellent to him. On the other hand, on seeing Zagóskin's
remarks, Tolstoy (in whom there is often observable a strong spirit of
contradiction) replied:

I did not feel any repulsion, but was very glad to enjoy myself
in Kazán society, which was then very good. I am on the contrary
thankful to fate that I passed my first youth in an environment
where a young man could be young without touching problems
beyond his grasp, and that I lived a life which, though idle and
luxurious, was yet not evil.

The explanation of these contradictions, no doubt, is that the family
circle in which Tolstoy lived was an affectionate one, and that he
himself not only enjoyed his life, but formed friendships and made
efforts at which in later years he looked back with satisfaction.
Yet there was assuredly much in his life and in the life around him
which (except when others were severe on it) he recalled with grave
disapproval, a disapproval he has plainly expressed in his _Confession_.

To come as near as we may to the truth, we must allow for the personal
equation which, in Tolstoy's case, is violent and fluctuating.

With constant amusements going on around him, it is not surprising that
at the end of his first University year he failed in his examinations.
The failure does not however appear to have been entirely his fault,
for he tells us:

Ivanóf, Professor of Russian History, prevented me from passing
to the second course (though I had not missed a single lecture
and knew Russian History quite well) because he had quarrelled
with my family. The same Professor also gave me the lowest mark--a
'one'--for German, though I knew the language incomparably better
than any student in our division.

1845

Instead of remaining for a second year in the first course of Oriental
Languages, Tolstoy preferred to leave that faculty, and in August
1845 he entered the faculty of Law. During the first months of this
new course he hardly studied at all, throwing himself more than ever
into the gay life of Kazán society. Before midwinter however he began
for the first time, as he tells us, 'to study seriously, and I even
found a certain pleasure in so doing.' Comparative Jurisprudence and
Criminal Law interested him, and his attention was especially arrested
by a discussion on Capital Punishment. Meyer, Professor of Civil Law,
set him a task which quite absorbed him; it was the comparison of
Montesquieu's _Esprit des Lois_ with Catherine the Second's _Great
Nakaz_. The conclusion to which he came was, that in Catherine's
_Nakaz_ one finds Montesquieu's Liberal ideas mixed with the expression
of Catherine's own despotism and vanity, and that the _Nakaz_ brought
more fame to Catherine than good to Russia.

1846

He passed his examinations successfully in May 1846, and was duly
admitted to the second year's course of Jurisprudence. Some time
previously Tolstoy and another student had disputed which of them had
the better memory, and to test this, each of them learnt by heart the
reply to one examination question in History. Tolstoy's task was to
learn the life of Mazeppa, and as luck would have it that was just the
question he happened to draw at his examination, so that he naturally
obtained a 5, the highest mark.

From the autumn of 1846 the three brothers, Sergius Demetrius and Leo,
ceased to live at their aunt's, and settled in a flat of their own,
consisting of five rooms.

A fellow-student, Nazáryef, has given us his impression of Tolstoy as a
student. He says:

I kept clear of the Count, who from our first meeting repelled me
by his assumption of coldness, his bristly hair and the piercing
expression of his half-closed eyes. I had never met a young man
with such a strange and, to me, incomprehensible air of importance
and self-satisfaction....

At first I seldom met the Count, who in spite of his awkwardness
and bashfulness had joined the small group of so-called
'aristocrats.' He hardly replied to my greetings, as if wishing to
intimate that even here we were far from being equals, since he
drove up with a fast trotter and I came on foot....

It so happened that Nazáryef and Tolstoy were both late for a lecture
on History one day, and were incarcerated together by order of the
Inspector.

One gathers that Tolstoy was in those days particularly careful of
his personal appearance, his clothes indicating his aristocratic
pretensions. But though externally the Tolstoy of 1846 differed greatly
from the Tolstoy of forty years later, his conversation ran on much
the same lines as in later life, and was uttered with the intensity of
conviction and the flashes of dry humour which have since made even the
most didactic of his writings so readable.

Their conversation in their place of confinement having led to some
mention of Lérmontof's poem, _The Demon_, Tolstoy took occasion to
speak ironically of verse generally, and then, noticing a volume his
companion had of Karamzín's _History of Russia_, he

attacked History as the dullest and almost the most useless of
subjects. A collection of fables and useless details, sprinkled
with a mass of unnecessary figures and proper names.... Who wants
to know that the second marriage of John the Terrible, with
Temrúk's daughter, took place on 21st August 1562; and his fourth
marriage, with Anna Alexéyevna Koltórsky, in 1572? Yet they expect
me to grind all this, and if I don't, the examiner gives me a 'one.'

Later on, says Nazáryef, 'the, to me, irresistible force of Tolstoy's
doubts fell upon the University, and on University teaching in general.
The phrase, "The Temple of Science," was constantly on his lips.
Remaining perfectly serious himself, he portrayed our professors
in such a comical light that, in spite of all my efforts to appear
indifferent, I laughed like one possessed.... "Yet," said Tolstoy, "we
both had a right to expect that we should leave this temple useful
men, equipped with knowledge. But what shall we really carry away from
the University?... What shall we be good for, and to whom shall we be
necessary?"

Nazáryef says that in spite of the feeling half of dislike, half of
perplexity, that Tolstoy evoked in him, he well remembers that he was
dimly conscious of something remarkable, exceptional, and at the same
time inexplicable, about him.

From the educational articles Tolstoy wrote sixteen years later, we
know that he disapproved of examinations, of the restricted groove of
studies marked out for the students in each faculty, and of the system
which made it necessary for the professors to deliver original lectures
of their own, and obliged the students to listen to those lectures and
to study them, however incompetent the professors might be.

1847

The fact that his brother Sergius had finished his studies and was
leaving, strengthened Tolstoy's dissatisfaction with the University;
and finally, without waiting for the May examinations at which he might
have qualified for the third year's course, we find him, soon after
Easter 1847, applying to have his name removed from the University roll
'on account of ill-health and family affairs.' He really had been in
hospital in March, but the plea of ill-health was a mere excuse.

His failure to take a degree was a source of great annoyance and
disappointment to him, and it must not be supposed that he left Kazán
with any idea of taking life easily or neglecting further study.

From the time he was a boy he had kept a diary of every little sin
he had committed, and especially of any offence against the Seventh
Commandment, in order that he might repent, and if possible refrain
for the future, and his diary shows how full he was at this time of
strenuous resolutions. During the last year of his life at Kazán
he made close friends with a student named Dyákof (the Nehlúdof of
_Boyhood_), and under his influence had developed

an ecstatic worship of the ideal of virtue, and the conviction
that it is man's destiny continually to perfect himself. To put
all mankind right and to destroy all human vices and misfortunes,
appeared a matter that could well be accomplished. It seemed quite
easy and simple to put oneself right, to acquire all the virtues,
and to be happy.

Here are some rules he set himself at that time:

1. To fulfil what I set myself, despite all obstacles.

2. To fulfil well what I do undertake.

3. Never to refer to a book for what I have forgotten, but always
to try to recall it to mind myself.

4. Always to make my mind work with its utmost power.

5. Always to read and think aloud.

6. Not to be ashamed of telling people who interrupt me, that they
are hindering me: letting them first feel it, but (if they do not
understand) telling them, with an apology.

Deciding to settle at Yásnaya for two years, he drew up a list of
studies he intended to pursue for his own mental development, and to
qualify for a University degree; and this list was, as the reader will
see, appalling in its scope.

1. To study the whole course of law necessary to get my degree.

2. To study practical medicine, and to some extent its theory also.

3. To study: French, Russian, German, English, Italian, and Latin.

4. To study agriculture, theoretically and practically.

5. To study History, Geography, and Statistics.

6. To study Mathematics (the High School course).

7. To write my [University] thesis.

8. To reach the highest perfection I can in music and painting.

9. To write down rules (for my conduct).

10. To acquire some knowledge of the natural sciences, and,

11. To write essays on all the subjects I study.

Such rules and resolutions abound in Tolstoy's Diary. After failing to
act up to them, he again and again gathers his energies and maps out
for himself plans of life and courses of study sufficient to tax the
energies of an intellectual giant.

As to his religious opinions at this time, he tells us:

I was baptized and brought up in the Orthodox Christian faith. I
was taught it in childhood and all through my boyhood and youth.
But before I left the University, in my second year, at the age
of eighteen, I no longer believed anything I had been taught.
(_Confession._)

His Diary nevertheless shows that he prayed frequently and earnestly;
the fact no doubt being, that though intellectually he discarded
the Orthodox Russo-Greek Church, in times of trouble or distress he
instinctively appealed to God for help. His opinions were wavering and
immature, as he himself tells us in another passage:

The religious beliefs taught me in childhood disappeared... and as
from the time I was fifteen I began to read philosophic works, my
rejection of those beliefs very soon became a conscious one. From
the age of sixteen I ceased going to Church and fasting of my own
accord. I did not believe what had been taught me from childhood,
but I believed in something. What it was I believed in, I could not
at all have said. I believed in a God, or rather I did not deny
God; but I could not have said what sort of God. Neither did I deny
Christ and his teaching, but what his teaching consisted in I
could also not have said.

Looking back on that time now, I see clearly that my faith--my only
real faith, that which apart from my animal instincts gave impulse
to my life--was a belief in perfecting oneself. But in what this
perfecting consisted and what its object was, I could not have
said. I tried to perfect myself mentally--I studied everything
I could: anything life threw in my way; I tried to perfect my
will, I drew up rules which I tried to follow; I perfected myself
physically, cultivating my strength and agility by all sorts of
exercises and accustoming myself to endurance and patience by all
kinds of privations. And all this I considered to be perfecting
myself. The beginning of it all was, of course, moral perfecting;
but that was soon replaced by perfecting in general: by the desire
to be better, not in one's own eyes or those of God, but in the
eyes of other people. And very soon this effort again changed
into a desire to be stronger than others: to be more famous, more
important and richer than others. (_Confession._)

When speaking of Tolstoy's relations with women, it should be borne in
mind that incontinence for young men was then considered so natural
that few of them in his position would have felt any serious qualms of
conscience about such visits to houses of ill-fame as he lets us know
that he began to pay at this time. His brother Dmítry however led a
chaste life, and alternating with gross lapses of conduct, we find Leo
noting down for his own guidance such resolutions as the following:

To regard the society of women as a necessary unpleasantness of
social life, and to keep away from them as much as possible.
From whom indeed do we get sensuality, effeminacy, frivolity in
everything, and many other vices, if not from women? Whose fault is
it, if not women's, that we lose our innate qualities of boldness,
resolution, reasonableness, justice, etc.? 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 are.

During his years at the University, Tolstoy saw much of his brother
Dmítry, of whom he says:

I remember also at the University that when my elder brother
Dmítry, suddenly in the passionate way natural to him devoted
himself to religion and began to attend all the Church services,
to fast, and to lead a pure and moral life, we all, and even our
elders, unceasingly held him up to ridicule and called him, for
some unknown reason, 'Noah.' I remember that Moúsin-Poúshkin (then
Curator of Kazán University), when inviting us to a dance at his
house, ironically remonstrated with my brother, who had declined
the invitation, and used the argument that even David danced before
the Ark. I sympathised with these jokes my elders made, and deduced
from them the conclusion that though it is necessary to learn the
catechism and go to church, one must not take such things too
seriously. (_Confession._)

Again we read of this brother:

His peculiarities became manifest, and are impressed on my mind
from the time of our life at Kazán. Formerly in Moscow I remember
that he did not fall in love, as Seryózha and I did, and was not
fond of dancing or of military pageants, but studied well and
strenuously.... At Kazán I, who had always imitated Seryózha, began
to grow depraved.... Not only at Kazán, 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 this kind in Mítenka.
I think he never suffered from the usual vices of youth; he was
always serious thoughtful pure and resolute, though hot-tempered,
and whatever he did, he did to the best of his ability.... He wrote
verses with great facility. I remember how admirably he translated
Schiller's _Der Jüngling am Bache_, but he did not devote himself
to this occupation.... He grew up associating little with others,
always--except in his moments of anger--quiet and serious. He was
tall, rather thin, and not very strong, with long, large hands and
round shoulders. I do not know how or by what he was attracted at
so early an age towards a religious life, but it began in the very
first year of his University career. His religious aspirations
naturally directed him to Church life, and he devoted himself to
this with his usual thoroughness.

In Mítenka there must have existed that valuable characteristic
which I believe my mother to have had, and which I knew in
Nikólenka, but of which I was altogether devoid--complete
indifference to other people's opinion about oneself. Until quite
lately (in old age) I have never been able to divest myself of
concern about people's opinion; but Mítenka was quite free from
this. I never remember on his face that restrained smile which
involuntarily appears when one is being praised. I always remember
his serious quiet sad, sometimes severe, almond-shaped hazel eyes.
Only in our Kazán days did we begin to pay particular attention to
him, and then merely because, while Seryózha and I attached great
importance to what was _comme il faut_--to externalities--he was
careless and untidy, and we condemned him for this.

We others, especially Seryózha, kept up acquaintance with our
aristocratic comrades and other young men. Mítenka on the contrary
selected out of all the students a piteous-looking, poor,
shabbily dressed youth, Poluboyárinof [which may be translated
Half-noble]--whom a humorous fellow-student of ours called
Polubezobédof [Half-dinnerless]--and consorted only with him, and
with him prepared for the examinations.... We brothers, and even
our aunt, looked down on Mítenka with a certain contempt for his
low tastes and associates; and the same attitude was adopted by our
frivolous comrades.

After their University days were over, Tolstoy saw little of his
brother Demetrius; so it will be convenient here to sacrifice
chronological sequence and say what more there is to tell of the
latter's life and death. The material is again supplied by Tolstoy's
Reminiscences.

When we divided up the family property, according to custom the
estate where we lived, Yásnaya Polyána, was given to me. Seryózha,
as a lover of horses and according to his wish, received Pirogóvo,
where there was a stud. To Mítenka and Nikólenka were given the
two other estates: to Nikólenka, Nikolsky; to Mítenka, the Kursk
estate, Sher-batchóvka. I have kept a note of Mítenka's, showing
how he regarded the possession of serfs. The idea that it is
wrong, and that serfs ought to be liberated, was quite unknown in
our circle in the 'forties. The hereditary possession of serfs
seemed a necessary condition of life, and all that could be done
to prevent its being an evil, was to attend not only to their
material but also to their moral welfare. In this sense Mítenka
wrote very seriously naïvely and sincerely. Thinking he could not
do otherwise, he, a lad of twenty, when he left the University
took it upon himself to direct the morality of hundreds of peasant
families, and to do this (as Gógol recommended in his _Letters to a
Landowner_) by threats of punishments and by punishments.... But,
besides this duty to his serfs, there was another duty which at
that time it seemed impossible not to fulfil: namely, Military or
Civil service. And Mítenka decided to enter the Civil Service.

Tolstoy proceeds to tell how his brother, desiring to be useful to his
country, chose legislation as his speciality, and going to Petersburg
astonished the Head of the Department as well as certain aristocratic
acquaintances by asking where he could find a place in which he could
be _useful_. The friend to whom he went for advice, regarded the
service of the State merely as a means of satisfying ambition, and
'such a question had probably never occurred to him before.' Eventually
we find Demetrius returning home discouraged, and taking up some local
work. All this, to some extent, helps us to understand Leo Tolstoy's
sceptical attitude towards the institution of Government, and his
strong belief that men in Government service are solely actuated by
selfish motives.

Tolstoy continues:

After we had both left the University, I lost sight of him. I
know he lived the same severe, abstemious life, knowing neither
wine tobacco nor, above all, women, till he was twenty-six, which
was very rare in those days. I know also that he associated with
monks and pilgrims.... I think I was already in the Caucasus when
an extraordinary change took place. He suddenly took to drinking
smoking wasting money and going with women. How it happened I do
not know; I did not see him at the time. I only know that his
seducer was a thoroughly immoral man of very attractive appearance,
the youngest son of Islényef [an uncle of the lady Leo Tolstoy
subsequently married].

In this life Mítenka remained the same serious religious man he
was in everything. He ransomed from the brothel a prostitute named
Másha, who was the first woman he knew, and took her into his
house. But this life did not last long. I believe it was less the
vicious and unhealthy life he led for some months in Moscow, than
his mental struggle and his qualms of conscience, that suddenly
destroyed his powerful organism. He became consumptive, went to
the country, was doctored in the provincial town, and took to his
bed in Orél, where I saw him for the last time just after the
Crimean war. He was in a dreadful state of emaciation: one could
even see how his enormous hand joined on to the two bones of his
lower arm; his face was all eyes, and they were still the same
beautiful serious eyes, with a penetrating expression of inquiry
in them. He was constantly coughing and spitting, but was loth to
die, and reluctant to believe he was dying. Poor pockmarked Másha,
whom he had rescued, was with him and nursed him. In my presence,
at his own wish, a wonder-working icon was brought. I remember the
expression of his face when he prayed to it.... He died a few days
later!

Students of the didactic writings of Tolstoy's later years will notice
how closely his injunctions to a man to keep to the first woman,
whoever she be, with whom he has had intimate relations, correspond
with the line actually followed by his brother Demetrius.

When Tolstoy left the University, however, these things were still
unthought of. Let us, before returning to the events of his own life at
that time, notice some books which he read between the ages of fourteen
and twenty-one. They included:

The Sermon on the Mount from St. Matthew's Gospel,

Rousseau's _Confession_ and _Émile_, and
Dickens's _David Copperfield_,

which all had an 'immense' influence on him.

In another category came works which he says had 'very great'
influence. These were:

Rousseau's _Nouvelle Héloïse_,
Sterne's _Sentimental Journey_,
Poúshkin's _Eugene Onégin_,
Schiller's _The Robbers_,
Gógol's _Dead Souls_,
Tourgénef's _A Sportsman's Sketches_,
Drouzhínin's _Pólenka Sax_,
Grigoróvitch's _Antón Goremýka_, and the chapter _Tamán_ from
Lérmontof's _A Hero of Our Times_.

In a third category he mentions some of Gógol's Shorter Stories, and
Prescott's _Conquest of Mexico_, as having had 'great' influence.

In these works one finds many ideas which have been congenial to
Tolstoy throughout his life, and his adhesion to which has only become
firmer with age. In illustration of this, take a couple of passages
from Dickens which many readers may have passed without much attention,
but which to Tolstoy represented the absolute truth of the matters they
touch on. David Copperfield says of Parliament:

...I considered myself reasonably entitled to escape from the
dreary debates. One joyful night, therefore, I noted down the music
of the parliamentary bagpipes for the last time, and I have never
heard it since; though I still recognise the old drone in the
newspapers without any substantial variation (except, perhaps, that
there is more of it) all the livelong session.

To most Englishmen with memories of Pym and Hampden, or personal
knowledge of the lives of men who have devoted themselves
disinterestedly to public affairs, Parliamentary or local, Dickens's
sneer at Parliament seems but a paradox or a joke; but to Tolstoy,
with his inherited dislike of Government, this testimony from a great
English writer (who had served as a Parliamentary reporter) seemed
irrefutable evidence of the futility of Parliaments.

Take, again, a passage in which Dickens hits a nail adroitly on the
head:

Mr. Micawber had a relish in this formal piling up of words, which,
however ludicrously displayed in his case, was, I must say, not
at all peculiar to him. I have observed it, in the course of my
life, in numbers of men. It seems to me to be a general rule. In
the taking of legal oaths, for instance, deponents seem to enjoy
themselves mightily when they come to several grand words in
succession, for the expression of one idea--as, that they utterly
detest, abominate, and abjure, and so forth--and the old anathemas
were made relishing on the same principle. We talk about the
tyranny of words, but we like to tyrannise over them too. We are
fond of having a large superfluous establishment of words to wait
upon us on great occasions; we think it looks important, and sounds
well. As we are not particular about the meaning of our liveries on
State occasions, if they be but fine and numerous enough, so the
meaning or necessity of our words is a secondary consideration, if
there be but a great parade of them.

No modern writer has ever more carefully eschewed the practice Dickens
here attacks than Tolstoy has done throughout his career. Indeed, he is
far stricter than Dickens in this respect.

But much more important than the influence of Dickens was that of
Rousseau, of whom Tolstoy once remarked:

I have read the whole of Rousseau--all his twenty volumes,
including his _Dictionary of Music_. I was more than enthusiastic
about him, I worshipped him. At the age of fifteen I wore a
medallion portrait of him next my body instead of the Orthodox
cross. Many of his pages are so akin to me that it seems to me that
I must have written them myself.

Another writer who influenced Tolstoy, though to a very much smaller
extent, was Voltaire, of whom he says:

I also remember that I read Voltaire when I was very young, and his
ridicule (of religion) not only did not shock me, but amused me
very much.

Everything Tolstoy has done in his life he has done with intensity; and
that this applies to the way in which he read books in his youth, is
shown by the fact that we find him as an old man, in 1898, in _What is
Art?_ according the highest praise to books he had read before he was
twenty-one, or even before he was fourteen.

It was in the spring of 1847 that Tolstoy, who was not yet nineteen,
returned to his estate of Yásnaya Polyána, to live with his dear Aunty
Tatiána; to 'perfect' himself, to study, to manage his estate, and to
improve the condition of his serfs. The last part of this programme, at
any rate, was not destined to have much success. Though one must never
treat Tolstoy's fiction as strictly autobiographical, yet _A Squire's
Morning_ gives a very fair idea of his own efforts to improve the lot
of his serfs, and of the difficulties and failures he encountered in
the course of that attempt. In that story Prince Nehlúdof decides to
leave the University and settle in the country, and writes to his aunt:

As I already wrote you, I found affairs in indescribable disorder.
Wishing to put them right, I discovered that the chief evil is the
truly pitiable, wretched condition of the serfs, and this is an
evil that can only be remedied by work and patience. If you could
but see two of my serfs, David and Iván, and the life they and
their families lead, I am sure the sight of these two poor wretches
would convince you more than all I can say in explanation of my
intention.

Is it not my plain and sacred duty to care for the welfare of
these seven hundred people for whom I must account to God? Will it
not be a sin if, following plans of pleasure or ambition, I abandon
them to the caprice of coarse Elders and stewards? And why should
I seek in any other sphere opportunities of being useful and doing
good, when I have before me such a noble brilliant and intimate
duty?

Not only is this letter just such as Tolstoy himself may have written,
but the difficulties Nehlúdof encounters when he tries to move his
peasants from the ruts to which generations of serfdom had accustomed
them, are just those Tolstoy himself met with: the suspicion shown by
the serfs towards any fresh interference on the part of the master,
and the fact that ways to which a community have grown accustomed are
not easily changed by the sudden effort of a well-intentioned but
inexperienced proprietor.

After spending the summer of 1847 at Yásnaya, Tolstoy went to
Petersburg, where we find him settled in autumn; and early next year he
entered for examination at the University of that city.

1848

On the 13th of the following February he wrote to his brother Sergius:

I write you this letter from Petersburg, where I intend to remain
_for ever_.... I have decided to stay here for my examinations and
then to enter the service....

In brief, I must say that Petersburg life has a great and food
influence on me: it accustoms me to activity and supplies the place
of a fixed table of occupations. Somehow one cannot be idle; every
one is occupied and active; one cannot find a man with whom one
could lead an aimless life, and one can't do it alone....

I know you will not believe that I have changed, but will say,
'It's already the twentieth time, and nothing comes of you--the
emptiest of fellows.' No, I have now altered in quite a new way. I
used to say to myself: 'Now I will change,' but at last I see that
I _have_ changed, and I say, 'I have changed.'

Above all, I am now quite convinced that one cannot live by
theorising and philosophising, but must live positively, _i.e._
must be a practical man. That is a great step in advance and a
great change; it never happened to me before. If one is young and
wishes to live, there is no place in Russia but Petersburg for
it....

[Illustration: TOLSTOY IN 1848, AFTER HE HAD LEFT THE UNIVERSITY.]

On the 1st of May he wrote again to his brother, in a very different
strain:

Seryózha! I think you already say I am 'the emptiest of fellows,'
and it is true. God knows what I have done! I came to Petersburg
without any reason, and have done nothing useful here, but have
spent heaps of money and got into debt. Stupid! Insufferably
stupid! You can't believe how it torments me. Above all, the
_debts_, which I _must_ pay _as soon as possible_, because if I
don't pay them soon, besides losing the money, I shall lose my
reputation.... I know you will cry out; but what's to be done?
One commits such folly once in a lifetime. I have had to pay for
my freedom (there was no one to thrash me, that was my chief
misfortune) and for philosophising, and now I have paid for it.
Be so kind as to arrange to get me out of this false and horrid
position--penniless and in debt all round.

He goes on to mention that he had passed two examinations at the
University, but that he had altered his mind, and now, instead of
completing his examinations, wanted to 'enter the Horse Guards as a
Junker.' (A Junker was a young man who volunteered for the army as a
Cadet. Before receiving a commission, a Junker lived with the officers,
while preparing to become one of them.)

God willing, I will amend and become a steady man at last, I
hope much from my service as a Junker, which will train me to
practical life, and _nolens-volens_ I shall have to earn the rank
of officer. With luck, _i.e._ if the Guards go into action, I may
get a commission even before the usual two years are up. The Guards
start for the front at the end of May. At present I can do nothing:
first, because I have no money (of which I shall not need much,
I fancy), and secondly, because my two birth-certificates are at
Yásnaya. Have them sent on as soon as possible.

Before long, Tolstoy was again writing to his brother:

In my last letter I wrote much nonsense, of which the chief item
was that I intended to enter the Horse Guards; I shall act on that
plan only in case I fail in my examinations, and if the war is a
serious one.

The war in question was Russia's share in quelling the Hungarian
rebellion of 1849. Not a thought of the justice or otherwise of the
cause seems at that time to have crossed the mind of him who in later
life became so powerful an indicter of war.

This is Tolstoy's own summary, written many years later, of the period
we are now dealing with:

It was very pleasant living in the country with Aunty Tatiána, but
an indefinite thirst for knowledge drew me away to a distance.
This was in 1848, and I was still uncertain what to undertake. In
Petersburg two roads were open to me. I could either enter the
army, to take part in the Hungarian campaign, or I could complete
my studies at the University, to enter the Civil Service. My
thirst for knowledge conquered my ambition, and I again began to
study. I even passed two examinations in Law, but then all my good
resolutions broke down. Spring came, and the charm of country life
again drew me back to my estate.

Of the two examinations he passed at this time he says:

In 1848 I went to pass the examinations for my degree at Petersburg
University, knowing literally nothing, and reading up during only
one week. I worked day and night; and passed with Honours in Civil
and Criminal Law.

But in spite of this success he did not take the remaining
examinations, and returned to Yásnaya without having obtained a
degree--finally abandoning the attempt to do so.

In later times, when Tolstoy's reputation was world-wide, critics
often amused themselves by detecting inconsistencies in his conduct
and questioning his sincerity. But the proof of his sincerity is writ
large in the story of his life. Time after time, from the earliest
pages of his Diary, we find him vehemently resolving never more to do
certain things, but always to do other things, and again and again
confessing in the greatest tribulation, that he had failed to carry
out his intentions; yet in spite of everything he returns, and again
returns, to his earliest ideals and gradually shapes his life into
accord with them, and eventually forms habits which, when he first
extolled them, appeared utterly beyond his reach. Not insincerity
but impetuosity, retrieved by extraordinary tenacity of purpose, has
always characterised him. It was the same with his thirst for knowledge
as with his yet deeper thirst after righteousness. Often as he was
swayed by the lures of life, each of those two great desires found its
satisfaction at last.

The letters quoted above show some consciousness of the fact that there
is a practical side to life not to be mastered by theorising; but the
duty of learning by experience as well as by ratiocination is one
Tolstoy has very seldom dwelt on, and never, I think, realised at all
fully.

Another characteristic matter alluded to in these letters is the
difficulty he found himself in for lack of his birth-certificates
and other papers. Russia has long suffered from a superabundance of
red tape, which contrasts strongly with the slipshod habits of its
people, and promotes the hatred of officialism that is there so common.
The fact that Tolstoy has on several occasions been put to great
inconvenience for lack of certificates, which it was not in his nature
methodically to keep in readiness, is a small matter, but it has
probably had its share in increasing his strong dislike of governments.

From Petersburg he brought back with him to Yásnaya a gifted but
drunken German musician named Rudolph, with whom he had chanced to make
acquaintance, and whose talent he had discerned. For some time Tolstoy
devoted himself passionately to music, acquiring sufficient skill on
the piano to become an excellent and sympathetic accompanist. He was
always very susceptible to the influence of music, and in music, as in
literature, he had strong sympathies and antipathies. Rudolph supplies
the principal figure in Tolstoy's story _Albert_, written several years
later.

Aunt Tatiána, who had played the piano excellently in youth, but had
quite given it up for nearly thirty years, and who was now fifty-three
years of age, resumed its practice and, Tolstoy tells us, played duets
with him, and often surprised him by the accuracy and beauty of her
execution.

For the next three years he lived partly at Yásnaya and partly in
Moscow, and led a life alternating between the asceticism of his
brother Demetrius and the self-indulgence of his brother Sergius;
with dissipation, hunting, gambling, and the society of gipsy-girl
singers. These were among the wildest and most wasted years of his
life; but even here we find him, in the summer of 1850, resuming his
Diary with penitence and self-reproach, and drawing up a time-table of
how his days are in future to be spent: estate management, bathing,
diary-writing, music, dinner, rest, reading, bathing, and again estate
business to close the day. This curriculum was, however, neglected.
Gusts of passion again swept away his good resolutions.

1849

At this time he made his first attempt to start a school for the
peasant children of Yásnaya; but it was closed again two years later
when he was in pecuniary difficulties; and it was not till 1862 that
he discovered that he had infringed the law by opening it without
official permission.

In relation to women, Tolstoy's ideal was a regular and affectionate
family life. Women were for him divided into two groups: those sacred
ones who could be looked on as possible wives or sisters, and those
who, like the gipsy singers, could be paid for and possessed for short
periods. To try to wipe out by a money payment any obligation arising
from intimate relations, seems to have been his fixed rule. His animal
passions were very strong, and late in life I have heard him say that
neither drinking, cards, smoking, nor any other bad habit, had been
nearly so hard for him to overcome as his desire for women. But he
never doubted that that desire was a bad one. To judge him fairly, it
must be remembered how loose was the general tone of the society in
which he lived, and that the advice given him at this critical time of
his life by those who were his natural guides, was not that he should
live a chaste life, but that he should attach himself to a woman of
good social position. In his _Confession_ he tells us:

The kind aunt with whom I lived, herself the purest of beings,
always told me that there was nothing she so desired for me as
that I should have relations with a married woman: '_Rien ne forme
un jeune homme, comme une liaison avec une femme comme il faut_'
[Nothing so forms a young man, as an intimacy with a woman of
good breeding]. Another happiness she desired for me was that I
should become an aide-de-camp, and if possible aide-de-camp to the
Emperor. But the greatest happiness of all would be that I should
marry a very rich girl and become possessed of as many serfs as
possible.

We never find Tolstoy involved in any family scandal, or called on to
fight a duel about women; but his Diary at this period contains many
traces of his struggles and his falls; as when he writes:

Men whom I consider morally lower than myself, do evil better
than I.... I live an animal life, though not quite debauched. My
occupations are almost all abandoned, and I am greatly depressed in
spirit.

His pecuniary affairs became disordered, owing to his gambling and
other bad habits, and towards the end of 1850 he thought of trying to
earn money by taking on a contract to run the post-station at Toúla,
which before railways were built was an undertaking of some importance.
Varied however as Tolstoy's abilities unquestionably are, Nature never
intended him to be a man of business, and this plan fortunately came to
nothing.

1850-1851

The winter of 1850-51 he passed for the most part in Moscow, and as
a foretaste of the simplification of life which was to be such a
prominent feature of his later years, we find him writing to his aunt
at Yásnaya: '_Je dîne à la maison avec des stchi et kasha dont je me
contente parfaitement_' [I dine at home on cabbage soup and buckwheat
porridge, with which I am quite contented]; and he goes on to say that
he only awaits the preserves and home-made liqueurs (which she no doubt
sent him) to have everything as he was accustomed to have it in the
country.

We find Aunty Tatiána warning him against card-playing. Tolstoy replies
in French:

[3]Tout ce que vous me dîtes au sujet de la perversité du jeu est
très vrai et me revient souvent à l'esprit. C'est pourquoi je crois
que je ne jouerai plus.... 'Je crois,' mais j'espère bientôt vous
dire pour sûr.

[3] All that you say about the perversity of play is very
true, and I often think about it, and that is why I believe
that I shall gamble no more.... 'I believe,' but I hope soon
to tell you for certain.

1851

In March 1851 he returned to Moscow after visiting Yásnaya, and he
notes in his Diary that he went there with the treble aim of playing
cards, getting married, and entering the Civil Service. Not one of
these three objects was attained. He took an aversion to cards. For
marriage he considered a conjunction of love, reason, and fate to be
necessary, and none of these was present. As to entering the service,
it was again the fact that he had not brought the necessary documents
with him that barred the way.

In March he writes to Aunty Tatiána and says he believes it to be true
that spring brings a moral renovation. It always does him good, and he
is able to maintain his good intentions for some months. Winter is the
season that causes him to go wrong.

Next came a period of religious humility: he fasted diligently and
composed a sermon, which of course was never preached. He also tried
unsuccessfully to write a gipsy story and an imitation of Sterne's
_Sentimental Journey_.

This period of his life was brought to a close by the return from the
Caucasus, on leave of absence, of his eldest brother Nicholas, who was
by this time an artillery officer.

Anxious to economise and pay off the debts he had contracted at cards,
especially one of Rs. 4000 to Ogaryóf, a gendarme officer, who owned
a small estate not far from Yásnaya, Leo resolved to accompany his
brother on the latter's return to the Caucasus. He entrusted his estate
to the care of his brother-in-law (Mary's husband), who was to pay his
debts and allow him only Rs. 500 (then equal to about £80) a year to
live on, and he gave his word not to play cards any more.

Tolstoy had another reason for wishing to escape from his accustomed
surroundings. His brother Sergius was very fond of the gipsy choirs,
famous in Russia for their musical talent. These choirs used to visit
Yásnaya, and Leo Tolstoy, who shared his brother's susceptibility to
the fascinations of the gipsy girls, saw a means of safety in flight to
the Caucasus.

Before closing this chapter, let us note the extraordinary freedom
enjoyed by young men of Tolstoy's class in those days of serfdom.
Economically, serfdom supplied them with means, at the expense of a
class deprived of almost all rights and absolutely dependent on their
owners. Even if a member of the aristocracy ruined himself, family
interest or a prudent marriage often retrieved the position for
him. Religious restraint counted for little, for side by side with
superstition, scepticism was common among the educated. The standard
of morals expected of a young man was elastic and ill-defined. No
irksome sense of public duty pressed on his attention. Politics, in
our sense of the word, were forbidden; and though he had to enter the
State service (civil or military), this was regarded either as a way of
making a career for himself, or as a mere formality.

The detachment from the real business of life in which young Russians
grew up, and the comparative isolation in which they lived on their
country estates, explain the extremely radical conclusions often
arrived at by those of them who wished to make the world better. Chain
a man to the heavily laden car of social progress, and he can only
advance very slowly, though any advance he does accomplish represents
much effort and is of practical importance. Detach him from that car,
and he may easily and pleasantly fly away on the winds of speculation
to the uttermost realm of the highest heaven, without its producing
any immediately perceptible result on the lives of his fellow-men.
What I mean is, that the less a man is involved in practical work, the
easier and pleasanter it is for him to take up extreme positions; I
do not mean to deny that activity in the realm of thought and feeling
exerts an unseen yet potent influence on other minds, and ultimately on
practical affairs.

A knowledge of the social surroundings in which Tolstoy grew up makes
it easier to understand the doctrines he subsequently taught. It was
partly because he grew up in a detached and irresponsible position that
the state of his own mind and soul were to him so much more important
than the immediate effect of his conduct on others, and the same cause
led him to remain in ignorance of lessons every intelligent man of
business among us learns of necessity.

His independent position made easier the formation of that state of
mind free from intellectual prejudice which enabled him later on to
examine the claims of the Church, of the Bible, of the economists, of
governments, and the most firmly established manners and customs of
society, untrammelled by the fear of shocking or hurting other people,
though all the time his feelings were so sensitive that it has never
been possible for him to doubt or question the goodness of those lines
of conduct which he had admired and approved when in childhood he saw
them practised by those near and dear to him.

Contrasting his moral attitude with that of a young Englishman anxious
to do right in our day, I should say that Tolstoy had no adequate sense
of being a responsible member of a complex community with the opinions
and wishes of which it is necessary to reckon. On the contrary, his
tendency was to recognise with extraordinary vividness a personal duty
revealed by the working of his own conscience and intellect apart from
any systematic study of the social state of which he was a member.

He thus came to see things in a way we do not see them, while he
remained blind to some things with which we are quite familiar. That is
one reason why he is so extraordinarily interesting: he puts things in
a way no Englishman would ever dream of putting them, and yet we feel
how near akin we of the Western twentieth-century world are to this
nineteenth-century Russian noble, who has so much in common with the
medieval saint and the Oriental fatalist; and this helps us to realise
that all nations and classes of men are, indeed, of one blood.

Later on, in the sequel to this work, when we have to deal with
Tolstoy's peaceful anarchism and his conviction that no external
regulation of society is necessary, but that all men would naturally
do right were they not hampered by man-made laws, it will be useful to
bear in mind that his own strength grew through having to steer unaided
through the stormy seas of passion, and from finding his own way to a
haven the lights of which had first shone on him in childhood. Like the
rest of mankind, he judges others by himself.

CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER II

Birukof.

Behrs.

_Novy Mir._

_Education and Instruction_, and _On the Education of the People_, in
vol. iv. of Tolstoy's collected works: Moscow, 1903.

_Confession._ Published by the _Svobodnoe Slovo_, Christchurch, 1901.

Prof. Zagoskin, _Stoudentcheskie gody gr. Tolstogo_, in _Istoritchesky
Vestnik_: January 1894.

V. N. Nazaryef, _Zhizn i ludi bylogo vremeni_, in _Istoritchesky
Vestnik_: November 1900.

Tolstoy's talk with Pogodin, quoted in Mihaylovsky's _Literary
Recollections_: Petersburg, 1900.

_L. N. Tolstoy._ By E. Solovef: Petersburg, 1897.

Light is also thrown on this period by Tolstoy's _Childhood_,
_Boyhood_, and _Youth_, _The Memoirs of a Billiard Marker_, _Two
Hussars_, _A Squire's Morning_, and _Albert_ (which, however, are not
autobiographies), as well as by stories included in Tolstoy's Readers
for School-children--_The Old Horse_ and _How I Learned to Ride_.

CHAPTER III

THE CAUCASUS

Journey. Russian Conquest. Letters to Aunt Tatiána. Diary. Cossacks. He
volunteers. Enters army. Hádji Mourát. Story of a gaming debt. Sádo.
Dreams for the future. _Childhood._ Shooting. Boúlka. Slow promotion.
_The Raid._ The Censor. Danger. Applies for discharge. Applies to
Gortchakóf. _Memoirs of a Billiard Marker._ Receives his commission.
His retrospect.

1851

THE brothers Nicholas and Leo left Yásnaya Polyána on 20th April
1851, and spent a couple of weeks in Moscow. The frankness of Leo's
intercourse with his Aunt Tatiána is illustrated by the following
letter which he wrote, telling her of a visit he paid to Sokólniki, a
pleasant outskirt of Moscow on the borders of a pine forest, where a
fête is held on May-day.

That he wrote in French is explained by the fact that Tatiána, like
many Russian ladies educated early in the nineteenth century, knew
French better than she did Russian.

[4]J'ai été à la promenade de Sokólniki par un temps détestable,
c'est pourquoi je n'ai rencontré personne des dames de la
société, que j'avais envie de voir. Comme vous prétendez que je
suis un homme à épreuves, je suis allé parmi les plébs, dans les
tentes bohémiennes. Vous pouvez aisément vous figurer le combat
intérieur qui s'engagea là-bas pour et contre. Au reste j'en sortis
victorieux, c.à d. n'ayant rien donné que ma bénédiction aux joyeux
descendants des illustres Pharaons. Nicolas trouve que je suis un
compagnon de voyage très agréable, si ce n'était ma propreté. Il se
fâche de ce que, comme il le dit, je change de linge 12 fois par
jour. Moi je le trouve aussi compagnon très agréable, si ce n'était
sa saleté. Je ne sais lequel de nous a raison.

[4] I went to the fête at Sokólniki in detestable weather,
which was why I did not meet any of the society ladies I
wished to see. As you say I am a man who tests himself, I went
among the plebs in the gipsy tents. You can easily imagine the
inward struggle I there experienced, for and against. However,
I came out victorious: that is to say, having given nothing
but my blessing to the gay descendants of the illustrious
Pharaohs. Nicholas considers me a very agreeable travelling
companion, except for my cleanliness. He is cross because he
says I change my linen 12 times a day. I also find him a very
agreeable companion, except for his dirtiness. I do not know
which of us is right.

On leaving Moscow, instead of travelling to the Caucasus by the usual
route _viâ_ Vorónesh, Nicholas Tolstoy, who liked to do things his own
way, decided that they would drive first to Kazán. Here they stayed a
week, visiting acquaintances, and that was long enough for Leo to fall
in love with a young lady to whom his shyness prevented his expressing
his sentiments. He left for the Caucasus bearing his secret with him,
and we hear no more of the matter.

From Kazán they drove to Sarátof, where they hired a boat large enough
to take their travelling carriage on board, and with a crew of three
men, made their way down the Vólga to Astrakhán, sometimes rowing,
sometimes sailing, and sometimes drifting with the stream.

The scorn of luxury and social distinctions so prominent in Tolstoy's
later philosophy, was at this period more to the taste of his brother
Nicholas. A gentleman drove past them in Kazán leaning on his
walking-stick with ungloved hands, and that was sufficient to cause Leo
to speak of him contemptuously, whereupon Nicholas, in his usual tone
of good-natured irony, wanted to know why a man should be despised for
not wearing gloves.

From Astrakhán they had still to drive some two hundred and seventy
miles to reach Starogládovsk, where Nicholas Tolstoy's battery was
stationed. The whole journey from Moscow, including the stay in Kazán,
took nearly a month.

It may be convenient here to explain why the Russians were then
fighting in the Caucasus. Georgia, situated to the south of the
Caucasian Mountains, had been voluntarily annexed to Russia in 1799 to
escape the oppression of Persia; and it therefore became politically
desirable for Russia to subdue the tribes that separated her from her
newly acquired dependency. During the first half of the nineteenth
century this task proceeded very slowly, but at the time we are
speaking of, Prince Baryatínsky, in command of the Russian forces
stationed on the left bank of the river Térek, which flows into the
Caspian Sea, was undertaking a series of expeditions against the
hostile native tribes. Up to that time the Russians had held hardly
anything south of the Térek and north of the Caucasian Mountains,
except their own forts and encampments; but in less than another
decade, Baryatínsky had captured Shámyl (the famous leader who so long
defied Russia) and had subdued the whole country.

Soon after the brothers Tolstoy arrived at Starogládovsk, Nicholas was
ordered to the fortified camp at Goryatchevódsk ('Hot Springs'), an
advanced post recently established to protect the invalids who availed
themselves of those mineral waters.

Here Leo Tolstoy first saw, and was deeply impressed by, the beauty of
the magnificent mountain range which he has so well described in _The
Cossacks_. In July 1851 he wrote to his Aunt Tatiána:

[5]Nicolas est parti dans une semaine après son arrivée, et moi je
l'y suivis, de sorte que nous sommes presque depuis trois semaines
ici où nous logeons dans une tente. Mais comme le temps est beau et
que je me fais un peu à ce genre de vie, je me trouve très bien.
Ici il y a des coups d'oeil magnifiques, à commencer par l'endroit
où sont les sources. C'est une énorme montagne de pierres l'une sur
l'autre, dont les unes se sont détachées et forment des espèces de
grottes, les autres restent suspendues à une grande hauteur. Elles
sont toutes coupées par les courants d'eau chaude, qui tombent avec
bruit dans quelques endroits et couvrent surtout le matin toute la
partie élevée de la montagne d'une vapeur blanche qui se détache
continuellement de cette eau bouillante. L'eau est tellement chaude
qu'on cuit dedans les oeufs _hard_ en trois minutes. Au milieu
de ce ravin sur le torrent principal il y a trois moulins, l'un
au-dessus de l'autre, qui sont construits d'une manière toute
particulière et très pittoresque. Toute la journée les femmes
tartares ne cessent de venir au-dessus et au-dessous de ces moulins
pour laver leur linge. II faut vous dire qu'elles lavent avec les
pieds. C'est comme une fourmilière toujours remuante. Les femmes
sont pour la plupart belles et bien faites. Les costumes des
femmes orientales malgré leur pauvreté, sont gracieux. Les groupes
pittoresques que forment les femmes, joint à la beauté sauvage de
l'endroit fait un coup d'oeil véritablement admirable. Je reste
très souvent des heures à admirer ce paysage. Puis le coup d'oeil
du haut de la montagne est encore plus beau et tout à fait dans un
autre genre. Mais je crains de vous ennuyer avec mes descriptions.

Je suis très content d'être aux eaux puisque j'en profite. Je
prends des bains ferrugineux et je ne sens plus de douleur aux
pieds.

[5] Nicholas left within a week of his arrival and I have
followed him, so that we have now been almost three weeks
here, lodging in a tent But as the weather is fine and I am
getting accustomed to this kind of life, I feel very well.
There are magnificent views here, beginning where the springs
are situated. It is an enormous mountain of rocks one upon
another, some of which are detached and form, as it were,
grottoes; others remain suspended at a great height. They are
all intersected by torrents of hot water which fall noisily in
certain parts and, especially in the morning, cover the whole
upper part of the mountain with a white vapour which this
boiling water continually gives off. The water is so hot that
one can boil eggs hard in three minutes. In the middle of this
ravine, by the chief torrent, stand three mills one above the
other, built in a quite peculiar and very picturesque manner.
All day long, above and below these mills, Tartar women come
unceasingly to wash clothes. I should mention that they wash
with their feet. It is like an ant-hill, always in motion.
The women, for the most part, are beautiful and well formed.
In spite of their poverty the costumes of Oriental women are
graceful. The picturesque groups formed by the women, added
to the savage beauty of the place, furnish a really admirable
_coup d'oeil_. I very often remain for hours admiring the
view. Then again, in quite a different way, the view from the
top of the mountain is even more beautiful. But I fear to
weary you with my descriptions.

I am very glad to be at the springs, for I benefit by them. I
take ferruginous baths, and no longer have pain in my feet.

As showing how hot these springs were, it may be mentioned that a dog
belonging to Nicholas tumbled into the water and was scalded to death.

The officers Tolstoy met, he found to be men without education, and he
wrote: 'At first many things in this society shocked me, but I have
accustomed myself to them, without however attaching myself to these
gentlemen. I have found a happy mean, in which there is neither pride
nor familiarity.' He was helped by the fact that Nicholas was popular
with every one; and, by adopting the plan of having vódka, wine, and
something to eat always ready for those who dropped in to see him, he
succeeded in keeping on good terms with these men, though he did not
care to know them intimately.

The following extract from his Diary preserves the record of the
rapidly changing moods he experienced in those days. Soon after
reaching the Caucasus he noted:

STARY URT, _11th June 1851_.

Yesterday I hardly slept all night. Having posted up my Diary, I
prayed to God. It is impossible to convey the sweetness of the
feeling I experienced during my prayer. I said the prayers I
usually repeat by heart: 'Our Father,' 'To the Virgin,' etc., and
still remained in prayer. If one defines prayer as a petition or as
thanksgiving, then I did not pray. I desired something supreme and
good; but what, I cannot express, though I was clearly conscious
of what I wanted. I wished to merge into the Universal Being. I
asked Him to pardon my crimes; yet no, I did not ask that, for I
felt that if 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,
and that I cannot and do not know how to ask; I thanked Him, but
not with words or thoughts. I combined in one feeling both petition
and gratitude. Fear quite vanished. I could not have separated any
one emotion--faith, hope or love--from the general feeling. No,
this was what I experienced yesterday: it was love of God, lofty
love, uniting in itself all that is good, excluding all that is
bad. How dreadful it was to me to see the trivial and vicious side
of life! I could not understand its having any attraction for me.
How I asked God with a pure heart to accept me into His bosom! I
did not feel the flesh.... But no, the carnal, trivial side again
asserted itself, and before an hour had passed I almost consciously
heard the voice of vice, vanity, and the empty side of life; I knew
whence that voice came, knew it had ruined my bliss! I struggled
against it, and yet yielded to it. I fell asleep thinking of fame
and of women; but it was not my fault, I could not help it.

Again, on 2nd July, after writing down reflections on suffering and
death, he concludes:

How strong I seem to myself to be against all that can happen;
how firm in the conviction that one must expect nothing here but
death; yet a moment later I am thinking with pleasure of a saddle
I have ordered, on which I shall ride dressed in a Cossack cloak,
and of how I shall carry on with the Cossack girls; and I fall into
despair because my left moustache is higher than my right, and for
two hours I straighten it out before the looking-glass.

By August he was back again at Starogládovsk, and, full of energy,
risked his life as a volunteer in expeditions against the Circassians.
Having met Ilyá Tolstoy, an officer and a relation, he was introduced
by him to the Commander-in-Chief, General Baryatínsky. The latter had
noticed Leo Tolstoy during one of the expeditions, and on making his
acquaintance complimented him on his bravery and advised him to enter
the army. Ilyá Tolstoy urged the same advice, and Leo accepted it.
Towards the end of October he went a tiresome but beautiful seven-days'
journey to Tiflis, where he had to pass the examination qualifying him
to become a Junker (Cadet). From there he wrote to his Aunt Tatiána
a letter containing the first intimation of the vocation that was
ultimately to make him far more famous than Baryatínsky himself:

[6]Vous rappelez-vous, bonne tante, un conseil que vous m'avez
donné jadis--celui de faire des romans? Eh bien! je suis votre
conseil et les occupations dont je vous parle consistent à faire
de la littérature. Je ne sais si ce que j'écris paraîtra jamais
dans le monde, mais c'est un travail qui m'amuse et dans lequel je
persévère depuis trop longtemps pour l'abandonner.

[6] Do you remember, dear Aunt, the advice you once gave
me--to write novels? Well, I am following your advice, and
the occupation I mentioned to you consists in producing
literature. I do not know if what I am writing will ever be
published, but it is work that amuses me, and in which I have
persevered too long to abandon it.

For two months he lived in the 'German' suburb of Tiflis, paying Rs. 5
a month (at that time equal to about 16s.) for his two-roomed lodging;
disturbed by no one, writing _Childhood_, and trying to enter the
army--the main obstacle to which was that, as usual, he found himself
without his birth-certificate and other documents. He seldom enjoyed
good health for many consecutive months, and during his stay in Tiflis
he was confined to the house for some weeks by illness. At last, on
23rd December 1851, he was able to write to his brother, Sergius,
announcing that in a few days he expected to receive his appointment as
Junker in the 4th battery of artillery, and that on the day he received
it he would set out for Starogládovsk, and from there go on campaign,
and to the best of his ability 'assist, with the aid of a cannon, in
destroying the predatory and turbulent Asiatics.' He goes on to tell of
hunting. He had been out nine times, and had killed two foxes and about
sixty grey hares. He had also hunted wild boar and deer, but had not
killed any.

In the same letter Tolstoy mentions Hádji Mourát, the hero of a tale
he wrote more than fifty years later, and that has been put aside for
posthumous publication. He says: 'If you wish to show off with news
from the Caucasus, you may recount that a certain Hádji Mourát (the
second in importance to Shámyl himself) surrendered a few days ago to
the Russian Government. He was the leading dare-devil and "brave" in
all Circassia, but was led to commit a mean action.'

1852

A little later, on 6th January 1852, we find him again in Tiflis,
writing to Aunt Tatiána.

[7]Je viens de recevoir votre lettre du 24 Novembre et je vous
y réponds le moment même (comme j'en ai pris l'habitude).
Dernièrement je vous écrivais que votre lettre m'a fait pleurer et
j'accusai ma maladie de cette faiblesse. J'ai eu tort. Toutes vos
lettres me font depuis quelque temps le même effet. J'ai toujours
été _Lyóva-ryóva_ [Leo, Cry-baby]. Avant cette faiblesse me faisait
honte, mais les larmes que je verse en pensant à vous et à votre
amour pour nous, sont tellement douces que je les laisse couler,
sans aucune fausse-honte. Votre lettre est trop pleine de tristesse
pour qu'elle ne produise pas sur moi le même effet. C'est vous qui
toujours m'avez donné des conseils et quoique malheureusement je
ne les aie pas suivis quelquefois, je voudrais toute ma vie n'agir
que d'après vos avis. Permettez-moi pour le moment de vous dire
l'effet qu'a produit sur moi votre lettre et les idées qui me sont
venues en la lisant. Si je vous parle trop franchement je sais que
vous me le pardonnerez en faveur de l'amour que j'ai pour vous. En
disant que c'est votre tour de nous quitter pour aller rejoindre
ceux qui ne sont plus et que vous avez tant aimés, en disant que
vous demandez à Dieu de mettre un terme à votre existence qui vous
semble si insupportable et isolée,--pardon, chère tante, mais il
me paraît qu'en disant cela vous offensez Dieu et moi et nous tous
qui vous aimons tant. Vous demandez à Dieu la mort, c. à dire le
plus grand malheur qui puisse m'arriver (ce n'est pas une phrase,
mais Dieu m'est témoin que les deux plus grands malheurs qui
puissent m'arriver ce serait votre mort ou celle de Nicolas--les
deux personnes que j'aime plus que moi-même). Que resterait-il
pour moi si Dieu exauçait votre prière? Pour faire plaisir à qui,
voudrais-je devenir meilleur, avoir de bonnes qualités, avoir une
bonne réputation dans le monde? Quand je fais des plans de bonheur
pour moi, l'idée que vous partagerez et jouirez de mon bonheur
m'est toujours présente. Quand je fais quelque chose de bon, je
suis content de moi-même, parce que je sais que vous serez contente
de moi. Quand j'agis mal, ce que je crains le plus--c'est de vous
faire du chagrin. Votre amour est tout pour moi, et vous demandez
à Dieu qu'il nous sépare! Je ne puis vous dire le sentiment que
j'ai pour vous, la parole ne suffit pas pour vous l'exprimer et je
crains que vous ne pensiez que j'exagère et cependant je pleure à
chaudes larmes en vous écrivant.

[7] I have just received your letter of 24 November, and I
reply at once (as I have formed the habit of doing). I wrote
you lately that your letter made me cry, and I blamed my
illness for that weakness. I was wrong. For some time past all
your letters have had the same effect on me. I always was Leo
Cry-baby. Formerly I was ashamed of this weakness, but the
tears I shed when thinking of you, and of your love for us,
are so sweet that I let them flow without any false shame.
Your letter is too full of sadness not to produce the same
effect on me. It is you who have always given me counsel, and
though unfortunately I have not always followed it, I should
wish all my life to act only in accord with your advice. For
the moment, permit me to tell you the effect your letter has
had on me, and the thoughts that have come to me while reading
it. If I speak too freely, I know you will forgive it, on
account of the love I have for you. By saying that it is your
turn to leave us, to rejoin those who are no more and whom
you have loved so much, by saying that you ask God to set a
limit to your life which seems to you so insupportable and
isolated--pardon me, dear Aunt, but it seems to me that in so
saying you offend God and me and all of us who love you so
much. You ask God for death, that is to say, for the greatest
misfortune that can happen to me. (This is not a phrase, for
God is my witness that the two greatest misfortunes that could
come to me would be your death and that of Nicholas--the two
persons whom I love more than myself.) What would be left to
me if God granted your prayer? To please whom should I then
wish to become better, to have good qualities and a good
reputation in the world? When I make plans of happiness for
myself, the idea that you will share and enjoy my happiness is
always present. When I do anything good, I am satisfied with
myself because I know you will be satisfied with me. When I
act badly, what I most fear is to cause you grief. Your love
is everything to me, and you ask God to separate us! I cannot
tell you what I feel for you; words do not suffice to express
it. I fear lest you should think I exaggerate, and yet I shed
hot tears while writing to you.

In the same letter he tells of one of those remarkable 'answers to
prayer,' instances of thought-transference, or (if the reader pleases)
simply coincidences, which have played so great a part in the history
of all religious bodies.

[8]Aujourd'hui il m'est arrivé une de ces choses qui m'auraient
fait croire en Dieu, si je n'y croyais déjà fermement depuis
quelque temps.

L'été à Stáry Urt tous les officiers qui y étaient ne faisaient que
jouer et assez gros jeu. Comme en vivant au camp il est impossible
de ne pas se voir souvent, j'ai très souvent assisté au jeu et
malgré les instances qu'on me faisait j'ai tenu bon pendant un
mois; mais un beau jour en plaisantant, j'ai mis un petit enjeu,
j'ai perdu, j'ai recommencé, j'ai encore perdu, la chance en était
mauvaise, la passion du jeu s'est reveillée et en deux jours j'ai
perdu tout ce que j'avais d'argent et celui que Nicolas m'a donné
(à peu près 250 r. argent) et par dessus cela encore 500 r. argent
pour lequel j'ai donné une lettre de change payable au mois de
Janvier 1852.

Il faut vous dire que près du camp il y a un _Aoul_ qu'habitent
les Tchitchéniens. Un jeune garçon (Tchitchénien) Sado venait au
camp et jouait, mais comme il ne savait pas compter et inscrire
il y avait des chenapans qui le trichaient. Je n'ai jamais voulu
jouer pour cette raison contre Sado, et même je lui ai dit qu'il
ne fallait pas qu'il jouât, parce qu'on le trompait et je me
suis proposé de jouer pour lui par procuration. Il m'a été très
reconnaissant pour ceci et m'a fait cadeau d'une bourse. Comme
c'est l'usage de cette nation de se faire des cadeaux mutuels, je
lui ai donné un misérable fusil que j'avais acheté pour 8 rb. Il
faut vous dire que pour devenir _Kounák_, ce qui veut dire ami,
il est d'usage de se faire des cadeaux, et puis de manger dans
la maison du _Kounák_. Après cela, d'après l'ancien usage de ces
peuples (qui n'existe presque plus que par tradition) on devient
ami à la vie et à la mort, c.à d. que si je lui demande tout son
argent, ou sa femme, ou ses armes, ou tout ce qu'il a de plus
précieux, il doit me les donner, et moi aussi je ne dois rien lui
refuser. Sado m'a engagé de venir chez lui et d'être _Kounák_.
J'y suis allé. Après m'avoir régalé à leur manière, il m'a proposé
de choisir dans sa maison tout ce que je voudrais--ses armes, son
cheval ... tout. J'ai voulu choisir ce qu'il y avait de moins cher
et j'ai pris une bride de cheval montée en argent, mais il m'a dit
que je l'offensais et m'a obligé de prendre une _sword_ qui vaut au
moins 100 r. arg.

Son père est un homme assez riche, mais qui a son argent enterré et
ne donne pas le sou à son fils. Le fils pour avoir de l'argent va
voler chez l'ennemi des chevaux, des vaches; quelquefois il expose
20 fois sa vie pour voler une chose qui ne vaut pas 10 r., mais ce
n'est pas par cupidité qu'il le fait, mais par genre. Le plus grand
voleur est très estimé et on l'appelle '_Dzhigit_,' un _Brave_.
Tantôt Sado a 1000 r. arg., tantôt pas le sou. Après une visite
chez lui, je lui ai fait cadeau de la montre d'argent de Nicolas
et nous sommes devenus les plus grands amis du monde. Plusieurs
fois il m'a prouvé son dévouement en s'exposant à des dangers pour
moi, mais ceci pour lui n'est rien--c'est devenu une habitude et un
plaisir.

Quand je suis parti de Stáry Urt et que Nicolas y est resté, Sado
venait chez lui tous les jours et disait qu'il ne savait que
devenir sans moi et qu'il s'ennuyait terriblement. Par une lettre
je faisais connaître à Nicolas, que mon cheval étant malade, je
le priais de m'en trouver un à Stáry Urt; Sado ayant appris cela
n'eut rien de plus pressé que de venir chez moi et de me donner son
cheval, malgré tout ce que j'ai pu faire pour refuser.

Après la bêtise que j'ai fait de jouer à Stáry Urt, je n'ai plus
repris les cartes en mains, et je faisais continuellement la morale
à Sado qui a la passion du jeu et quoiqu'il ne connaisse pas le
jeu, a toujours un bonheur étonnant. Hier soir je me suis occupé à
penser à mes affaires pécuniaires, à mes dettes; je pensais comment
je ferais pour les payer. Ayant longtemps pensé à ces choses, j'ai
vu que si je ne dépense pas trop d'argent, toutes mes dettes ne
m'embarrasseront pas et pourront petit à petit être payées dans
2 ou 3 ans; mais les 500 rbs., que je devais payer ce mois, me
mettaient au désespoir. Il m'était impossible de les payer et pour
le moment ils m'embarrassaient beaucoup plus que ne l'avaient
fait autrefois les 4000 d'Ogaryéff. Cette bêtise d'avoir fait les
dettes que j'avais en Russie et de venir en faire de nouvelles ici
me mettait au désespoir. Le soir en faisant ma prière, j'ai prié
Dieu qu'il me tire de cette désagréable position et avec beaucoup
de ferveur. 'Mais comment est-ce que je puis me tirer de cette
affaire?' pensai-je en me couchant. 'Il ne peut rien arriver qui me
donne la possibilité d'acquitter cette dette.' Je me représentais
déjà tous les désagréments que j'avais à essuyer à cause de cela:
how when he presents the note for collection, the authorities will
demand an explanation as to why I did not pay, etc. 'Lord, help
me!' said I, and fell asleep.

Le lendemain je reçois une lettre de Nicolas à laquelle était
jointe la votre et plusieurs autres--il m'écrit:

The other day Sádo came to see me. He has won your notes-of-hand
from Knorring, and has brought them to me. He was so pleased to
have won them, and asked me so often, 'What do you think? Will your
brother be glad that I have done this?' that I have grown very fond
of him. That man is really attached to you.

N'est-ce pas étonnant que de voir ses voeux aussi exaucés le
lendemain même? C. à d., qu'il n'y a rien d'aussi étonnant que la
bonté divine pour un être qui la mérite si peu que moi. Et n'est-ce
pas que le trait de dévouement de Sado est admirable? Il sait que
j'ai un frère Serge, qui aime les chevaux et comme je lui ai promis
de le prendre en Russie quand j'y irai, il m'a dit, que dût-il lui
en coûter 100 fois la vie, il volera le meilleur cheval qu'il y ait
dans les montagnes, et qu'il le lui amènera.

Faites, je vous prie, acheter à Toúla un _6-barrelled pistol_ et un
_musical-box_, si cela ne coûte pas trop cher. Ce sont des choses
qui lui feront beaucoup de plaisir.

[8] To-day one of those things happened to me which would have
made me believe in God, if I had not for some time past firmly
believed in Him.

In summer, at Stáry Urt, all the officers who were there did
nothing but play, and play rather high. As, living in camp,
one has to meet frequently, I was very often present at play,
but in spite of persuasions I kept steady for a month; but
one fine day for fun I put down a small stake. I lost, staked
again, and lost again. I was in bad luck; the passion for play
reawoke in me, and in two days I had lost all the money I had,
and what Nicholas gave me (about Rs. 250) and another Rs. 500
besides, for which I gave a note-of-hand payable in January
1852.

I should tell you that near the camp there is an Aoul
[native village] inhabited by Circassians. A young fellow (a
Circassian) named Sádo used to come to the camp and play; but
as he could neither reckon nor write, there were scamps who
cheated him. For that reason I never wished to play against
Sádo, and I even told him that he ought not to play, because
he was being cheated; and I offered to play for him. He was
very grateful to me for this, and presented me with a purse;
and as it is the custom of that nation to exchange presents, I
gave him a wretched gun I had bought for Rs. 8. I should tell
you that to become a _Kounák_, that is to say, a _friend_,
it is customary to exchange presents, and afterwards to eat
in the house of one's _Kounák_. After that, according to the
ancient custom of these peoples (which hardly exists now
except as a tradition) you become friends for life and death:
that is to say, if I asked of him all his money, or his wife,
or his weapons, or all the most precious things he has, he
must give them to me, and I also must not refuse him anything.
Sádo made me promise to come to his house and become his
Kounák. I went. After having regaled me in their fashion, he
asked me to choose anything in his house that I liked: his
weapons, his horse--anything. I wished to choose what was of
least value, and took a horse's bridle with silver mountings;
but he said I was offending him, and obliged me to take a
sword worth at least Rs. 100.

His father is a rather rich man, but keeps his money buried,
and does not give his son a cent. The son, to have money, goes
and steals horses and cows from the enemy. Sometimes he risks
his life 20 times to steal something not worth Rs. 10, but he
does it not from greed, but because it is 'the thing.' The
greatest robber is most esteemed, and is called _Dzhigit_, 'a
_Brave_.' Sometimes Sádo has Rs. 1000, sometimes not a cent.
After one visit to him, I gave him Nicholas's silver watch,
and we became the greatest friends in the world. He has proved
his devotion several times by exposing himself to danger for
my sake; but that is nothing to him--it has become a habit and
a pleasure.

When I left Stáry Urt and Nicholas remained there, Sádo used
to go to him every day, saying that he did not know how to
get on without me, and that he felt terribly dull. I wrote to
Nicholas saying that as my horse was ill I begged him to find
me one at Stáry Urt. Sádo having learnt this, must needs come
to me and give me his horse, in spite of all I could do to
refuse it.

After the folly I committed in playing at Stáry Urt, I did not
touch a card again, and I was always lecturing Sádo, who is
devoted to gambling and, though he does not know how to play,
always has astonishing luck. Yesterday evening I was engaged
in considering my money matters and my debts, and thinking
how I was to pay them. Having long thought of these things,
I saw that if I do not spend too much, all my debts will not
embarrass me, but can be paid off little by little in 2 or 3
years; but the Rs. 500 that I had to pay this month, threw me
into despair. It was impossible for me to pay it, and at the
moment it embarrassed me much more than did previously the
4000 of Ogaryóf. The stupidity, after having contracted those
debts in Russia, of coming here and adding fresh ones, made
me despair. In the evening while saying my prayers, I asked
God--and very fervently--to get me out of this disagreeable
scrape. 'But how can I get out of this scrape?' thought I, as
I lay down. 'Nothing can happen that will make it possible for
me to meet that debt.' I already pictured to myself all the
unpleasantnesses I should have to go through because of it.
(See English sentence in the French text, above.)

Next day I received a letter from Nicholas enclosing yours
and several others. He wrote me: (See English sentence in the
French text, above).

Is it not astonishing to see one's petitions granted like
this the very next day? That is to say, there is nothing
so wonderful as the divine goodness to one who merits it
so little as I. And is not the trait of Sádo's devotion
admirable? He knows I have a brother Sergius, who loves
horses, and as I have promised to take him to Russia when I
go, he tells me that, if it costs him his life 100 times over,
he will steal the best horse to be found in the mountains, and
will take it to him.

Please, have a 6-barrelled pistol bought in Toúla and sent to
me, and also a musical-box, if that does not cost too much.
These are things which will give him much pleasure.

In explanation of this letter one has to mention that Sádo was a
'peaceful' Circassian, that is, one friendly to Russia (though his
tribe in general were hostile), and further, that the passages printed
in English in the midst of the French text, are in the original written
in Russian.

A few days later we find Tolstoy on his way back to Starogládovsk,
stopping (probably for post-horses) at the post-station Mozdók, and
again writing his aunt a long letter in which he says:

[9]La religion et l'expérience que j'ai de la vie (quelque petite
qu'elle soit) m'ont appris que la vie est une épreuve. Dans moi
elle est plus qu'une épreuve, c'est encore l'expiation de mes
fautes.

J'ai dans l'idée que l'idée si frivole que j'ai eu d'aller faire
un voyage au Caucase--est une idée qui m'a été inspirée d'en haut.
C'est la main de Dieu qui m'a guidé--je ne cesse de l'en remercier.
Je sens que je suis devenu meilleur ici (et ce n'est pas beaucoup
dire puisque j'ai été très mauvais) et je suis fermement persuadé
que tout ce qui peut m'arriver ici ne sera que pour mon bien,
puisque c'est Dieu lui-même qui l'a voulu ainsi. Peut-être c'est
une idée bien hardie, néanmoins j'ai cette conviction. C'est pour
cela que je supporte les fatigues et les privations physiques dont
je parle (ce ne sont pas des privations physiques--il n'y en a pas
pour un garçon de 23 ans qui se porte bien) sans les ressentir,
même avec une espèce de plaisir en pensant au bonheur qui m'attend.

Voilà comment je le représente:

Après un nombre indéterminé d'années, ni jeune, ni vieux, je suis
à Yásnaya; mes affaires sont en ordre, je n'ai pas d'inquiétudes,
ni de tracasseries. Vous habitez Yásnaya aussi. Vous avez un peu
vieillie, mais êtes encore fraîche et bien portante. Nous menons
la vie que nous avons menée,--je travaille le matin, mais nous
nous voyons presque toute la journée. Nous dînons. Le soir je fais
une lecture qui ne vous ennuie pas, puis nous causons--moi je vous
raconte ma vie au Caucase, vous me parlez de vos souvenirs--de mon
père, de ma mère, vous me contez des '_terrible tales_' que jadis
nous écoutions les yeux effrayés et la bouche béante. Nous nous
rappelons les personnes qui nous ont été chères et qui ne sont
plus; vous pleurerez, j'en ferai de même, mais ces larmes seront
douces; nous causerons des frères qui viendront nous voir de temps
en temps, de la chère Marie qui passera aussi quelques mois de
l'année a Yásnaya qu'elle aime tant, avec tous ses enfants. Nous
n'aurons point de connaissances--personne ne viendra nous ennuyer
et faire des commérages. C'est un beau rêve, mais ce n'est pas
encore tout ce que je me permets de rêver.--Je suis marié--ma
femme est une personne douce, bonne, aimante; elle a pour vous
le même amour que moi; nous avons des enfants qui vous appellent
grandmaman; vous habitez la grande maison en haut, la même chambre
que jadis habitait grandmaman. Toute la maison est dans le même
ordre qu'elle a été du temps de papa et nous recommençons la
même vie, seulement en changéant de rôle; vous prenez le rôle de
grandmaman, mais vous êtes encore meilleure; moi le rôle de papa,
mais je désespère de jamais le mériter; ma femme celui de maman,
les enfants le nôtre; Marie le rôle des deux tantes, leurs malheurs
exceptés.... Mais il manquera un personnage pour prendre le rôle
que vous avez joué dans notre famille; jamais il ne se trouvera une
âme aussi belle, aussi aimante que la vôtre. Vous n'avez pas de
successeur. Il y aura trois nouveaux personnages, qui paraîtront
de temps en temps sur la scène--les frères, surtout l'un qui
sera souvent avec nous: Nicolas--vieux garçon, chauve, retiré du
service, toujours aussi bon, aussi noble.

I imagine how he will, as of old, tell the children fairy tales of
his own invention, and how they will kiss his greasy hands (but
which are worthy of it), how he will play with them, how my wife
will bustle about to get him his favourite dishes, how he and I
will recall our common memories of days long past, how you will sit
in your accustomed place and listen to us with pleasure; how, as of
yore, you will call us, old men, 'Lyóvotchka' and 'Nikólenka,' and
will scold me for eating with my fingers, and him for not having
clean hands.

Si on me faisait empereur de Russie, si on me donnait le Pérou,
en un mot si une fée venait avec sa baguette me demander ce que
je désire--la main sur la conscience, je répondrais que je désire
seulement que ce rêve puisse devenir une réalité.

[9] Religion and the experience I have of life (however small
it may be) have taught me that life is a trial. In my case it
is more than a trial, it is also an expiation of my faults.

It seems to me that the frivolous idea I had of journeying to
the Caucasus was an idea with which I was inspired from above.
It is the hand of God that has guided me--I do not cease to
thank Him for it. I feel that I have become better here (and
that is not saying much, for I was very bad) and I am firmly
persuaded that all that can happen to me here can only be
for my good, since it is God himself who has so willed it.
Perhaps it is a very audacious notion; nevertheless it is my
conviction. That is why I bear the fatigues and the physical
privations I have mentioned (they are not physical privations:
there are none for a fellow of 23 who is in good health)
without resenting them, and even with a kind of pleasure in
thinking of the happiness that awaits me.

This is how I picture it:

After an indefinite number of years, neither young nor old, I
am at Yásnaya; my affairs are in order, I have no anxieties
or worries. You also live at Yásnaya. You have aged a little,
but you are still fresh and in good health. We lead the life
we used to lead. I work in the morning, but we see one another
almost all day. We have dinner. In the evening I read aloud
something which does not weary you, and then we talk. I tell
you of my life in the Caucasus, you tell me your recollections
of my father and my mother; and you tell me the 'terrible
tales' we used to listen to with frightened eyes and open
mouths. We remind each other of those who were dear to us and
who are now no more; you will weep, I shall do the same, but
those tears will be sweet; we shall talk about my brothers,
who will come to see us from time to time; of dear Marie,
who with all her children will also spend some months of the
year at Yásnaya, which she loves so much. We shall have no
acquaintances--no one will come to weary us and carry tales.
It is a beautiful dream, but it is not all that I let myself
dream.--I am married. My wife is a gentle creature, kind and
affectionate; she has the same love for you as I have. We have
children who call you Grandmamma; you live upstairs in the big
house, in what used to be Grandmamma's room. The whole house
is as it was in Papa's time, and we recommence the same life,
only changing our rôles. You take the rôle of Grandmamma, but
you are still better; I take Papa's place, though I despair
of ever deserving it; my wife, that of Mamma; the children
take ours; Marie, that of the two aunts (excepting their
misfortunes) ... but some one will be lacking to take the part
you played in our family--never will any one be found with a
soul so beautiful, so loving, as yours. You have no successor.
There will be three new characters who will appear from
time to time on the scene--the brothers, especially the one
who will often be with us, Nicholas: an old bachelor, bald,
retired from service, as good and noble as ever.

I imagine how he will, as of old, tell the children fairy
tales of his own invention, and how they will kiss his greasy
hands (but which are worthy of it), how he will play with
them, how my wife will bustle about to get him his favourite
dishes, how he and I will recall our common memories of days
long past, how you will sit in your accustomed place and
listen to us with pleasure; how, as of yore, you will call us,
old men, 'Lyóvotchka' and 'Nikólenka,' and will scold me for
eating with my fingers, and him for not having clean hands.

If they made me Emperor of Russia, or gave me Peru: in a word,
if a fairy came with her wand asking me what I wished for--my
hand on my conscience, I should reply that I only wish that
this dream may become a reality.

He returned to Starogládovsk a Junker, and in February took part in an
expedition as a non-commissioned artillery officer, and nearly received
a St. George's Cross for bravery, but lost it because, once again, he
had not his documents in order.

Writing to his Aunt Tatiána some months later (June 1852), he says:

[10]Pendant cette expédition, j'ai eu l'occasion d'être deux fois
présenté à la croix de St. Georges et je n'ai pas pu la recevoir
à cause du retard de quelques jours de ce maudit papier. J'ai été
présenté pour la journée du 18 Février (ma fête), mais on a été
obligé de refuser à cause du manque de ce papier. La liste des
présentations partit le 19, le 20 le papier était arrivé. Je vous
avoue franchement que de tous les honneurs militaires c'est cette
seule petite croix que j'ai eu la vanité d'ambitionner.

[10] During this expedition, I twice had the chance of being
presented to receive a St. George's Cross, and I was prevented
from receiving it by that confounded paper being a few days
late. I was nominated to receive it on 18 February (my name's
day), but it had to be refused me for want of that paper. The
list of nominations was sent off on the 19th, the paper came
on the 20th. I frankly confess that of all military honours,
that little cross is the only one which I have had the vanity
to desire.

On a second occasion he had the refusal of the coveted cross, but
his Colonel pointed out to him that besides being sometimes given to
Junkers favoured by their officers, these crosses were also, and more
usually, granted to old and deserving privates, whom they entitled to
a life pension; and that if Tolstoy would forego the one intended for
him, it would be given to a veteran who deserved it, and to whom it
would secure a subsistence for his old age. Tolstoy, to his honour be
it said, renounced the coveted decoration. He had a third chance of
securing it later on, but this time, absorbed in playing chess till
late at night, he omitted to go on duty, and the Commander of the
Division noticing his absence, placed him under arrest and cancelled
the award which had been already made in his favour. Chess, I may here
mention, has always been a favourite game of Tolstoy's. He has never
studied the game from books, but has played much and plays ingeniously
and well.

The kind of warfare in which he was now engaged, is well described in
_The Raid_ and _The Wood-Felling_. A detachment would set out to seize
a Tartar village, make a clearing in a forest, or capture cattle.
It would exchange cannon- and rifle-shots with Tartar skirmishers,
and would lose perhaps half a dozen men killed or wounded before
accomplishing its object; but the more serious part of the work came
when the expedition returned to the fortified camp from which it had
started. As soon as the retreat commenced, Tartar sharpshooters would
swarm out, trying to cut off stragglers and inflicting as much damage
as possible. Even after the Russians were beyond rifle-shot, a chance
ball from a Tartar cannon might reach them within sight of their own
quarters.

To see a single man one has known well, struck down by a deadly bullet,
may impress an observer as vividly as the myriad corpses of a great
battlefield; and in Tolstoy's earliest war-sketches one feels the note
of horror at war quite as strongly as when, later on, he described far
bloodier struggles at Sevastopol.

When not on campaign, Tolstoy was generally stationed at the Cossack
village of Starogládovsk, where he lived more or less the life vividly
described in _The Cossacks_. The Grebénsky Cossacks located there were
descended from Russian Dissenters (Old-Believers) who had fled from
the persecution of former Tsars and had settled among the Mohammedan
Circassians near the river Térek. They had retained the purity of their
Russian speech, and remained nominally Christians, but had intermarried
with the natives and adopted many of their manners and customs. Love of
freedom, idleness, robbery, hunting, and war were their most prominent
characteristics. They considered themselves altogether superior both
to the semi-savage Mohammedan natives and to the tame, disciplined
Russians. Drunkenness was not so much a weakness of these men as 'a
tribal rite, to abandon which would have been considered as an act of
apostasy.' The work was done by the women, or by hired Nogai-Tartar
labourers. The women were physically better developed than the men,
and were celebrated for their beauty, combining the purest type of
Circassian features with the powerful build of Northern women. In their
relations with men, especially before marriage, they enjoyed absolute
freedom.

There was much that attracted Tolstoy in the simple life of these
people: their frankness, their skill in hunting, their contempt for all
that is artificial or weak, and their freedom from the moral struggles
that tormented him. With one beautiful girl--Mariána--he fell deeply
in love, but she remained indifferent to the attentions of a man who
was inferior in the arts of war and hunting to some of the young men
of her own tribe. His courtship failed (as he says of his hero in _The
Cossacks_) because he could not, like a dashing young Cossack, 'steal
herds, get drunk on Tchikir wine, troll songs, kill people, and when
tipsy climb in at her window for a night, without thinking who he was
or why he existed.'

Though one has always to be carefully on one's guard against taking
Tolstoy's stories as though they were autobiographical, there are
passages in _The Cossacks_ which certainly apply to himself, and give a
vivid idea of some of his moods at this time, as well as of his way of
life while living as a Junker at Starogládovsk.

On one occasion the hero is out hunting in the woods and asks himself:

'How must I live so as to be happy, and why was I formerly not
happy?' And he remembered his previous life, and felt disgusted
with himself.... And suddenly a new light seemed revealed to
him. 'Happiness,' said he to himself, 'consists in living for
others. That is clear. The demand for happiness is innate in man;
therefore it is legitimate. If we seek to satisfy it selfishly:
by seeking wealth, fame, comforts, or love, circumstances may
render the satisfaction of these desires impossible. It follows
that they are illegitimate, but not that the demand for happiness
itself is illegitimate. But what desire is there that can always
be satisfied in spite of external conditions? What desire? Love,
self-sacrifice!' He was so glad and excited at discovering this,
as it seemed to him, new truth, that he jumped up and began
impatiently seeking for some one for whom he might quickly
sacrifice himself: to whom he might do good, and whom he could
love. 'Yes; I need nothing for myself!' he kept mentally repeating:
'Then why not live for others?'

In the same story Tolstoy tells us that his hero lived monotonously and
regularly.

He had little to do with his Commander or fellow-officers. In the
Caucasus the position of a Junker with means of his own was in this
respect particularly favourable. He was not sent to drill nor kept
at work. As a reward for going on an expedition he was recommended
for a commission, and meanwhile he was left alone. The officers
considered him an aristocrat, and therefore in their intercourse
with him bore themselves with dignity. Card-playing and the
officers' carousals with singers, of which he had had experience
when on service with the detachment, seemed to him unattractive,
and he avoided the officers' society.

Again he tells us that his hero

often thought seriously of abandoning all else, enrolling himself
as a Cossack, buying a cottage, and marrying a Cossack girl ...
and living with Uncle Eróshka, going with him to hunt and to fish,
and with the Cossacks on expeditions. 'Why don't I do this? What
am I waiting for?' he asked himself.... But a voice told him to
wait, and not to decide. He was restrained by a dim consciousness
that he could not fully live the life of Eróshka and Loukáshka,
because he had another happiness,--he was restrained by the thought
that happiness lies in self-sacrifice.... He continually sought an
opportunity to sacrifice himself for others, but it did not present
itself.

In the same story the Cossack Loukáshka kills a Tartar 'brave' at
night, and rises greatly in the popular esteem and in his own; and the
hero thinks to himself:

'What nonsense and confusion! A man kills another and is as happy
and satisfied as though he had done an excellent deed. Does nothing
tell him there is here no cause for great rejoicing? That happiness
consists not in killing others, but in sacrificing oneself?'

We have a yet safer record of Tolstoy's feelings in his Diary,
in which about this time he noted down the following reflections
concerning the chief faults he was conscious of in himself:

1. The passion of gaming is a covetous passion, gradually
developing into a craving for strong excitement. Against this
passion one can struggle.

2. Sensuality is a physical need, a demand of the body, excited
by imagination. It increases with abstinence, and therefore the
struggle against it is very difficult. The best way is by labour
and occupation.

3. Vanity is the passion least harmful to others and most harmful
to oneself.

In another passage, indicating quite a different phase of
consciousness, he writes:

For some time past repentance for the loss of the best years of
life has begun to torment me, and this since I commenced to feel
that I could do something good.... There is something in me which
compels me to believe that I was not born to be like everybody else.

In May we find him going on furlough to Pyatigórsk to drink the mineral
water and to be treated for rheumatism. This is his description of
Pyatigórsk, written nearly twenty years later in his Reading Book for
Children:

Pyatigórsk (Five Hills) is so called because it stands on Mount
Besh-tau. _Besh_ means in Tartar 'five,' _Tau_ means 'hill.' From
this mountain flows a hot sulphur stream. The water is boiling, and
over the places where it springs from the mountain there is always
steam, as from a samovár.

The whole place where the town stands is very gay. From the
mountain flow hot springs, and at the foot of the mountain flows
the river Podkoúmok. The mountain slopes are wooded, all around are
fields, and afar off one sees the great Caucasian mountains. On
these the snow never melts, and they are always as white as sugar.
When the weather is clear, wherever one goes one sees the great
mountain, Elbrus, like a sugar cone. People come to the hot springs
for their health; and over the springs, arbours and awnings have
been erected, and gardens and paths have been laid out all around.
In the morning a band plays, and people drink the waters, or bathe,
or stroll about.

Here he was joined by his sister Mary and her husband. She also came to
Pyatigórsk to be cured of rheumatism. She tells how her brother Leo was
at this time attracted by Spiritualism, and would sometimes even borrow
a table from a _café_ and have a _séance_ on the boulevard. He remained
in Pyatigórsk till 5th August, and then returned to Starogládovsk. From
thence he wrote to his aunt, repeating what he had said before of the
officers with whom he had to associate.

[11]Il y a une trop grande différence dans l'éducation, les
sentiments et la manière de voir de ceux que je rencontre ici pour
que je trouve quelque plaisir avec eux. Il n'y a que Nicolas qui a
le talent, malgré l'énorme différence qu'il y a entre lui et tous
ces messieurs, à s'amuser avec eux et à être aimé de tous. Je lui
envie ce talent, mais je sens que je ne puis en faire autant.

[11] There is too great a difference in the education, the
sentiments, and the point of view of those I meet here, for
me to find any pleasure in their company. Only Nicholas, in
spite of the enormous difference between him and all these
gentlemen, has the talent to amuse himself with them, and
to be loved by all. I envy him this talent, but feel that I
cannot do the same.

He mentions that for some time past he has acquired a taste for reading
history, and says that he perseveres in his literary occupations. He
had already three times rewritten a work he had in hand, and intended
to rewrite it again. He felt much more content with himself at this
time, and adds:

[12]Il y a eu un temps où j'étais vain de mon esprit et de ma
position dans le monde, de mon nom; mais à présent je sais et je
sens que s'il y a en moi quelque chose de bon et que si j'ai à en
rendre grâce à la Providence, c'est pour un coeur bon, sensible et
capable d'amour, qu'il lui a plu de me donner et de me conserver.

[12] There was a time when I was vain of my intelligence,
of my position in the world, and of my name; but now I know
and feel that if there is anything good in me, and if I have
anything to thank Providence for, it is for a good heart,
sensitive and capable of love, which it has pleased it to give
me and to preserve in me.

On 29th June he again notes in his Diary:

He whose aim is his own happiness, is bad; he whose aim is the
good opinion of others, is weak; he whose aim is the happiness of
others, is virtuous; he whose aim is God, is great.

1852

On 2nd July he completed _Childhood_, and a few days later despatched
the manuscript, signed only with the initials L. N. T., to the best
Petersburg monthly, _The Contemporary_. On 28th August he received
a reply from the editor, the poet Nekrásof, saying he would publish
the story and that he thought its author had talent. Another letter
followed, dated 5th September 1852, in which Nekrásof said that having
re-read the story in proof, he found it 'much better than I had
realised at first. I can say definitely that its author has talent.' He
added that it would appear in the next number of his magazine.

Tolstoy notes in his Diary: 'Received letter from Nekrásof; praises,
but no money.'

Nekrásof's next letter is dated 30th October, and explains that it is
not customary to pay authors for their first work, but that he hopes
Tolstoy will send him more stories, and that in future he will pay
him as much as to the very best known writers, namely Rs. 50 (nearly
£7 at that time) per sheet of sixteen pages. He mentioned also that
_Childhood_ had been very well received by the public.

Tolstoy kept his authorship a secret, revealing it to no one except
Nicholas and Aunt Tatiána. His sister Mary was by this time back at her
husband's estate, situated near Tourgénef's village of Spássky. There
Tourgénef came one day to visit her, bringing with him the last number
of the _Contemporary_. Full of praise of a new story by an unknown
author, he began reading it aloud, and to her great astonishment
Mary recognised, one after another, various incidents from her own
childhood. Her first guess was that Nicholas must have written it.

Among the writers who at once acclaimed Tolstoy's genius was Panáef,
co-editor of the _Contemporary_, who, Tourgénef pretended, had to be
carefully shunned by his friends on the Névsky (the chief street in
Petersburg) lest he should insist on reading them extracts from the new
story. Before long the work reached Dostoyévsky in Siberia, and he was
so struck by it that he wrote to a friend asking him to find out who
the talented L. N. T. was.

Meanwhile Tolstoy continued his military career in the Caucasus. On
his return to Starogládovsk in August, he had noted in his Diary:
'Simplicity--that is the quality which above all others I desire to
attain.'

He had to pass an unpleasant month in consequence of the autumn
manoeuvres, about which he wrote: 'It was not very pleasant to have
to march about and fire off cannons; especially as it disturbed the
regularity of my life'; and he rejoiced when it was over and he was
again able to devote himself to 'hunting, writing, reading, and
conversation with Nicholas.' He had become fond of shooting game, at
which--as at all physical exercises--he was expert; and he spent two or
three hours a day at it. He writes to his Aunt Tatiána:

At 100 paces from my lodging I find wild fowl, and in half an hour
I kill 2, 3, or 4. Besides the pleasure, the exercise is excellent
for my health, which in spite of the waters is not very good. I am
not ill, but I often catch cold and suffer from sore throat or from
toothache or from rheumatism, so that I have to keep to my room at
least two days in the week.

One of the forms of sport he enjoyed during his stay in the Caucasus
was strepet shooting: the strepet being a steppe grouse. Before they
migrate in mid-August, these birds assemble in enormous flocks, and
are extremely wild and difficult of approach. It is hardly possible to
get within two hundred or two hundred and fifty yards of such a flock.
Tolstoy had a horse that was specially trained for this particular
sport. On it he used to ride at a foot-pace two or three times round a
flock, carefully narrowing the circle till he got as near as possible
without alarming the birds. Then he would dash forward at full gallop
with his gun ready. The moment the birds rose he dropped his reins on
the horse's neck, and the well-trained animal would instantly stop,
allowing its master to take aim.

Tolstoy's military career was not giving him satisfaction. Having
left home without any definite plans, he had neglected to bring any
documents with him, and the result of this was that instead of becoming
an officer within eighteen months, as he expected to do when he entered
the army, he now, after serving for ten months, received notice that
he would have to serve another three years before he could obtain his
commission.

In this difficulty he applied to his aunt P. I. Úshkof, who by
application to an influential friend eventually succeeded in hastening
his promotion. Meanwhile however Tolstoy--who had made up his mind to
retire from the army as soon as he received his commission--almost lost
patience.

On 24th December he completed the sketch entitled _The Raid: A
Volunteer's Story_, and two days later posted it to the _Contemporary_,
in which magazine it appeared in March 1853. The following passage
occurs in this his first story of war, and foreshadows the attitude he
ultimately made definitely his own. He is describing a march through
Caucasian scenery to a night attack on a Tartar _Aoul_, and he says:

Nature, beautiful and strong, breathed conciliation.

Can it be that people have not room to live in this beautiful
world, under this measureless, starry heaven? Can feelings of
enmity, vengeance, or lust to destroy one's fellow beings, retain
their hold on man's soul amid this enchanting Nature? All that is
evil in man's heart should, one would think, vanish in contact with
Nature--this immediate expression of beauty and goodness.

From the very start we find Tolstoy hampered in his work by that
incubus of all Russian writers, the Censor. In a letter to his brother
Sergius in May he writes: '_Childhood_ was spoilt, and _The Raid_
simply ruined by the Censor. All that was good in it has been struck
out or mutilated.' In comparing Tolstoy's literary achievement with
that of Western writers, one should make a large allowance for the
continual annoyance, delay, mutilation, and suppression inflicted on
him by that terrible satellite of despotism.

1853

In January, the battery in which Leo Tolstoy served went on active
service against Shámyl. The expedition assembled at Fort Grózny, where
scenes of debauchery occurred.

On 18th February Tolstoy's life was in great danger. A shell fired by
the enemy smashed the carriage of a cannon he was pointing. Strange
to say he was not even wounded. On 1st April he returned with his
detachment to Starogládovsk; and in May we find him writing to his
brother Sergius that he had applied for his discharge, and hoped in six
weeks' time to return home a free man. Difficult as his admission to
the army had been, he found, however, that to retire was a yet harder
matter, destined to take not weeks but years.

On 13th June his life was again in danger owing to an adventure which
supplied him with the subject he utilised later on in _A Prisoner in
the Caucasus_.

It being dangerous to travel between the Russian forts without
an escort, non-combatants, as well as stores and baggage, were
periodically convoyed from one post to another. On these expeditions
it was forbidden for any one to detach himself from the main body; but
the intolerable slowness of the infantry march on a hot day, frequently
tempted those who were mounted, to ride on, and to run the risk of
being attacked by the 'Tartars' (who were generally Circassians). On
one such occasion five horsemen, including Tolstoy and his friend Sádo,
disobeyed the regulations and rode ahead. The two friends ascended
the hillside to see whether any foes were visible, while their three
companions proceeded along the valley below. Hardly had the two reached
the crest of the ridge when they saw thirty mounted Tartars galloping
towards them. Calculating that there was not time to rejoin their
companions in the valley, Tolstoy shouted them a warning, and raced off
along the ridge towards Fort Grózny, which was their destination. The
three did not, at first, take his warning seriously, but wasting some
precious moments before turning to rejoin the column, were overtaken
by the Tartars, and two of them were very severely wounded before a
rescue party from the convoy put the enemy to flight. Meanwhile Tolstoy
and Sádo, pursued by seven horsemen along the hill ridge, had to ride
nearly three miles to reach the fort. It so happened that Tolstoy was
trying a young horse of Sádo's, while Sádo was riding Tolstoy's ambler,
which could not gallop. Though Tolstoy could easily have escaped on
Sádo's fiery horse, he would not desert his comrade. Sádo had a gun,
unluckily not loaded, and so he could only make a pretence with it of
aiming at his pursuers. It seemed almost certain that both fugitives
would be killed; but apparently the Tartars decided to capture them
alive, perhaps wishing to revenge themselves on Sádo for being a
pro-Russian, and therefore they did not shoot them down. At last a
sentinel at Grózny having espied their plight, gave the alarm and some
Cossacks galloped to their rescue. At sight of these, the Tartars made
off and the fugitives escaped uninjured.

Tolstoy continued his habit of forming resolutions; and about this
time he wrote: 'Be straightforward, not rough, but frank with all
men; yet not childishly frank without any need.... Refrain from
wine and women ... the pleasure is so small and uncertain, and the
remorse so great.... Devote yourself completely to whatever you do. On
experiencing any strong sensation, wait; but having once considered the
matter, though wrongly, act decisively.'

From the middle of July to October, Tolstoy again stayed at Pyatigórsk.

A companion he had brought with him to the Caucasus was his black
bulldog, Boúlka. He intended to leave it at home, but after he had
started, the dog had broken a pane of glass and escaped from the room
in which it was confined, and when Tolstoy, after stopping at the first
post-station, was just resuming his journey, he saw something black
racing along the road after him. It was Boúlka, who rushed to his
master, licked his hand, and lay down panting in the shade of a cart.
The dog had galloped nearly fourteen miles in the heat of the day, and
was rewarded by being taken to the Caucasus, where it was destined to
meet with many adventures.

On one occasion this dog boldly attacked a wild boar, and had its
stomach ripped open by the latter's tusk. While its wound was being
sewn up, the dog licked its master's hand.

On another occasion, when Tolstoy was sitting at night with a friend
in the village street, intending to start for Pyatigórsk at daybreak,
they suddenly heard a sucking-pig squeal, and guessed that a wolf
was killing it. Tolstoy ran into the house, seized a loaded gun, and
returned in time to see a wolf running straight towards him from the
other side of a wattle-fence. The wolf jumped on to the top of the
fence and descended close to Tolstoy who, almost touching him with the
muzzle of his gun, drew the trigger. The gun missed fire, and the wolf
raced off, chased by Boúlka and by Tolstoy's setter, Milton. The wolf
escaped, but not till it had snapped at Boúlka and inflicted a slight
wound on his head. Strange to say, the wolf ventured to return a little
later into the middle of the street, and again escaped unhurt.

Not long after, in Pyatigórsk, shortly before Tolstoy left the
Caucasus, while drinking coffee in the garden of his lodging, he heard
a tremendous noise of men and dogs, and, on inquiry, learnt that
convicts had been let out of gaol to kill the dogs, of whom there
were too many in the town, but that orders had been given to spare
dogs wearing collars. As ill-luck would have it, Tolstoy had removed
Boúlka's collar; and Boúlka, apparently recognising the convicts as his
natural enemies, rushed out into the street and flew at one of them. A
man had just freed the long hook he carried, from the corpse of a dog
he had caught and held down while his companions beat it to death with
bludgeons. He now adroitly hooked Boúlka and drew the unfortunate dog
towards him, calling to his mate to kill it, which the latter prepared
to do. Boúlka however bounded aside with such force that the skin of
his thigh burst where the hook held it, and with tail between his legs
and a red wound on his thigh, he flew back into the house and hid
under Tolstoy's bed. His escape was not of much use. The wolf that had
snapped at him six weeks before must have been mad, for Boúlka after
showing premonitory symptoms of rabies, disappeared, and was never
heard of more.

Tolstoy's state of mind during the latter part of this year is
indicated by his letters. To his brother Sergius he wrote on 20th July:

I think I already wrote you that I have sent in my resignation.
God knows, however, on account of the war with Turkey, whether it
will be accepted, or when. This disturbs me very much, for I have
now grown so accustomed to happy thoughts of soon settling down
in the country, that to return to Starogládovsk and again wait
unendingly--as I have to wait for everything connected with my
service--will be very unpleasant.

Again, in December, he writes from Starogládovsk:

Please write about my papers quickly. This is necessary. '_When
shall I come home?_' God only knows. For nearly a year I have been
thinking only of how to sheath my sword, but still cannot manage
it. And as I must fight somewhere, I think it will be pleasanter to
do so in Turkey than here, and I have therefore applied to Prince
Serge Dmítrievitch [Gortchakóf] about it, and he writes me that he
has written to his brother, but what the result will be, I do not
know.

It will be remembered that Tolstoy's paternal grandmother was a
Gortchakóf. Through her he was nearly related to Prince S. D.
Gortchakóf and to his brother, Prince Michael Dmítrievitch Gortchakóf,
who had been a friend of his father's in the war of 1812, and was now
in command of the Russian army on the Danube.

The letter continues:

At any rate by New Year I expect to change my way of life,
which I confess wearies me intolerably. Stupid officers, stupid
conversations, and nothing else. If there were but a single man to
whom one could open one's soul! Tourgénef is right: 'What irony
there is in solitude,'--one becomes palpably stupid oneself.
Although Nikólenka has gone off with the hounds--Heaven knows why
(Epíshka[13] and I often call him 'a pig' for so doing)--I go out
hunting alone for whole days at a time from morning to evening,
with a setter. That is my only pleasure--and not a pleasure but a
narcotic. One tires oneself out, gets famished, sleeps like the
dead, and a day has passed. When you have an opportunity, or are
yourself in Moscow, buy me Dickens' _David Copperfield_ in English,
and send me _Sadler's English Dictionary_ which is among my books.

[13] The Cossack hunter Epíshka, the original of Eróshka, who
figures so prominently in _The Cossacks_.

Of the entries in his Diary at this time, we may note the following:

All the prayers I have invented I replace by the one prayer, 'Our
Father.' All the requests I can make to God are far more loftily
expressed and more worthily of Him, in the words 'Thy Kingdom come,
as in heaven so on earth.'

About this time he completed his _Memoirs of a Billiard Marker_,
and sent it to the _Contemporary_ with a letter expressing his own
dissatisfaction with the hasty workmanship of the story; it did
not appear till more than a year later. He was also now at work on
_Boyhood_.

Seventeen years after Tolstoy had left the Caucasus, an officer
stationed at Starogládovsk found his memory still fresh among the
Cossacks, and saw Mariána (comparatively aged by that time), as well
as several elderly Cossack hunters who had shot wild fowl and wild
boars with Tolstoy. In his regiment he left the reputation of being an
excellent narrator, who enthralled every one by his conversation.

1854

Not till January 1854 did the long-expected order arrive allowing him
to pass the examination (a pure formality at that time) entitling him
to become an officer. On the 19th he left for home, and on 2nd February
reached Yásnaya, where he enjoyed a three weeks' stay with his Aunt
Tatiána, his brother, and a friend. On this journey he encountered a
severe storm, to which we owe _The Snow Storm_, published a couple of
years later, and probably also much of the storm description in _Master
and Man_, written in later life.

The Russo-Turkish war had now begun in earnest, and, as a result of his
application, he received orders to join the army of the Danube, which
he set out accordingly to do.

Of the Caucasian period of his life, as of his University days,
Tolstoy has at different times expressed himself differently. To
Birukóf, in 1905, he spoke of it as one of the best times of his life,
notwithstanding all his deflections from his dimly recognised ideals.
Yet two years earlier, writing of the four periods of his life, he had
spoken of 'the terrible twenty years of coarse dissipation, the service
of ambition, vanity, and above all, of lust,' which followed after the
age of fourteen.

But what it comes to is, that Tolstoy is a man of moods, and
judges himself and others, sometimes by ordinary and sometimes by
extraordinary standards.

CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER III

Birukof.

Behrs.

U. Bitovt, _Graf L. Tolstoy v literatoure i iskousstve_: Petersburg,
1903. (Hereafter called 'Bitovt.') Though ill-arranged, this book
is valuable to any one engaged on the difficult task of compiling a
Bibliography of Tolstoy's works.

Nekrasof's letters to Tolstoy published in the Literary Supplement to
the _Niva_, February 1898.

Much light is also thrown on this period of Tolstoy's life by the
following works, which must not be considered autobiographical:

_The Raid._
_The Wood-Felling._
_Meeting a Moscow Acquaintance._
_The Cossacks_, and
_The Snow Storm_,

as well as by stories included in Tolstoy's _Readers_:

_Boulka._
_Boulka and the Wild Boar._
_Milton and Boulka._
_Boulka and the Wolf._
_What Happened to Boulka in Pyatigorsk._
_Boulka's and Milton's End._
_A Prisoner in the Caucasus._

CHAPTER IV

THE CRIMEAN WAR

Joins army of the Danube. Siege of Silistria. Sevastopol. Projected
Newspaper. _Sevastopol in December._ Battle of the Tchérnaya. Capture
of the Maláhof. Courier to Petersburg. Song. Relations with superiors
and fellow-officers. Self-depreciation. _The Wood-Felling._ _Sevastopol
in May._ The Censor. On War.

AT twenty-five years of age it fell to Tolstoy's lot to take part in a
great European war and thereby to extend the range of his experience in
a way that considerably affected his subsequent life and writings.

Tolstoy tells us that he got his first understanding of war from
Stendhal, the author of _Le Rouge et le Noir_ and _La Chartreuse de
Parme_. In conversation with Paul Boyer, Tolstoy once spoke of those
novels as inimitable works of art, adding, 'I am greatly indebted to
Stendhal. He taught me to understand war. Re-read the description of
the battle of Waterloo in _La Chartreuse de Parme_. Who ever before
so described war? Described it, that is, as it is in reality? Do you
remember Fabrice riding over the field of battle and understanding
"nothing"?'

Tolstoy's brother Nicholas, though fond of war, also disbelieved in
the popular romantic view of it, and used to say: 'All _that_ is
embellishment, and in real war there is no embellishment.'--'A little
later, in the Crimea,' added Tolstoy in his talk with Boyer, 'I had a
grand chance to see with my own eyes that this is so.'

Of the causes that led to the war it need only be said that the rule
of the Turks over Christian populations had long kept a dangerous
sore open in Europe, and the consequent diplomatic difficulties were
complicated by the indefiniteness of two lines in the Treaty of
Kainardji, which Catherine the Great had imposed upon Turkey in 1774.
There was also friction between the Eastern and Western Churches, with
reference to the custody of the Places in Palestine rendered holy by
their traditional connection with the Prince of Peace. Nicholas I, who
had wellnigh drilled all intelligence out of those near him in his
Government and in his army, was not accustomed to be thwarted. Dimly
conscious of the first faint symptoms of that growth of Liberalism
which a few years later, in the early 'sixties, led to sweeping reforms
in Russia, he felt inclined to demonstrate the beneficence of his
rule not by allowing changes to be made at home, but by arbitrarily
inflicting reforms on Turkey. Failing to get his way by diplomatic
pressure, he rashly proceeded to occupy the Danubian Principalities as
a 'material guarantee' of Turkey's compliance with his demands.

He was opposed by Austria and Prussia as strongly as by England and
France, and the pressure exerted by the four powers sufficed to compel
him to withdraw his army from Turkish soil. Thereupon the war, which
had as yet been waged only between Russia and Turkey, might well have
ended, had not England and France undertaken a quite needless invasion
of the Crimea: an enterprise in which Austria and Prussia refused to
join. The end did not justify the proceedings, for in spite of success
in this war, Napoleon the Third's dynasty crumbled to dust within
twenty years, while within a like period after Palmerston's death
Lord Salisbury frankly admitted that we had 'put our money on the
wrong horse.' As to Nicholas I, his pride was destined to be bitterly
mortified by the results of an enterprise which not only failed of its
immediate object, but by its failure actually hastened the coming of
those reforms in Russia against which he had set his face. Even Turkey
did not really benefit by being allowed to oppress her subject races
for a couple of generations longer.

It was the influence of Napoleon III, as Kinglake has pointed out,
that led England to take part in the war. Having by treachery and
murder made himself Emperor of the French, that monarch found himself
for a time dangerously isolated from the support of people of good
repute. In consultation with Palmerston, he decided to subordinate the
traditional Eastern policy of his country to that of England if thereby
he could succeed in being publicly paraded as the friend and ally of
Queen Victoria. As soon as he had secured an alliance with England,
with Palmerston's aid, and helped by the extraordinary war fever which
seized the English nation, he quickly forced the peacefully disposed
Lord Aberdeen along an inclined plane which ultimately plunged both
nations into a war for which no sufficient motive justification or
excuse existed.

1854

Hostilities between Russia and Turkey had begun in October 1853, but
France and England did not break off negotiations with the former power
till the end of March 1854, the very month in which Tolstoy reached
Bucharest on his way through Wallachia to join the army.

From there he wrote to his aunt, telling of his journey. The roads
after he had passed Khersón, and especially after he had crossed
the frontier, were abominable; his journey lasted nine days; and he
'arrived almost ill with fatigue.'

A few days later, on 17th March, he wrote of his first interview with
Gortchakóf:

[14]Le prince Gortchakóf n'était pas ici. Hier il vient d'arriver
et je viens de chez lui. Il m'a reçu mieux que je ne croyais--en
vrai parent. Il m'a embrassé, il m'a engagé de venir dîner tous les
jours chez lui et il veut me garder auprès de lui, mais ce n'est
pas encore décidé.

Pardon, chère tante, que je vous écris peu--je n'ai pas encore la
tête à moi,--cette grande et belle ville, toutes ces présentations,
l'opéra italien, le théâtre français, les deux jeunes Gortchakóf
qui sont de très braves garçons ... de sorte que je ne suis pas
resté deux heures chez moi, et je n'ai pas pensé à mes occupations.

[14] Prince Gortchakóf was not here. He arrived yesterday, and
I have just come from his lodgings. He received me better than
I expected--quite as a relation. He embraced me, and made me
promise to dine at his house every day. He wants to keep me
near him, but this is not yet decided.

Forgive me, dear Aunt, for writing but little to you--I have
not yet collected my wits; this large and fine town, all these
presentations, the Italian opera, the French theatre, the two
young Gortchakófs, who are very fine lads ... so that I have
not remained two hours at home, and have not thought of my
duties.

On 22nd March he adds: 'I learnt yesterday that I am not to remain with
the Prince, but am to go to Oltenitza to join my battery.'

In May he wrote:

[15]Tandis que vous me croyez exposé à tous les dangers de la
guerre je n'ai pas encore senti la poudre turque, et je suis très
tranquillement à Boukarest à me promener, à faire de la musique et
à manger des glaces. En effet tout ce temps, excepté deux semaines
que j'ai passées à Oltenitza où j'ai été attaché à une batterie, et
une semaine que j'ai passée en courses par la Moldavie, Valachie et
Bessarabie par ordre du gén. Serjpoutóvsky auprès duquel je suis à
présent _by special appointment_, je suis resté à Boukarest et à
vous avouer franchement, ce genre de vie un peu dissipé, tout à
fait oisif et très coûteux que je mène ici me déplaît infiniment.
Auparavant c'était le service qui m'y retenait, mais à présent j'y
suis resté pendant près de trois semaines à cause d'une fièvre que
j'ai attrapée pendant mon voyage, mais dont, Dieu merci, je suis
pour le moment assez rétabli pour rejoindre dans deux ou trois
jours mon général qui est au camp près de Silistrie. A propos de
mon général, il a l'air d'être un très brave homme et paraît,
quoique nous nous connaissons fort peu, être bien disposé à mon
égard. Ce qui est encore fort agréable est que son état-major est
composé pour la plupart de gens comme il faut.

[15] While you are fancying me exposed to all the dangers
of war, I have not yet smelt Turkish powder, but am very
quietly at Bucharest, strolling about, making music, and
eating ices. In fact, all this time, except for two weeks I
spent at Oltenitza, where I was attached to a battery, and
one week I passed making excursions in Moldavia Wallachia and
Bessarabia by order of General Serzhpoutóvsky, on whose staff
I now am by special appointment, I have been at Bucharest; and
to speak frankly, the rather dissipated, quite idle and very
expensive kind of life that I lead here, displeases me very
much. Formerly it was the service that kept me here; but now
for three weeks I have been kept here by a fever caught during
my journey, but from which, thank God, I have for the present
recovered sufficiently to be able in two or three days' time
to rejoin my General, who is in camp near Silistria. Apropos
of my General, he appears to be a very fine fellow, and though
we know each other very slightly, seems well disposed toward
me. What is also agreeable is that his staff consists for the
most part of gentlemen.

We shall find Tolstoy modifying this opinion, a little later on; but it
is worth noting that at this time he was fully alive to the superiority
of '_gens comme il faut_,' and that his depreciation of them in later
years may have been partly a reaction from a previous over-valuation.

By June 1854 the military and political situation was as follows. The
Russians had advanced through Moldavia and Wallachia to the Danube, had
crossed that river, and were besieging Silistria. Austria, supporting
the other great powers, had massed a powerful army on the Turkish
frontier, and a glance at the map of Europe will show that the Russian
army, far removed from its base, was in imminent danger of being cut
off by the Austrians, who peremptorily summoned Russia to evacuate
the Principalities, and on 14th June concluded a formal alliance with
the Porte. These circumstances explain the sudden abandonment of the
siege of Silistria mentioned in the following letter, addressed by Leo
Tolstoy to his Aunt Tatiána and to his brother Nicholas conjointly;
though when he wrote it, the causes which produced the result he
described were a mystery to him.

[16]Je vais vous parler donc de mes souvenirs de Silistrie. J'y ai
vu tant de choses intéressantes, poétiques et touchantes que le
temps que j'y ai passé ne s'effacera jamais de ma mémoire. Notre
camp était disposé de l'autre côté du Danube c.à d. sur la rive
droite sur un terrain très élevé au milieu de superbes jardins,
appartenant à Mustafa Pasha--le gouverneur de Silistrie. La vue
de cet endroit est non seulement magnifique, mais pour nous tous
du plus grand intérêt. Sans parler du Danube, de ces îles et de
ces rivages, les uns occupés par nous, les autres par les Turcs,
on voyait la ville, la forteresse, les petits forts de Silistrie
comme sur la main. On entendait les coups de canons, de fusils
qui ne cessaient ni jour ni nuit, et avec une lunette d'approche
on pouvait distinguer les soldats turcs. Il est vrai que c'est
un drôle de plaisir que de voir de gens s'entretuer et cependant
tous les soirs et matins je me mettais sur ma cart et je restais
des heures entières à regarder et ce n'était pas moi le seul qui
le faisait. Le spectacle était vraiment beau, surtout la nuit.
Les nuits ordinairement mes soldats se mettent aux travaux des
tranchées, et les Turcs se jettent sur eux pour les en empêcher,
alors il fallait voir et entendre cette fusillade. La première nuit
que j'ai passée au camp ce bruit terrible m'a reveillé et effrayé,
je croyais qu'on est allé a l'assaut et j'ai bien vite fait seller
mon cheval, mais ceux qui avait déjà passé quelque temps au camp
me dirent que je n'avais qu'à me tenir tranquille, que cette
canonnade et fusillade était une chose ordinaire et qu'on appela en
plaisantant, 'Allah'; alors je me suis recouché, mais ne pouvant
m'endormir je me suis amusé, une montre à la main, à compter les
coups de canon que j'entendais et j'ai compté 110 explosions dans
l'espace d'une minute. Et cependant tout ceci n'a eu de près
l'air aussi effrayant que cela le paraît. La nuit, quand on n'y
voyait rien, c'était à qui brûlerait le plus de poudre et avec ces
milliers de coups de canons on tuait tout au plus une trentaine
d'hommes de part et d'autre.

Ceci donc est un spectacle ordinaire que nous avions tous les
jours et dans lequel, quand on m'envoyait avec des ordres dans les
tranchées, je prenais aussi ma part; mais nous avions aussi des
spectacles extraordinaires, comme celui de la veille de l'assaut
quand on a fait sauter une mine de 240 pouds de poudre sous un des
bastions de l'ennemi. Le matin de cette journée le prince avait
été aux tranchées avec tout son état-major (comme le général auprès
duquel j'étais en fait partie, j'y ai aussi été) pour faire les
dispositions définies--vu pour l'assaut du lendemain. Le plan,
trop long pour que je puisse l'expliquer ici, était si bien fait,
tout était si bien prévu que personne ne doutait de la réussite. A
propos de cela il faut que je vous dise encore que je commence à
avoir de l'admiration pour le prince (au reste il faut en entendre
parler parmi les officiers et les soldats, non seulement je n'ai
jamais entendu dire du mal de lui, mais il est généralement adoré).

Je l'ai vu au feu pour la première fois pendant cette matinée.
Il faut voir cette figure un peu ridicule avec sa grande taille,
ses mains derrière le dos, sa casquette en arrière, ses lunettes
et sa manière de parler comme un dindon. On voit qu'il était
tellement occupé de la marche générale des affaires que les balles
et les boulets n'existaient pas pour lui; il s'expose au danger
avec tant de simplicité, qu'on dirait qu'il n'en a pas l'idée et
qu'involontairement qu'on n'a plus peur de lui que pour soi-même;
et puis donnant ses ordres avec tant de clarté et de précision
et avec cela toujours affable avec chacun. C'est un grand, c.à
d. un homme qui s'est voué toute sa vie au service de sa patrie
et pas par l'ambition, mais par le devoir. Je vais vous raconter
un trait de lui qui se lie à l'histoire de cet assaut que j'ai
commencé à raconter. L'après-dîner du même jour on a fait sauter
la mine, et près de 600 pièces d'artillerie ont fait feu sur le
fort qu'on voulait prendre, et on continuait ce feu pendant toute
la nuit, c'était un de ces coups d'oeil et une de ces émotions
qu'on n'oublie jamais. Le soir de nouveau le prince, avec tout le
tremblement, est allé coucher aux tranchées pour diriger lui-même
l'assaut qui devait commencer à 3 heures de la nuit même.

Nous étions tous là et comme toujours à la veille d'une bataille
nous faisions tous semblant de ne pas plus penser de la journée
de demain qu'à une journée ordinaire et tous, j'en suis sûr,
au fond du coeur ressentaient un petit serrement de coeur et
pas même un petit mais un grand, à l'idée de l'assaut. Comme tu
sais que le temps qui précède une affaire est le temps le plus
désagréable--c'est le seul où on a le temps d'avoir peur, et la
peur est un sentiment des plus désagréables. Vers le matin, plus
le moment approchait, plus le sentiment diminuait et vers 3 heures
quand nous attendions tous à voir partir le bouquet de fusées qui
était le signal de l'attaque--j'étais si bien disposé que si l'on
était venu me dire que l'assaut n'aurait pas lieu, cela m'aurait
fait beaucoup de peine. Et voilà que juste une heure avant le
moment de l'assaut arrive un aide de camp du maréchal avec l'ordre
d'ôter le siège de Silistrie. Je puis dire sans craindre de me
tromper que cette nouvelle a été reçue par tous--soldats, officiers
et généraux--comme un vrai malheur, d'autant plus qu'on savait par
les espions, qui nous venaient très souvent de Silistrie, et avec
lesquels j'avais très souvent l'occasion de causer moi-même, on
savait que ce fort pris,--chose dont personne ne doutait--Silistrie
ne pouvait tenir plus de 2 ou 3 jours. N'est-ce pas que si cette
nouvelle devait faire de la peine à quelqu'un ce devait être au
prince, qui pendant toute cette campagne ayant fait toute chose
pour le mieux, au beau milieu de l'action vit venir le maréchal
sur son dos pour gâter les affaires et puis ayant la seule chance
de réparer nos revers par cet assaut, il reçoit le contre ordre
du maréchal au moment de le commencer. Eh bien, le prince n'a pas
eu un moment de mauvaise humeur, lui, qui est si impressionable,
au contraire il a été content de pouvoir éviter cette boucherie,
dont il devait porter la responsabilité et tout le temps de la
retraite qu'il a dirigé lui-même, ne voulant passer qu'avec
le dernier des soldats, qui s'est faite avec un ordre et une
exactitude remarquables, il a été plus gai qu'il n'a jamais été. Ce
qui contribuait beaucoup à sa bonne humeur, c'était l'émigration
de près de 7000 familles bulgares, que nous prenons avec pour le
souvenir de la férocité des Turcs--férocité a laquelle malgré mon
incredulité j'ai été obligé de croire. Dès que nous avons quitté
des différents villages bulgares que nous occupions, les Turcs y
sont revenus et excepté les femmes assez jeunes pour un harem, ils
ont fait main basse sur tout ce qu'il y avait. Il y a un village
dans lequel je suis allé du camp pour y prendre du lait et des
fruits qui a été exterminé de la sorte. Alors dès que le prince
avait fait savoir aux Bulgares que ceux qui voulaient pouvaient
avec l'armée passer le Danube et devenir sujets russes, tout le
pays se soulève et tous avec leurs femmes, enfants, chevaux,
bétails arrivent au pont,--mais comme il était impossible de les
prendre tous, le prince a été obligé de refuser à ceux qui sont
venus les derniers et il fallait voir comme cela le chagrinait.
Il recevait toutes les députations qui venaient de ces pauvres
gens, il causait avec chacun d'eux, tâchait de leur expliquer
l'impossibilité de la chose, leur proposait de passer sans leurs
chariots et leur bétail et en se chargeant de leurs moyens de
subsistence jusqu'à ce qu'ils arrivassent en Russie, payant de sa
propre bourse des vaisseaux particuliers pour les transporter, en
un mot faisant tout son possible pour faire du bien à ces gens.

Oui, chère tante, je voudrais bien que votre prophétie se réalise.
La chose que j'ambitionne le plus, est d'être l'aide de camp d'un
homme comme lui que j'aime et que j'estime du plus profond de mon
coeur. Adieu, chère et bonne tante; je baise vos mains.

[16] I am going to tell you of my recollections of Silistria.
I there saw so much that was interesting, poetic and touching,
that the time I passed there will never be effaced from my
memory. Our camp was on the other side of the Danube, _i.e._
on the right bank, on very high ground amid splendid gardens
belonging to Mustafa Pasha, the Governor of Silistria. The
view from that place is not only magnificent, but of the
greatest interest to us all. Not to speak of the Danube, its
islets and its banks, some occupied by us, others by the
Turks, one could see the town, the fortress and the little
forts of Silistria as on the palm of one's hand. One heard
the booming of cannon and musket-shots unceasingly day and
night; and with a spy-glass one could distinguish the Turkish
soldiers. It is true it is a queer sort of pleasure to see
people killing one another, yet every evening and every
morning I got on to my cart and remained for hours at a
time, watching: nor was I the only one who did so. The sight
was really fine, especially at night. At night my soldiers
usually undertake trench-work, and the Turks fling themselves
upon them to hinder them; then one should see and hear the
fusillade! The first night I passed in camp, this dreadful
noise awoke and frightened me: I thought an assault had
begun. I very soon had my horse saddled; but those who had
been already some time in camp told me that I had only to
keep quiet: that this cannonade and fusillade was an ordinary
affair, and they jestingly called it 'Allah.' Then I lay down
again; but not being able to sleep, I amused myself, watch in
hand, counting the cannon-shots, and I counted 110 reports in
a minute. And yet, at close quarters, all this did not look
so terrible as might be supposed. At night, when nothing was
visible, it was a case of who could burn most powder, and with
all these thousands of cannon-shots at most some thirty men
were killed on each side....

This then was an ordinary performance we had every day, and
one in which I took a share when I was sent to the trenches
with orders; but we also had extraordinary performances,
such as the one on the eve of the attack, when a mine of 240
poods (8600 lbs.) of gunpowder was exploded under one of the
enemy's bastions. On the morning of that day the Prince had
been to the trenches with all his staff (and as the General
I was attached to belong to it, I was there too) to make the
final arrangements for next day's assault. The plan--too
long for me to explain here--was so well arranged, all was
so well foreseen, that no one doubted its success. Apropos
of this I must tell you further that I am beginning to feel
admiration for the Prince (for that matter you should hear how
the officers and soldiers speak of him: not only have I never
heard him spoken ill of, but he is generally adored).

That morning I saw him under fire for the first time. You
should see his rather absurd tall figure, his hands behind his
back, his cap on the back of his head, his spectacles, and
his way of speaking like a turkey-cock. One could see that he
was so preoccupied with the general trend of affairs that the
balls and bullets did not exist as far as he was concerned.
He exposes himself to danger so simply that one would say he
was unconscious of it, and involuntarily one fears it only for
oneself; [The text here is obscure, and the meaning a little
doubtful] and then he gives his orders with such clearness
and precision, and is at the same time always so affable with
everybody. He is a great man, _i.e._ a capable and honest man,
as I understand the word: one who has dedicated his whole
life to the service of his country, and not from ambition,
but for the sake of duty. I will give you a trait of his
character connected with the story I had begun to tell you of
the assault. After dinner that same day, the mine was sprung,
and nearly 600 guns opened fire on the fort we wished to take,
and this continued the whole night. It was such a sight and
such an emotion as one never forgets. That evening the Prince,
amid all the commotion, went to sleep in the trenches, that he
might personally direct the assault, which was to begin at 3
o'clock the same night.

We were all there, and as usual on the eve of a battle, we
all made believe not to think of the morrow more than of any
other day, and we all, I am sure, at bottom, felt our hearts
contract a little (and not a little, but a great deal) at
the thought of the assault. As you know, the time before a
fight is the most disagreeable: it is only then that one has
time to be afraid, and fear is a most disagreeable feeling.
Towards morning, the nearer the moment came the more the
feeling diminished, and towards 3 o'clock when we were all
expecting to see a shower of rockets let off, which was the
signal for the attack, I was so well inclined for it that I
should have been much disappointed if any one had come to
tell me that the attack was not to take place. And there!
Just an hour before the time for the attack, an aide-de-camp
comes from the Field-Marshal [Paskévitch, who for a time took
over the supreme command of the army of the Danube] with
orders to raise the siege of Silistria! I can say, without
fear of making a mistake, that this news was received by all,
soldiers, officers, and generals, as a real misfortune, the
more so as we knew from the spies--who very often came to us
from Silistria, and with whom I very often had occasion to
speak--that once we had taken this fort (about which none
of us felt any doubt) Silistria could not have held out for
more than 2 or 3 days. Is it not true that if this news was
calculated to pain any one, it must have been the Prince,
who having all through this campaign arranged everything for
the best, yet saw, in the very middle of the action, the
Field-Marshal override him and spoil the business? Having
this one chance to repair our reverses by this assault, he
received counter-orders from the Field-Marshal at the moment
of commencing! Well, the Prince was not put out of temper for
a moment. He who is so impressionable, was, on the contrary,
pleased to be able to avoid that butchery, the responsibility
for which he would have had to bear; and during the whole time
of the retreat--which he directed personally, not wishing to
cross (the Danube) before the last of the soldiers--which took
place with remarkable order and exactitude, he was gayer than
he has ever been. What contributed much to his good humour,
was the emigration of nearly 7000 Bulgarian families, whom we
took with us as a reminder of the ferocity of the Turks: a
ferocity in which, in spite of my incredulity, I was obliged
to believe. As soon as we quitted the different Bulgarian
villages we had occupied, the Turks returned to them, and
except women young enough for a harem, they made a clean sweep
of all that was in them. There was one village to which I went
from the camp for milk and fruit, which had been exterminated
in this way. So, as soon as the Prince let the Bulgarians
know that those who wished to, could cross the Danube with
our army and could become Russian subjects, the whole country
rose, and with their wives, children, horses and cattle, came
to the bridge: but as it was impossible to take them all, the
Prince was obliged to refuse the last arrivals, and you should
have seen how it grieved him to do so. He received all the
deputations which came from these poor folk, and spoke with
them all: trying to explain the impossibility of the matter,
offering to let them cross without their carts and cattle,
charging himself with their support till they could reach
Russia, and out of his own purse paying for private ships to
transport them; in a word, doing his very best for the welfare
of these people.

Yes, dear Aunt, I should much like your prophecy to come true.
What I desire most is to be aide-de-camp to such a man as he,
whom I love and esteem from the bottom of my heart. Adieu,
dear and kind Aunt. I kiss your hands.

The army retired to Bucharest, and here, at an officers' ball, Tolstoy
seized an opportunity to beg Gortchakóf to have him transferred to
where service would be most active.

The retreat from Silistria took place at the end of June, and on 2nd
August we find Tolstoy starting for Russia. On the journey he fell ill
and had to lie up in hospital. On 13th November in Kishinéf he renewed
his application for an appointment in the Crimea, and was ordered to
Sevastopol, which he reached on the 20th of that month.[17]

[17] In this chapter the dates, when possible, are given new
style (12 days later than the Russian style), in order that
they may tally with English accounts of the Crimean war.

1854

The situation there, at this time, was the following. The Allies had
landed in the Crimea to the north of Sevastopol on 14th September,
and had defeated the Russian army under Ménshikof on the 20th at
Alma. Instead of marching straight into the town, which was almost
undefended, they had then gone round and encamped on the south side,
where they remained inactive till 17th October, by which time Todleben,
an engineer of rare genius, had thrown up earthworks and mounted
guns (many of them taken from the Russian ships Ménshikof sank at
the entrance to the Roadstead). Ménshikof himself had practically
abandoned the town, withdrawing the bulk of his army northward; but
the situation was saved by the patriotism of just that section of the
Russian forces which had been least exposed to the deadening influence
of Nicholas the First's militarism,--namely by the officers and men
of the fleet. Inspired by the example of the heroic Admiral Kornílof
(who lost his life during the siege) they rallied to the defence with a
courageous devotion seldom paralleled. Their example awoke enthusiasm
throughout Russia and compelled Ménshikof to supply reinforcements,
which enabled the town to hold out for eleven months, in spite of the
great superiority of the Allies in rifles, artillery and the modern
equipments of war generally.

Tolstoy reached Sevastopol when the defence was already fully
organised, and when (in spite of the repulse experienced by the
Russians at Inkerman) the garrison had gained confidence in their
powers of resistance, and had settled down to a dogged defence.

Of the hospitals, in which the wounded saw one another's limbs
amputated while waiting their own turn; of the staff officers, who
managed to amuse themselves pretty well during the siege; of the
commissariat officers, flourishing amid the general havoc; as well as
of the line and non-commissioned officers and privates, upon whom the
greatest hardships fell, Tolstoy gives vivid glimpses in the Sketches
he wrote during the siege.

A fortnight after his arrival he writes, from somewhere outside the
town, to his brother Sergius, apologising for not having sent him a
letter sooner, and adds:

So much have I learnt, experienced, and felt this year that I
positively do not know what to begin to describe, nor how to
describe it as I wish to.... Silistria is now ancient history, and
we have Sevastopol, of which I suppose you all read with beating
hearts, and where I was four days ago. Well, how can I tell you
all I saw there, and where I went and what I did, and what the
prisoners and wounded French and English say; and _whether it hurts
them and hurts very much_,[18] and what heroes our enemies are,
especially the English? I will tell all that later at Yásnaya or at
Pirogóvo; and you will learn much of it from me through the press.
How this will happen, I will explain later; but now let me give
you an idea of the position of affairs in Sevastopol. The town is
besieged from one side, the south, where we had no fortifications
when the enemy approached it. Now we have on that side more than
500 heavy guns, and several lines of earthworks, positively
impregnable. I spent a week in the fortress, and to the last day
used to lose my way among that labyrinth of batteries, as in a
wood. More than three weeks ago the enemy advanced his trenches at
one place to within 200 yards, but gets no further. When he makes
the smallest advance he is overwhelmed with a hailstorm of shot and
shell.

[18] This must refer to some family joke, as it occurs in
other letters home, apropos of people who were killed.

The spirit of the army is beyond all description. In the times of
ancient Greece there was not such heroism. Kornílof, making the
round of the troops, instead of greeting them with, 'Good health to
you, lads!' says: 'If you have to die, lads, will you die?' and the
troops shout, 'We'll die, Your Excellency! Hurrah!' and they do not
say it for effect. On every face one saw that it was not jest but
earnest; and 22,000 men have already fulfilled the promise.

A wounded soldier, almost dying, told me they captured the 24th
French Battery but were not reinforced; and he wept aloud. A
Company of Marines nearly mutinied because they were to be
withdrawn from batteries in which they had been exposed to
shell-fire for thirty days. The soldiers extract the fuses from
the shells. Women carry water to the bastions for the soldiers.
Many are killed and wounded. The priests with their crosses go
to the bastions and read prayers under fire. In one brigade, the
24th, more than 160 wounded men would not leave the front. It is
a wonderful time! Now, however, after the 24th, we have quieted
down; it has become splendid in Sevastopol. The enemy hardly
fires, and all are convinced that he will not take the town; and
it is really impossible.... I have not yet succeeded in being in
action even once; but thank God that I have seen these people
and live in this glorious time. The bombardment of the 5th [17
October, n.s.] remains the most brilliant and glorious feat not
only in the history of Russia, but in the history of the world.
More than 1500 cannon were in action for two days against the
town, and not only did not cause it to capitulate, but did not
silence one two-hundredth part of our batteries. Though, I suppose,
this campaign is unfavourably regarded in Russia, our descendants
will place it above all others; do not forget that we, with equal
or even inferior forces, and armed only with bayonets, and with
the worst troops in the Russian army (such as the 6th corps) are
fighting a more numerous enemy aided by a fleet, armed with 3000
cannon, excellently supplied with rifles and with their best
troops. I do not even mention the superiority of their Generals.

Only our army could hold its ground and conquer (we shall yet
conquer, of that I am convinced) under such circumstances. You
should see the French and English prisoners (especially the
latter): they are each one better than the other--morally and
physically fine fellows. The Cossacks say it is even a pity to cut
them down, and alongside of them you should see some Chasseurs or
others of ours: small, lousy, and shrivelled up.

Now I will tell you how you will get printed news from me of the
deeds of these lousy and shrivelled heroes. In our artillery
staff, consisting, as I think I wrote you, of very good and
worthy men, a project has been started for publishing a military
newspaper, in order to maintain a good spirit in the army--a cheap
paper (at Rs. 3) and popularly written, so that the soldiers may
read it. We have drawn up a plan and submitted it to the Prince.
He likes the idea very much, and has submitted the project and a
specimen sheet which we also wrote, for the Emperor's sanction.
I and Stolýpin[19] are advancing the money for the publication.
I have been chosen joint editor with a Mr. Konstantínof, who
published _The Caucasus_, a man experienced in such work. The paper
will publish descriptions of the battles (but not such dry and
mendacious ones as other papers) courageous deeds, biographies, and
obituaries of good men, especially the unknown; military stories,
soldiers' songs, and popular articles on engineering, artillery,
etc. This plan pleases me very much: in the first place, I like the
work; and secondly, I hope the paper will be useful and not quite
bad. It is as yet merely a project, until we know the Emperor's
reply, about which I confess I have my fears. In the specimen sheet
sent to Petersburg, we rashly inserted two articles, one by me and
one by Rostóvtsef, not quite orthodox. For this business I want Rs.
1500, which I have asked Valeryán to send me.

[19] Father of the present (1908) Premier of Russia.

I, thank God, am well, and live happily and pleasantly since I
returned from Turkey. In general, my army service divides up into
two periods: beyond the frontier--horrid: I was ill, poor, and
lonely. This side of the frontier--I am well and have good friends,
though I am still poor: money simply runs away.

As to writing, I do not write; but, as Aunty teases me by saying,
'I test myself.' One thing disquiets me: this is the fourth year
I live without female society; and I may become quite coarse and
unsuited for family life, which I so enjoy.

A few days later his battery was moved to Simferópol, a town lying to
the north of Sevastopol, beyond the sphere of actual fighting.

1855

On 6th January (o.s.) he wrote to his Aunt:

[20]On ne se bat plus en rase campagne, à cause de l'hiver qui est
extraordinairement rigoureux, surtout à présent; mais le siège
dure toujours.... J'avais parlé je crois d'une occupation que
j'avais en vue et qui me souriait beaucoup; à présent que la chose
est décidée, je puis le dire. J'avais l'idée de fonder un journal
militaire. Ce projet auquel j'ai travaillé avec le concours de
beaucoup de gens très distingués fut approuvé par le prince et
envoyé à la décision de sa Majesté, mais l'empereur a refusé.

Cette déconfiture, je vous l'avoue, m'a fait une peine infinie et a
beaucoup changé mes plans. Si Dieu veut que la campagne de Crimée
finisse bien et si je ne reçois pas une place dont je sois content,
et qu'il n'y ait pas de guerre en Russie, je quitterai l'armée pour
aller à Pétersbourg à l'académie militaire. Ce plan m'est venu,
1° parce que je voudrais ne pas abandonner la littérature dont il
m'est impossible de m'occuper dans cette vie de camp, et 2° parce
qu'il me paraît que je commence à devenir ambitieux, pas ambitieux,
mais je voudrais faire du bien et pour le faire il faut être plus
qu'un Sub-Lieutenant; 3° parce que je vous verrai tous et tous mes
amis.

[20] There is no more fighting in the open country on account
of the winter, which is extraordinarily rigorous, particularly
just now; but the siege still goes on.... I think I have
mentioned an occupation I had in view, which promised very
well--as I may say, now that it is settled. I had the idea of
founding a military newspaper. This project, at which I worked
with the co-operation of many very distinguished men, was
approved by the Prince and submitted to His Majesty for his
consent, but he has refused.

This disappointment has, I confess, distressed me greatly,
and has much altered my plans. If God wills that the
Crimean campaign should end well, and if I do not receive
an appointment that satisfies me, and if there is no war in
Russia, I shall leave the army and go to Petersburg to the
Military Academy. I have formed this plan, (1) because I do
not want to abandon literature, at which it is impossible to
work amid this camp life; (2) because it seems to me that I am
becoming ambitious: not ambitious, but I want to do some good,
and to do it one must be something more than a Sub-Lieutenant,
and (3) because I shall see you all and all my friends.

In May he wrote again to his brother:

From Kishinéf on 1st November (o.s.), I petitioned to be sent to
the Crimea, partly in order to see this war, and partly to break
away from Serzhpoutóvsky's staff, which I did not like, but most
of all from patriotism, of which at that time, I confess, I had a
bad attack. I did not ask for any special appointment, but left
it to those in authority to dispose of my fate. In the Crimea I
was appointed to a battery in Sevastopol itself, where I passed
a month very pleasantly amid simple, good companions, who are
specially good in time of real war and danger. In December our
battery was removed to Simferópol, and there I spent 6 weeks in a
squire's comfortable house, riding into Simferópol to dance and
play the piano with young ladies, and in hunting wild goats on the
Tchatyrdag [the highest point of the chain of mountains running
across the southern part of the Crimea] in company with officials.
In January there was a fresh shuffling of officers, and I was
removed to a battery encamped on the banks of the Belbék, 7 miles
from Sevastopol. There I got into hot water: the nastiest set of
officers in the battery; a Commander who, though good-hearted, was
violent and coarse; no comforts, and it was cold in the earth huts.
Not a single book, nor a single man with whom one could talk; and
there I received the Rs. 1500 [= about £180 at that time] for the
newspaper, sanction for which had already been refused; and there I
lost Rs. 2500, and thereby proved to all the world that I am still
an empty fellow, and though the previous circumstances may be taken
into account in mitigation, the case is still a very, very bad one.
In March it became warmer, and a good fellow, an excellent man,
Brenévsky, joined the battery. I began to recover myself; and on 1
April, at the very time of the bombardment, the battery was moved
to Sevastopol, and I quite recovered myself. There, till 15 May
(o.s.) I was in serious danger, _i.e._ for four days at a time, at
intervals of eight days, I was in charge of a battery in the 4th
Bastion; but it was spring and the weather was excellent, there was
abundance of impressions and of people, all the comforts of life,
and we formed a capital circle of well-bred fellows; so that those
six weeks will remain among my pleasantest recollections. On 15
May Gortchakóf, or the Commander of the Artillery, took it into his
head to entrust me with the formation and command of a mountain
platoon at Belbék, 14 miles from Sevastopol, with which arrangement
I am up to the present extremely well satisfied in many respects.

The transfer of Tolstoy from Sevastopol to Belbék was not, as he
supposed when he wrote this letter, a whim of Gortchakóf's or of the
Commander of the Artillery, but a result of his having written the
first of his three sketches of the siege of Sevastopol, _Sevastopol in
December_. The article, though not published in the _Contemporary_ till
June, had been read in proof by the Emperor Alexander II [Nicholas had
died 2nd March, n.s.], and had caused him to give instructions to 'take
care of the life of that young man,' with the result that Tolstoy was
removed from Sevastopol. The Dowager Empress Alexándra Fédorovna also
read the story and, it is said, wept over it.

It was, perhaps, at this time (though I am not sure of the date) that
Tolstoy found himself obliged to consent to the sale of the large
wooden house in which he had been born, for the wretched price of 5000
'assignation roubles' (about £170). The house was taken to pieces, and
removed to the estate of the purchaser, where it still stands, though
not now in use.

Apropos of the above letter it should be mentioned that the Fourth
Bastion was the one English writers call 'the Flagstaff Bastion.' It
formed the southernmost point of the fortifications, as a glance at
the accompanying map will show, and it was for a long time the point
exposed to the fiercest fire.

Throughout the siege Tolstoy was accompanied by Alexis, one of the four
serfs presented to the young Tolstoys when they entered the University.
This man (who figures in more than one of Tolstoy's works under
the name of Alyósha) brought him his rations to the bastion, a duty
involving considerable danger. What the bastions were like in the first
months of the siege, we learn from the following passages in the first
part of _Sevastopol_:

[Illustration]

...You want to get quickly to the bastions, especially to that
Fourth Bastion about which you have been told so many and such
different tales. When any one says, 'I am going to the Fourth
Bastion,' a slight agitation or a too marked indifference is always
noticeable in him; if men are joking they say, 'You should be
sent to the Fourth Bastion.' When you meet some one carried on a
stretcher, and ask, 'Where from?' the answer usually is, 'From the
Fourth Bastion.'...

...Beyond this barricade the houses on both sides of the street
are unoccupied: there are no signboards, the doors are boarded
up, the windows smashed; here a corner of the walls is knocked
down, and there a roof is broken in. The buildings look like old
veterans who have borne much sorrow and privation; they even seem
to gaze proudly and somewhat contemptuously at you. On the road
you stumble over cannon-balls that lie about, and into holes full
of water, made in the stony ground by bombs. You meet and overtake
detachments of soldiers, Cossacks, officers, and occasionally a
woman or a child--only it will not be a woman wearing a bonnet, but
a sailor's wife wearing an old cloak and soldier's boots. Farther
along the same street, after you have descended a little slope, you
will notice that there are now no houses, but only ruined walls in
strange heaps of bricks, boards, clay and beams, and before you,
up a steep hill, you see a black untidy space cut up by ditches.
This space you are approaching is the Fourth Bastion.... Here you
will meet still fewer people and no women at all, the soldiers
walk briskly by, traces of blood may be seen on the road, and
you are sure to meet four soldiers carrying a stretcher, and on
the stretcher probably a pale, yellow face and a blood-stained
overcoat....

The whiz of cannon-ball or bomb near by, impresses you unpleasantly
as you ascend the hill, and you at once understand the meaning
of the sounds very differently from when they reached you in the
town.... You have hardly gone a little way up, when bullets begin
to whiz past you right and left, and you will perhaps consider
whether you had not better walk inside the trench which runs
parallel to the road; but the trench is full of such yellow,
liquid, stinking mud, more than knee deep, that you are sure to
choose the road, especially as _everybody_ keeps to the road.
After walking a couple of hundred yards, you come to a muddy
place much cut up, surrounded by gabions, cellars, platforms, and
dug-outs, and on which large cast-iron cannon are mounted, and
cannon-balls lie piled in orderly heaps. All seems placed without
any aim, connection, or order. Here a group of sailors are sitting
in the battery; here, in the middle of the open space, half sunk
in mud, lies a shattered cannon; and there a foot-soldier is
crossing the battery, drawing his feet with difficulty out of
the sticky mud. Everywhere, on all sides and all about, you see
bomb-fragments, unexploded bombs, cannon-balls, and various traces
of an encampment, all sunk in the liquid, sticky mud. You think you
hear the thud of a cannon-ball not far off, and you seem to hear
the different sounds of bullets all around--some humming like bees,
some whistling, and some rapidly flying past with a shrill screech
like the string of some instrument. You hear the awful boom of a
shot which sends a shock all through you, and seems most dreadful.

'So this is it, the Fourth Bastion! This is that terrible, truly
dreadful spot!' So you think, experiencing a slight feeling
of pride and a strong feeling of suppressed fear. But you are
mistaken; this is still not the Fourth Bastion. This is only the
Yazónovsky Redoubt--comparatively a very safe and not at all
dreadful place. To get to the Fourth Bastion you must turn to the
right, along that narrow trench, where a foot-soldier, stooping
down, has just passed. In this trench you may again meet men with
stretchers, and perhaps a sailor or a soldier with spades. You
will see the mouths of mines, dug-outs into which only two men
can crawl, and there you will see the Cossacks of the Black Sea
Battalions, changing their boots, eating, smoking their pipes, and,
in short, living. And you will see again the same stinking mud,
the traces of camp life, and cast-iron refuse of every shape and
form. When you have gone some three hundred steps more, you come
out at another battery--a flat space with many holes, surrounded
with gabions filled with earth, and cannons on platforms, and the
whole walled in with earthworks. Here you will perhaps see four or
five soldiers playing cards under shelter of the breastworks; and
a naval officer, noticing that you are a stranger and inquisitive,
is pleased to show you his 'household' and everything that can
interest you.... He will tell you (but only if you ask) about the
bombardment on the 5th of October; will tell you how only one gun
in his battery remained usable and only eight gunners were left of
the whole crew, and how, all the same, next morning, the 6th, he
fired all his guns. He will tell you how a bomb dropped into one of
the dug-outs and knocked over eleven sailors; he will show you from
an embrasure the enemy's batteries and trenches, which are here not
more than seventy-five to eighty-five yards distant. I am afraid,
though, that when you lean out of the embrasure to have a look at
the enemy, you will, under the influence of the whizzing bullets,
not see anything; but if you do see anything, you will be much
surprised to find that this whitish stone wall which is so near
you, and from which puffs of white smoke keep bursting--that this
white wall is the enemy: is _him_, as the soldiers and sailors say.

It is even very likely that the naval officer, from vanity,
or merely for a little recreation, will wish to show you some
firing. 'Call the gunner and crew to the cannon'; and fourteen
sailors--clattering their hob-nailed boots on the platform,
one putting his pipe in his pocket, another still chewing a
rusk--quickly and cheerfully man the gun and begin loading.

Suddenly the most fearful roar strikes not only your ears but your
whole being, and makes you shudder all over. It is followed by the
whistle of the departing ball, and a thick cloud of powder-smoke
envelops you, the platform, and the moving black figures of the
sailors. You will hear various comments by the sailors concerning
this shot of ours, and you will notice their animation, the
evidences of a feeling which you had not perhaps expected: the
feeling of animosity and thirst for vengeance which lies hidden
in each man's soul. You will hear joyful exclamations: 'It's gone
right into the embrasure! It's killed two, I think.... There,
they're carrying them off!' 'And now _he's_ riled, and will send
one this way,' some one remarks; and really, soon after, you will
see before you a flash and some smoke; the sentinel standing on the
breastwork will call out 'Ca-n-non,' and then a ball will whiz past
you and squash into the earth, throwing out a circle of stones and
mud. The commander of the battery will be irritated by this shot
and will give orders to fire another and another cannon, the enemy
will reply in like manner, and you will experience interesting
sensations and see interesting sights. The sentinel will again call
'Cannon!' and you will have the same sound and shock, and the mud
will be splashed round as before. Or he will call out 'Mortar!' and
you will hear the regular and rather pleasant whistle--which it is
difficult to connect with the thought of anything dreadful--of a
bomb; you will hear this whistle coming nearer and faster towards
you, then you will see a black ball, feel the shock as it strikes
the ground, and will hear the ringing explosion. The bomb will fly
apart into whizzing and shrieking fragments, stones will rattle
into the air, and you will be bespattered with mud.

At these sounds you will experience a strange feeling of mingled
pleasure and fear. At the moment you know the shot is flying
towards you, you are sure to imagine that this shot will kill you,
but a feeling of pride will support you and no one will know of the
knife that is cutting your heart. But when the shot has flown past
and has not hit you, you revive, and, though only for a moment, a
glad, inexpressibly joyous feeling seizes you, so that you feel
some peculiar delight in the danger--in this game of life and
death--and wish that bombs and balls would fall nearer and nearer
to you.

But again the sentinel, in his loud, thick voice, shouts 'Mortar!'
again a whistle, a fall, an explosion; and mingled with the last
you are startled by the groans of a man. You approach the wounded
man just as the stretchers are brought. Covered with blood and dirt
he presents a strange, not human, appearance. Part of the sailor's
breast has been torn away....

'That's the way with seven or eight every day,' the naval officer
remarks to you, answering the look of horror on your face, and he
yawns as he rolls another yellow cigarette.

As the siege progressed, things became worse, and in the last part of
_Sevastopol_ Tolstoy, after telling how one of the characters felt
satisfied with himself, continues:

This feeling, however, was quickly shaken by a sight he came upon
in the twilight while looking for the Commander of the bastion.
Four sailors stood by the breastwork holding by its arms and legs
the bloody corpse of a man without boots or coat, swinging it
before heaving it over. (It was found impossible in some parts to
clear away the corpses from the bastions, and they were, therefore,
thrown out into the ditch, so as not to be in the way at the
batteries.) Volódya felt stunned for a moment when he saw the body
bump on the top of the breastwork and then roll down into the
ditch, but luckily for him the Commander of the bastion met him
just then and gave him his orders, as well as a guide to show him
the way to the battery and to the bomb-proof assigned to his men.
We will not speak of all the dangers and disenchantments our hero
lived through that evening; how--instead of the firing he was used
to, amid conditions of perfect exactitude and order which he had
expected to meet with here also,--he found two injured mortars,
one with its mouth battered in by a ball, the other standing on
the splinters of its shattered platform; how he could not get
workmen to mend the platform till the morning; how not a single
charge was of the weight specified in the Handbook; how two of the
men under him were wounded, and how he was twenty times within a
hair's-breadth of death. Fortunately a gigantic gunner, a seaman
who had served with the mortars since the commencement of the
siege, had been appointed to assist Volódya, and convinced him of
the possibility of using the mortars. By the light of a lantern,
this gunner showed him all over the battery as he might have shown
him over his own kitchen-garden, and undertook to have everything
right by the morning. The bomb-proof to which his guide led him
was an oblong hole dug in the rocky ground, 25 cubic yards in size
and covered with oak beams nearly 2-1/2 feet thick. He and all his
soldiers installed themselves in it.

It was during one of his sojourns in the Fourth Bastion, that Tolstoy
noted down in his Diary the following prayer:

Lord, I thank Thee for Thy continual protection. How surely Thou
leadest me to what is good. What an insignificant creature should
I be, if Thou abandoned me! Leave me not, Lord; give me what is
necessary, not for the satisfaction of my poor aspirations, but
that I may attain to the eternal, vast, unknown aim of existence,
which lies beyond my ken.

It was due to Tolstoy's own choice that he was exposed to the rough
life of the bastion, for Prince Gortchakóf, at whose house he was a
constant visitor, had offered him an appointment on his staff. This
offer, which at Silistria he had so ardently desired, Tolstoy declined,
having come to the conclusion, subsequently expressed in his writings,
that the influence exercised by the staff on the conduct of a war
is always pernicious! This opinion not only influenced his conduct,
and expressed itself in his novels, but fitted into a general view
of life he ultimately arrived at, a view the consequences of which
must be dealt with in the sequel to this work. For the moment, let
it suffice to mention that whereas he shows a keen appreciation of
Admiral Kornílof's achievement in rousing the spirit of the garrison,
he nowhere praises Todleben's achievement in organising the defence of
the town and improvising that 'labyrinth of batteries' in which Tolstoy
used constantly to lose his way. He says, for instance:

Now you have seen the defenders of Sevastopol.... The principal,
joyous thought you have brought away is a conviction of the
strength of the Russian people; and this conviction you gained,
not by looking at all these traverses, breastworks, cunningly
interlaced trenches, mines and cannon, one on top of another,
of which you could make nothing; but from the eyes, words and
actions--in short, from seeing what is called the 'spirit' of the
defenders of Sevastopol.

To everything a man can do off his own bat and by his own effort,
Tolstoy is keenly alive and sympathetic; but when it comes to a
complex, co-ordinated plan, involving the subordination of many parts
to one whole, he is suspicious or even hostile. Had he remained a
subordinate officer, or even a novelist, it would not have been
specially necessary to draw attention to this peculiarity; but that
we may understand his later teachings, it is important to note all the
roots of feeling from which they grew, and this one among the rest.

To get on however with our tale. One evening, while Tolstoy was sitting
with the adjutants of Count Osten-Sáken, Commander of the Garrison,
Prince S. S. Ouroúsof, a brave officer and first-rate chess player (he
took part in the International Chess Tournament of 1862, in London)
and a friend of Tolstoy's, entered the room and wished to speak to
the General. An adjutant took him to Osten-Sáken's room, and ten
minutes later Ouroúsof passed out again, looking very glum. After he
had gone, the adjutant explained that Ouroúsof had come to suggest
that a challenge should be sent to the English to play a game of chess
for the foremost trench in front of the Fifth Bastion: a trench that
had changed hands several times and had already cost some hundreds of
lives. Osten-Sáken had naturally refused to issue the challenge.

On 16th August Tolstoy took part in the battle of the Tchérnaya (Black
River) in which the Sardinian contingent, which had arrived in May to
reinforce the Allies, much distinguished itself. This last attempt to
relieve Sevastopol failed, as its forerunners had done. Three days
later Tolstoy wrote to his brother saying that he had not been hurt,
and that 'I did nothing, as my mountain artillery was not called on to
fire.'

The end of the siege was now approaching, and on 8th September Tolstoy,
having volunteered for service in Sevastopol, reached the Star Fort on
the North Side of the Roadstead just in time to witness the capture
of the Maláhof by the French, as he has described in _Sevastopol in
August_.[21]

[21] The _8th September_, new style, was _24th August_, old
style.

On the North Side of the Roadstead, at the Star Fort, near noon,
two sailors stood on the 'telegraph' mound; one of them, an
officer, was looking at Sevastopol through the fixed telescope.
Another officer, accompanied by a Cossack, had just ridden up
to join him at the big Signal-post.... Along the whole line of
fortifications, but especially on the high ground on the left side,
appeared, several at a time, with lightnings that at times flashed
bright even in the noonday sun, puffs of thick, dense, white smoke,
that grew, taking various shapes and appearing darker against the
sky. These clouds, showing now here now there, appeared on the
hills, on the enemy's batteries, in the town, and high up in the
sky. The reports of explosions never ceased, but rolled together
and rent the air.

Towards noon the puffs appeared more and more rarely, and the air
vibrated less with the booming.

'I say, the Second Bastion does not reply at all now!' said the
officer on horseback; 'it is quite knocked to pieces. Terrible!'

'Yes, and the Maláhof, too, sends hardly one shot in reply to three
of theirs,' said he who was looking through the telescope. 'Their
silence provokes me! They are shooting straight into the Kornílof
Battery, and it does not reply.'

'But look there! I told you that they always cease the bombardment
about noon. It's the same to-day. Come, let's go to lunch; they'll
be waiting for us already. What's the good of looking?'

'Wait a bit!' answered the one who had possession of the telescope,
looking very eagerly towards Sevastopol.

'What is it? What?'

'A movement in the entrenchments, thick columns advancing.'

'Yes! They can be seen even without a glass, marching in columns.
The alarm must be given,' said the seaman.

'Look! look! They've left the trenches!'

And, really, with the naked eye one could see what looked like
dark spots moving down the hill from the French batteries across
the valley to the bastions. In front of these spots dark stripes
were already visibly approaching our line. On the bastions white
cloudlets burst in succession as if chasing one another. The wind
brought a sound of rapid small-arm firing, like the beating of
rain against a window. The dark stripes were moving in the midst
of the smoke and came nearer and nearer. The sounds of firing,
growing stronger and stronger, mingled in a prolonged, rumbling
peal. Puffs of smoke rose more and more often, spread rapidly along
the line, and at last formed one lilac cloud (dotted here and there
with little faint lights and black spots) which kept curling and
uncurling; and all the sounds blent into one tremendous clatter.

'An assault!' said the naval officer, turning pale and letting the
seaman look through the telescope.

Cossacks galloped along the road, some officers rode by, the
Commander-in-Chief passed in a carriage with his suite. Every face
showed painful excitement and expectation.

'It's impossible they can have taken it,' said the mounted officer.

'By God, a standard!... Look! look!' said the other, panting,
and he walked away from the telescope: 'A French standard on the
Maláhof!'

The point from which the officer in the story, and Tolstoy himself in
reality, watched the assault through a telescope is the spot marked 'a'
on the map on page 112.

The loss of the Maláhof rendered the further defence of the town
impossible, and the following night the Russians blew up and destroyed
such munitions of war as they could not remove from the bastions.
Tolstoy was deputed to clear the Fifth and Sixth Bastions before they
were abandoned to the Allies. When telling me this he added, 'The
non-commissioned officers could have done the work just as well without
me.' While the destruction was proceeding, the Russian forces crossed
the Roadstead by a pontoon bridge which had been constructed during the
siege. The town south of the Roadstead was abandoned, and the defenders
established themselves on the North Side, where they remained till
peace was concluded in February 1856.

After the retreat, Tolstoy was given the task of collating the twenty
or more reports of the action from the Artillery Commanders. This
experience of how war is recorded produced in him that supreme contempt
for detailed military histories which he so often expressed in later
years. He says:

I regret that I did not keep a copy of those reports. They were
an excellent example of that naïve, inevitable kind of military
falsehood, out of which descriptions are compiled. I think many of
those comrades of mine who drew up those reports, will laugh on
reading these lines, remembering how, by order of their Commander,
they wrote what they could not know.

Carrying among other despatches the report he had himself compiled,
Tolstoy was sent as Courier to Petersburg; and this terminated his
personal experience of war. He was still only Sub-Lieutenant, his hopes
of promotion had come to nothing in consequence of a suspicion that
he was the author of some soldiers' songs which were sung throughout
the army at this time. No translation can do justice to these slangy,
topical satires; but that the reader may have some idea of them, my
wife has put into English the following stanzas:

In September, the eighth day,[22]
From the French we ran away,
For our Faith and Tsar!
For our Faith and Tsar!

Admiral Alexander,[23] he
Sank our vessels in the sea
In the waters deep,
In the waters deep.

'Luck to all I wish,' he said then.
To Baktchiseráy[24] he sped then;
'May you all be blowed!
'May you all be blowed!'

Saint Arnaud[25] got out of sight;
And in manner most polite,
Came round to our back,
Came round to our back.

And on Tuesday, I'm afraid
Had no saint come to our aid,
He'd have bagged us all,
He'd have bagged us all.

Our Liprandi, it is true
Captured 'trenchments not a few,
But to no avail!
But to no avail!

Out of Kishinéf a force
Was expected: Foot and Horse,
And at last they came,
And at last they came.

Dannenberg was in command:
Strictly told to understand
Not to spare his men,
Not to spare his men.

* * * * *

Two Grand Dukes a visit paid:
But the French, quite undismayed,
Blazed away with shells,
Blazed away with shells.

Some ten thousand men were shot:
From the Tsar _they_ never got
Any great reward!
Any great reward!

Then the Prince[26] in anger spoke:
'Oh! our men are wretched folk:
'Why, they've turned their backs!
'Why, they've turned their backs!'

And in this great battle's flare
Heroes only two there were:
The two Royal Dukes!
The two Royal Dukes!

George's Crosses they were given
And to Petersburg were driven
To be fêted there!
To be fêted there!

All the priests with heads bent down
Prayed our God the French to drown,
And there came a storm,
And there came a storm!

There arose a dreadful gale,
But the French just shortened sail,
And remained afloat!
And remained afloat!

Winter came. Sorties we made;
Many soldiers low were laid,
Near those bags of sand,
Near those bags of sand.[27]

For re'nforcements Ménshik prayed;
But the Tsar sent to his aid
Only Osten-Sáken,
Only Osten-Sáken.[28]

Ménshik, Admiral so wise,
To the Tsar writes and replies:
'Oh, dear Father Tsar,
'Oh, dear Father Tsar.

'Sáken is not worth a grain,
And your Royal youngsters twain[29]
They're no good at all!
They're no good at all!'

Royal wrath on Ménshik fell,
And the Tsar felt quite unwell
At the next review,
At the next review.

Straight to heaven he did fare
(Seems they wanted him up there)
Not a whit too soon,
Not a whit too soon!

As on his deathbed he lay;
To his son[30] he this did say:
'Now just you look out,
'Now just you look out!'

And the son to Ménshik wrote:
'My dear Admiral, please note,
You may go to hell,
You may go to hell!'

'And in place of you I'll name
Gortchakóf, you know, the same
Who fought 'gainst the Turks!
Who fought 'gainst the Turks!'

'With few troops he'll go ahead,
And a pair of breeches red
Shall be his reward,
Shall be his reward!'

[22] The Battle of Alma, fought on 8th September, old style =
20th September, new style.

[23] Prince Alexander Ménshikof, who was Commander-in-Chief
in the Crimea till replaced by Gortchakóf. Besides being
diplomatist and General, he was also an Admiral. In the other
verses he is nicknamed 'Ménshik.'

[24] After the Battle of Alma, Ménshikof retreated northward
to Baktchiseráy, almost abandoning Sevastopol.

[25] Saint Arnaud, the French Commander-in-Chief.

[26] Prince Alexander Ménshikof.

[27] Bags of sand were used as temporary protection from
behind which to fire.

[28] Count Osten-Sáken was sent to advise Ménshikof and to
report to the Tsar on his operations.

[29] The Grand Dukes alluded to above.

[30] Alexander II, who succeeded Nicholas I on 2nd March
(n.s.) 1855.

As a matter of fact the responsibility for these songs, which gave
satirical expression to the discontent then very generally felt, was
not entirely Tolstoy's. They originated with a group of officers on
the staff of Kryzhanóvsky, Commander of the Artillery, and some others
(including Tolstoy) who used to meet at Kryzhanóvsky's rooms almost
daily. One of this company used to preside at the piano, while the
others stood round and improvised couplets. In such cases some one has
usually to pay the piper, and that this one should have been Tolstoy,
was a natural result both of the fact that he seems to have been the
chief culprit, and of the attention his literary work was attracting at
this time.

Another matter which appears to have done Tolstoy no good in the eyes
of his superiors, was his refusal to fall in with a reprehensible
practice which by long usage had become as well established as, for
instance, among ourselves, is the purchase of peerages by contributions
to Party funds.

Those in command of various divisions of the army, including the
Commanders of Batteries, used to pay for various things, such as shoes
for the horses, medicine, office expenses, and certain extras for the
soldiers, for which no official allowance was made; and the way the
money for this was obtained was by overestimating the cost and quantity
of stores, and of the fodder required for the horses. The difference
between the actual and estimated cost supplied a revenue which
different Commanders used in different ways. Some spent it all for the
good of the service, though in a manner not shown in the accounts;
others did not scruple to make private profit of it. Tolstoy, during
his command of a battery, refused to take a balance of cash which had
accumulated, and insisted on showing it in the accounts. He thereby
evoked the displeasure of less scrupulous Commanders and called down
upon himself a rebuke from General Kryzhanóvsky, who did not consider
that it lay with a Sub-Lieutenant in temporary command, to attempt to
upset so well-established a custom. From his letters and memoirs we get
clear indications of Tolstoy's feelings towards his brother officers;
his distaste for the common run of them, and his preference for those
who were gentlemanly. Here and there, in memoirs and magazine articles,
one finds records of the impression he in his turn produced on his
companions. One of them relates:

How Tolstoy woke us all up in those hard times of war, with his
stories and his hastily composed couplets! He was really the soul
of our battery. When he was with us we did not notice how time
flew, and there was no end to the general gaiety.... When the Count
was away, when he trotted off to Simferópol, we all hung our heads.
He would vanish for one, two or three days.... At last he would
return--the very picture of a prodigal son! sombre, worn out, and
dissatisfied with himself.... Then he would take me aside, quite
apart, and would begin his confessions. He would tell me all: how
he had caroused, gambled, and where he had spent his days and
nights; and all the time, if you will believe me, he would condemn
himself and suffer as though he were a real criminal. He was so
distressed that it was pitiful to see him. That's the sort of man
he was. In a word, a queer fellow, and, to tell the truth, one I
could not quite understand. He was however a rare comrade, a most
honourable fellow, and a man one can never forget!

One who entered the battery just after Tolstoy left it, says he was
remembered there as an excellent rider, first-rate company, and an
athlete who, lying on the floor, could let a man weighing thirteen
stone be placed on his hands, and could lift him up by straightening
his arms. At a tug-of-war (played not with a rope, but with a stick)
no one could beat him; and he left behind him the recollection of many
witty anecdotes told in that masterly style of which he never lost the
knack.

His private Diary bears witness to the constantly renewed struggle that
went on within him, as well as to his profound dissatisfaction with
himself. Here, for instance, is an estimate entered in his Diary at the
commencement of the war, while he was still at Silistria:

I have no modesty. That is my great defect. What am I? One of four
sons of a retired lieutenant-colonel, left at seven years of age
an orphan under the guardianship of women and strangers; having
neither a social nor a scholarly education, and becoming my own
master at seventeen; with no large means, no social position,
and, above all, without principle; a man who has disorganised
his own affairs to the last extremity, and has passed the best
years of his life without aim or pleasure; and finally who having
banished himself to the Caucasus to escape his debts and more
especially his bad habits--and having there availed himself of some
connection that had existed between his father and the general
in command--passed to the army of the Danube at twenty-six, as
a Sub-Lieutenant almost without means except his pay (for what
means he has he ought to employ to pay what he still owes) without
influential friends, ignorant of how to live in society, ignorant
of the service, lacking practical capacity, but with immense
self-esteem--such is my social position. Let us see what I myself
am like.

I am ugly, awkward, uncleanly, and lack society education. I
am irritable, a bore to others, not modest, intolerant, and as
shame-faced as a child. I am almost an ignoramus. What I do know,
I have learned anyhow, by myself, in snatches, without sequence,
without a plan, and it amounts to very little. I am incontinent,
undecided, inconstant and stupidly vain and vehement, like all
characterless people. I am not brave. I am not methodical in life,
and am so lazy that idleness has become an almost unconquerable
habit of mine.

I am clever, but my cleverness has as yet not been thoroughly
tested on anything; I have neither practical nor social nor
business ability.

I am honest, that is to say, I love goodness, and have formed a
habit of loving it, and when I swerve from it I am dissatisfied
with myself and return to it gladly; but there is a thing I love
more than goodness, and that is fame. I am so ambitious, and so
little has this feeling been gratified, that should I have to
choose between fame and goodness, I fear I may often choose the
former.

Yes, I am not modest, and therefore I am proud at heart, though
shame-faced and shy in society.

That is a grossly unfair estimate of himself, but shows just that sort
of eager injustice to any one who fails to reach the high standard he
sets up, that has always characterised him. His account is inaccurate
in details. For instance, he was not seven, but nearly nine when his
father died. He had not wrecked his affairs to the extent he suggests.
Though his studies had been desultory, he had read widely, with a
quick understanding and a retentive memory. He was master of the
Russian, French and German languages, besides having some knowledge of
English, Latin, Arabic, and Turco-Tartar. (Later in life he added a
knowledge of Italian, Greek and Hebrew.) As for not yet having tested
his cleverness: he had published stories for which the editor of the
best Russian magazine paid him the rate accorded to the best-known
writers; while his awkwardness in society did not depend on ignorance;
on the contrary, he had grown up among people who paid much attention
to manners, and he was himself gifted with social tact, which became
plainly apparent as soon as he attained self-confidence. Any defect in
his manners must have been merely a result of that nervous shyness
natural to highly-strung, sensitive natures, conscious of powers of
a kind society recognises but scantily. Yet, when all is said, his
description gets home: over-emphatic and unfair, like much of his other
writing, it still leaves you in no doubt as to what he meant, and hits
the real points of weakness in the victim he is flaying.

On 5th March 1855 (old style) when he was just recovering from that
fit of depression at Belbék which, as already mentioned, drove him to
gamble, he writes in his Diary:

A conversation about Divinity and Faith has suggested to me a
great, a stupendous idea, to the realisation of which I feel
myself capable of devoting my life. This idea is the founding of
a new religion corresponding to the present state of mankind: the
religion of Christianity, but purged of dogmas and mysticism: a
practical religion, not promising future bliss, but giving bliss on
earth. I understand that to accomplish this the conscious labour of
generations will be needed. One generation will bequeath the idea
to the next, and some day fanaticism or reason will accomplish it.
_Deliberately_ to promote the union of mankind by religion--that is
the basic thought which, I hope, will dominate me.

In that passage one has, quite clearly stated before he was
twenty-seven, the main idea which actuated Tolstoy from the age of
fifty onwards. Already by the literary work he accomplished amid the
bustle and excitement of the siege, he was half consciously moving in
the direction that allured him. During the three months that elapsed
between leaving Bucharest and reaching Sevastopol, he wrote part of
_The Wood-Felling_; a sketch of an expedition such as he had taken part
in the Caucasus; and during the siege of Sevastopol he wrote the first
two parts of _Sevastopol_ and began _Youth_, a sequel to _Childhood_
and _Boyhood_.

1855

It was _Sevastopol_ that first brought European fame to Tolstoy. When,
as already mentioned, _Sevastopol in December_ appeared in the June
_Contemporary_, the Emperor ordered it to be translated into French.
That same month Tolstoy completed and despatched _The Wood-Felling_;
in July he sent off _Sevastopol in May_. Here once again the Censor
exercised his malignant power, and Panáef wrote to Tolstoy from
Petersburg:

In my letter delivered to you by Stolýpin, I wrote that your
article has been passed by the Censor with unimportant alterations,
and begged you not to be angry with me that I was obliged to add
a few words at the end to soften.... 3000 copies of the article
had already been printed off, when the Censor suddenly demanded
it back, stopped the appearance of the number (so that our August
number only appeared in Petersburg on 18 August) and submitted
it to Poúshkin, President of the Committee of Censors. If you
know Poúshkin, you will be able partly to guess what followed. He
flew into a rage, was very angry with the Censor, and with me for
submitting such an article to the Censor, and altered it with his
own hand.... On seeing these alterations I was horror-struck, and
wished not to print the article at all, but Poúshkin explained to
me that I must print it in its present shape. There was no help for
it, and your mutilated article will appear in the September number,
but without your initials--which I could not bear to see attached
to it after that....

Now a word as to the impression your story produces on all to whom
I have read it in its original form. Every one thinks it stronger
than the first part, in its deep and delicate analysis of the
emotions and feelings of people constantly face to face with death,
and in the fidelity with which the types of the line-officers are
caught, their encounters with the aristocrats, and the mutual
relations of the two sets. In short, all is excellent, all is drawn
in masterly fashion; but it is all so overspread with bitterness,
is so keen, so venomous, so unsparing and so cheerless, that at the
present moment when the scene of the story is almost sacred ground,
it pains those who are at a distance from it; and the story may
even produce a very unpleasant impression.

_The Wood-Felling_, with its dedication to Tourgénef, will also
appear in September (Tourgénef begs me to thank you very, very
much for thinking of him and paying him this attention).... In
this story also (which passed three Censors: the Caucasian, the
Military, and our Civil Censor) the types of officers have been
tampered with, and unfortunately a little has been struck out.

Tolstoy's dedication of _The Wood-Felling_ to Tourgénef proceeded
from his admiration for that writer's _A Sportsman's Sketches_, which
to the present time he continues to value very highly, considering
Tourgénef's descriptions of Nature in that book not merely excellent,
but inimitable by any one else.

Nekrásof wrote to Tolstoy in September, about _Sevastopol in August_,
saying:

The revolting mutilation of your article quite upset me. Even
now I cannot think of it without regret and rage. Your work
will, of course, not be lost ... it will always remain as proof
of a strength able to utter such profound and sober truth under
circumstances amid which few men would have retained it. It is
just what Russian society now needs: the truth--the truth, of
which, since Gógol's death, so little has remained in Russian
literature. You are right to value that side of your gifts most
of all. Truth--in such form as you have introduced it into our
literature--is something completely new among us. I do not know
another writer of to-day who so compels the reader to love him
and sympathise heartily with him, as he to whom I now write; and
I only fear lest time, the nastiness of life, and the deafness
and dumbness that surround us, should do to you what it has done
to most of us, and kill the energy without which there can be
no writer--none, at least, such as Russia needs. You are young:
changes are taking place which, let us hope, may end well, and
perhaps a wide field lies before you. You are beginning in a way
that compels the most cautious to let their expectations travel
far....

_The Wood-Felling_ has passed the Censor pretty fairly, though from
it also some valuable touches have disappeared. ...In that sketch
there are many astonishingly acute remarks, and it is all _new_,
interesting, and to the point. Do not neglect such sketches. Of
the common soldier our literature has as yet not spoken, except
frivolously.

Tourgénef, writing from his estate at Spássky to Panáef, said:

Tolstoy's article about Sevastopol is wonderful! Tears came into my
eyes as I read it, and I shouted, Hurrah! I am greatly flattered by
his wish to dedicate his new tale to me.... Here his article has
produced a general furore.

By the side of these contemporary estimates one may set Kropótkin's
appreciation written fifty years later:

All his powers of observation and war-psychology, all his deep
comprehension of the Russian soldier, and especially of the plain
un-theatrical hero who really wins the battles, and a profound
understanding of that inner spirit of an army upon which depend
success and failure: everything, in short, which developed into
the beauty and the truthfulness of _War and Peace_, was already
manifested in these sketches, which undoubtedly represented a new
departure in war-literature the world over.

It is worth while to note the very different conclusions to which
Kinglake, the historian of this war, and Tolstoy, its novelist,
arrived. Kinglake holds the war to have been unnecessary, and
attributes it chiefly to the unscrupulous ambition of Napoleon III;
yet he blames the Peace Party very severely for protesting against
it, for had they not done so Nicholas, he thinks, would not have
dared to act aggressively. Kinglake feels that negotiations between
rulers and diplomatists are important, and that anything that prevents
a Government from speaking with authority, makes for confusion and
disaster.

Tolstoy, on the other hand (if I may anticipate and speak of
conclusions not definitely expressed by him till much later), regards
all war and preparation for war as immoral, and wishes this conviction
to become so strong and so general that it will be impossible for any
future Napoleon to plunge five nations into war to gratify his own
ambition.

Kinglake understands things as they are, and knows how easy it is to do
harm with good intentions, but is somewhat blind to the trend of human
progress, and as to what the aim before us should be. Tolstoy, on the
contrary, is chiefly concerned about the ultimate aim, and about the
state of mind of the individual. The actual working of our political
system and international relations are things he ignores. The English
writer sees clearly what is, and cares little about what should be; the
Russian writer cares immensely about what should be, and rather forgets
that it can only be approached by slow and difficult steps, to take
which surefootedly, needs an appreciation of things as they are.

Neither of them manages to say the word which would synthesize their
divergent views: namely, that no self-respecting people should support
or tolerate as rulers, men who seek to gain national advantages by
means not strictly fair, honest and even generous. That is the real key
to the world's future peace. Kinglake's appeal to us not to hamper the
government that represents us, and Tolstoy's appeal to us not to spend
our lives in preparing to slay our fellow men, can both be met in that
way, and, I think, in that way alone.

For an ambitious young officer actually engaged in a war, related to
the Commander-in-Chief, and favourably noticed by the Emperor, even
_partially_ to express disapproval of war, was difficult; and Tolstoy
has told me that, contending with his desire to tell the truth about
things as he saw it, he was at the same time aware of another feeling
prompting him to say what was expected of him.

He, however, like the child in Andersen's story who sees that the
king has nothing on, when every one else is in ecstasies over the
magnificence of the monarch's robes, had the gift of seeing things
with his own eyes, as well as a great gift of truthfulness. These were
the qualities which ultimately made him the greatest literary power
of his century; and in spite of his own hesitation and the Censor's
mutilations, we may still read the description he then wrote of the
truce in which the French and Russian soldiers hobnobbed together in
friendship, a description closing with these words:

White flags are on the bastions and parallels; the flowery valley
is covered with corpses; the beautiful sun is sinking towards the
blue sea; and the undulating blue sea glitters in the golden rays
of the sun. Thousands of people crowd together, look at, speak to,
and smile at one another. And these people--Christians confessing
the one great law of love and self-sacrifice--seeing what they have
done, do not at once fall repentant on their knees before Him who
has given them life and laid in the soul of each a fear of death
and a love of goodness and of beauty, and do not embrace like
brothers with tears of joy and happiness.

The white flags are lowered, again the engines of death and
suffering are sounding, again innocent blood flows, and the air is
filled with moans and curses.

In _Sevastopol_, and in Tennyson's _Charge of the Light Brigade_ (with
its rhymes about 'hundred' and 'thundered,' and its panegyric of those
who knew it was not their business to think, and at whom 'all the
world wondered'), we have two typical expressions of conflicting views
on war: the view of a man who knew it from the classics and was Poet
Laureate, and the view of a man who was in the thick of it, and whose
eyes were connected with his brain.

Thirty-four years later Tolstoy wrote a Preface to a fellow-officer's
_Recollections of Sevastopol_. It could not pass the Censor, but has
been used as a Preface to his own sketches of war in the English
version of _Sevastopol_, translated by my wife and myself, and I cannot
conclude this chapter better than by quoting a few sentences from it.

Speaking of the position of a young officer engaged in the Crimean war,
he says:

To the first question that suggests itself to every one, Why did
he do it? Why did he not cease, and go away?--the author does not
reply. He does not say, as men said in olden times when they hated
their enemies as the Jews hated the Philistines, that he hated the
Allies; on the contrary, he here and there shows his sympathy for
them as for brother men.

Nor does he speak of any passionate desire that the keys of the
Church at Jerusalem should be in our hands, or even that our fleet
should, or should not, exist. You feel as you read, that to him
the life and death of men are not commensurable with questions of
politics. And the reader feels that to the question: Why did the
author act as he did?--there is only one answer; It was because I
enlisted while still young, or before the war began, or because
owing to inexperience I chanced to slip into a position from which
I could not extricate myself without great effort. I was entrapped
into that position, and when they obliged me to do the most
unnatural actions in the world, to kill my brother men who had done
me no harm, I preferred to do this rather than to suffer punishment
and disgrace.... One feels that the author knows there is a law
of God: love thy neighbour, and therefore do not kill him,--a law
which cannot be repealed by any human artifice.

The merit of the book consists in that. It is a pity it is only
felt, and not plainly and clearly expressed. Sufferings and deaths
are described; but we are not told what caused them. Thirty-five
years ago--even that was well, but now something more is needed.
We should be told what it is that causes soldiers to suffer and to
die,--that we may know, and understand, and destroy these causes.

'War! How terrible,' people say, 'is war, with its wounds,
bloodshed, and deaths! We must organise a Red Cross Society to
alleviate the wounds, sufferings and pains of death.' But, truly,
what is dreadful in war is not the wounds, sufferings and deaths.
The human race that has always suffered and died, should by this
time be accustomed to suffering and death, and should not be aghast
at them. Without war people die by famine, by inundations, and by
epidemics. It is not suffering and death that are terrible, but it
is that which allows people to inflict suffering and death....

It is not the suffering and mutilation and death of man's body that
most needs to be diminished,--but it is the mutilation and death of
his soul. Not the _Red_ Cross is needed, but the simple cross of
Christ to destroy falsehood and deception....

I was finishing this Preface when a cadet from the Military College
came to see me. He told me that he was troubled by religious
doubts.... He had read nothing of mine. I spoke cautiously to him
of how to read the Gospels so as to find in them the answers to
life's problems. He listened and agreed. Towards the end of our
conversation I mention wine, and advised him not to drink. He
replied: 'but in military service it is sometimes necessary.' I
thought he meant necessary for health and strength, and I intended
triumphantly to overthrow him by proofs from experience and
science, but he continued: 'Why, at Geok-Tepe, for instance, when
Skóbelef had to massacre the inhabitants, the soldiers did not wish
to do it, but he had drink served out and then....' Here are all
the horrors of war--they are in this lad with his fresh young face,
his little shoulder-straps (under which the ends of his hood are so
neatly tucked), his well-cleaned boots, his naïve eyes, and with so
perverted a conception of life.

This is the real horror of war!

What millions of Red Cross workers could heal the wounds that swarm
in that remark--the result of a whole system of education!

CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER IV

Birukof.

Behrs.

Bitovt.

Nekrasof's letters to Tolstoy, _Niva_, February 1898.

Also, Tolstoy's _Sevastopol_, and his

Preface to Ershof's _Recollections of Sevastopol_.

Kropotkin, _Ideals and Realities in Russian Literature_: London, 1905.

CHAPTER V

PETERSBURG; LOVE AFFAIR; DROUZHÍNIN

Petersburg. Tourgénef. The _Contemporary_. Death of his brother
Demetrius. Drouzhínin. The Behrs. Love affairs. Engagement with V.V.A.
Illness. Leaves the army. Engagement broken off. Correspondence with
Tourgénef. Writings. Drouzhínin's criticism of _Youth_ and of Tolstoy's
style. Books that influenced him. Emancipation of serfs. Poúshkin.
Self-condemnation in his _Confession_.

A NUMBER of distinguished writers have recorded their opinions of the
talented young officer who appeared in Petersburg before the war was
quite over, and immediately entered the fraternity then supporting the
_Contemporary_. From their memoirs one sees what Tolstoy was like at
this, perhaps the stormiest and least satisfactory period of his life.

The _Contemporary_ was a monthly review founded by Poúshkin and
Pletnéf in 1836. It passed in 1847 to Panáef and the poet Nekrásof,
and when Tolstoy began to write, was recognised as the leading and
most progressive Russian literary periodical. Its chief contributors
formed an intimate group, united by close personal acquaintance, by
sympathy with the Emancipation movement then making itself felt, and
also by a common agreement (not it is true very strictly or very
permanently observed) to write exclusively for the _Contemporary_.
The point to be noticed is that the circle Tolstoy entered consisted
of a friendly, sociable group of people who considered themselves
ardent reformers; and that though Tolstoy's talent and his wish to have
his works published, threw him and them together, he never appears
to have had the least inclination to co-operate on that footing of
mutual give-and-take toleration which is so essential in public
life. Certainly he never became friendly with the more advanced men,
Tchernyshévsky, Miháylof, and the ultra-democratic Dobrolúbof, who were
intent on spreading democratic and socialistic ideas in Russia.

It has been suggested that this was due to the fact that he was an
aristocrat and that they were democrats; but one has to go deeper than
that for the explanation, which lies, to a considerable extent, in
the fact that the advanced Russian Radicals were, for the most part,
admirers of Governmental Jacobinism, whereas Tolstoy has from the very
start tended to be a No-Government man, an Anarchist, and has objected
to linking himself closely with any group, since such alliance always
implies some amount of compromise, and some subordination of one's own
opinions.

The poet Fet, himself a young officer, made Tolstoy's acquaintance
at this time. A couple of years later he purchased an estate at no
very great distance from Yásnaya Polyána, and became a friend of
Tolstoy's--one in fact of the very few people, not of his own family,
with whom the latter ever formed a close personal friendship.

1855

His first acquaintance with Tolstoy was however hardly auspicious.
Calling on Tourgénef in St. Petersburg at ten o'clock one morning, he
saw an officer's sword hanging in the hall, and asked the man-servant
whose it was. 'It's Count Tolstoy's sword,' replied the man. 'He is
sleeping in the drawing-room. Iván Sergéyevitch [Tourgénef] is having
breakfast in the study.' During Fet's visit of an hour's duration, he
and his host had to converse in low tones for fear of waking Tolstoy.
'He is like this all the time,' said Tourgénef. 'He came back from
his Sevastopol battery; put up here, and is going the pace. Sprees,
gipsy-girls and cards all night long--and then he sleeps like a corpse
till two in the afternoon. At first I tried to put the break on, but
now I've given it up, and let him do as he likes.'

Fet tells us that as soon as he met Tolstoy he noticed his instinctive
defiance of all accepted opinions; and at Nekrásof's lodgings, the
first time he saw Tolstoy and Tourgénef together, he witnessed the
desperation to which the former reduced the latter by his biting
retorts.

'I can't admit,' said Tolstoy, 'that what you say expresses your
convictions. If I stand at the door with a dagger or a sword,
and say, "While I am alive no one shall enter here," that shows
conviction. But you, here, try to conceal the true inwardness of
your thoughts from one another, and call _that_ conviction!'

'Why do you come here?' squeaked Tourgénef, panting, his voice
rising to a falsetto (as always happened when he was disputing).
'Your banner is not here! Go! Go to the salon of Princess B----!'

'Why should I ask you, where I am to go? Besides, empty talk won't
become conviction, merely because I am, or am not here,' replied
Tolstoy.

Though he cared little for politics, Fet's sympathies inclined to the
Conservative side, and he found himself in accord with Tolstoy rather
than with Tourgénef and the other Contemporarians; but Fet's stay in
Petersburg at this time was a short one, and he therefore saw little
of Tolstoy. D. V. Grigoróvitch, the novelist, however, reported to him
another scene which also occurred at Nekrásof's lodging.

You can't imagine what it was like! Great Heavens! said
Grigoróvitch. Tourgénef squeaked and squeaked, holding his hand to
his throat, and with the eyes of a dying gazelle whispered: 'I can
stand no more! I have bronchitis!' and began walking to and fro
through the three rooms.--'Bronchitis is an imaginary illness,'
growls Tolstoy after him: 'Bronchitis is a metal!'

Of course Nekrásof's heart sank: he feared to lose either of these
valuable contributors to the _Contemporary_. We were all agitated,
and at our wits' end to know what to say. Tolstoy, in the middle
room, lay sulking on the morocco sofa; while Tourgénef, spreading
the tails of his short coat and with his hands in his pockets,
strode to and fro through the three rooms. To avert a catastrophe,
I went to the sofa and said, 'Tolstoy, old chap, don't get excited!
You don't know how he esteems and loves you!'

'I won't allow him to do anything to spite me!' exclaimed Tolstoy
with dilated nostrils. 'There! Now he keeps marching past me on
purpose, wagging his democratic haunches!'

The rest of the evidence is of much the same nature. Of desire to
agree, there was hardly a trace in Tolstoy, who never doubted his own
sincerity and seldom credited that quality to others. The aristocratic
influences that surrounded his upbringing never induced him to be
lenient to men of his own class, such as Tourgénef; but they led him
to judge harshly and unsympathetically new men who were pushing their
way to the front by their own ability. Fet, in his _Mémoires_, speaks
with regret of the fact that the educated classes ('the Intelligents')
attracted by Liberal ideas which made for the Emancipation of the
serfs, formed so strong a current of opinion that even the literature
produced by the nobility (and he claims that the nobles supplied all
the truly artistic literature) advocated changes which struck at the
root of the most fundamental privileges of their class. This tendency,
he tells us, revolted 'Tolstoy's fresh, unwarped instinct.'

Grigoróvitch, in his _Literary Memoirs_, tells us that, knowing how
out of sympathy Tolstoy was with Petersburg, and how evident it was
that everything in Petersburg irritated him, he was surprised to find
that the latter took permanent lodgings there. Grigoróvitch, himself
a Contemporarian, had met Tolstoy in Moscow, and coming across him
again in Petersburg, and hearing that he was invited to dine with the
staff of the _Contemporary_, but did not yet know any of the members
intimately, agreed to accompany him.

On the way I warned him to be on his guard about certain matters,
and especially to avoid attacking George Sand, whom he much
disliked, but who was devoutly worshipped by many Contemporarians.
The dinner passed off all right, Tolstoy being rather quiet at
first, but at last he broke out. Some one praised George Sand's
new novel, and he abruptly declared his hatred of her, adding that
the heroines of the novels she was then writing, if they really
existed, ought to be tied to the hangman's cart and driven through
the streets of Petersburg. He had, adds Grigoróvitch, already then
developed that peculiar view of women and of the woman-question,
which he afterwards expressed so vividly in _Anna Karénina_.

With all the curious convolutions of Tolstoy's character, there is
a remarkable tenacity of conviction running through his whole life,
and a remark in _Resurrection_, written nearly half a century later,
throws a flood of light on the fact of his so detesting George Sand's
emancipated heroines while he was himself living a loose life. In
that book, the hero has been attracted as well as repelled first by
Mariette, the General's wife, and then by a handsome demi-mondaine he
passes in the street, and this is his reflection:

The animalism of the brute nature in man is disgusting, thought he;
but as long as it remains in its naked form we observe it from the
height of our spiritual life and despise it; and, _whether one has
fallen or resisted_, one remains what one was before. But when that
same animalism hides under a cloak of poetry and esthetic feeling,
and demands our worship--then we are swallowed up by it completely,
and worship animalism, no longer distinguishing good from evil.
Then it is awful!

[Illustration: PROMINENT RUSSIAN WRITERS, (1856): TOURGÉNEF, SOLOGOÚB,
TOLSTOY, NEKRÁSOF, GRIGÓRYEF, PANÁEF.]

Grigoróvitch in another place speaks of Tolstoy's 'readiness to
contradict.' It did not matter what opinion was being expressed; and
the more authoritative the speaker appeared to be, the more eager was
Tolstoy to oppose him and to begin a verbal duel. 'Watching how he
listened to the speaker and pierced him with his eyes, and noticing
how ironically he pressed his lips together, one conjectured that he
was preparing not a direct reply, but such an expression of opinion as
would perplex his opponent by its unexpectedness.'

Danílevsky, the novelist, confirms this impression of Tolstoy's
eagerness to oppose. They met at the house of a well-known sculptor.
Tolstoy entered the drawing-room while a new work of Herzen's was
being read aloud, and quietly took up a position behind the reader's
chair. When the reading was over, he began, at first gently and with
restraint, then hotly and boldly, to attack Herzen and the enthusiasm
then current for his revolutionary and emancipatory works; and he spoke
so convincingly and with such sincerity, that Danílevsky says he never
afterwards saw one of Herzen's publications in that house.

Tourgénef once said: 'In Tolstoy the character which afterwards lay
at the base of his whole outlook on life early made itself manifest.
He never believed in people's sincerity. Every spiritual movement
seemed to him false, and he used to pierce those on whom his suspicion
fell with his extraordinarily penetrating eyes'; and Tourgénef went
on to say that personally he had never encountered anything more
disconcerting than that inquisitorial look, which, accompanied by two
or three biting words, was enough to goad to fury any man who lacked
strong self control.

The different sides of men's characters do not always advance
simultaneously or harmoniously; and it frequently happens that those
awakening to a sense of public duty remain self-indulgent in respect to
wine or women, while others become abstainers or respectable husbands
while remaining oblivious of the political duties they owe to the
community. Among the reformers whose acquaintance Tolstoy made in
Petersburg, there was unfortunately a great deal of gluttony, drinking,
gambling and loose living, and Tolstoy--though he was often remorseful
and repentant about his own excesses with wine, women, and cards--with
his innate propensity for demanding _all or nothing_, bitterly resented
this in others. He would no doubt have considered it hypocritical had
he himself come forward as a reformer before obtaining mastery over his
own appetites, and he judged others by the same standard.

The ill success of the Crimean war had dealt a blow to the prestige of
the Tsardom, and a series of wide-reaching reforms were being prepared
at this time--among which the most important were the abolition of
serfdom, the reform of civil and criminal law, the introduction
of trial by jury and of oral proceedings in the law courts, the
establishment of a system of Local Government somewhat resembling
our County Councils, and some relaxation of the insensate severity
of the press censorship. But though Tolstoy reached Petersburg at a
moment when Russia was entering on this hopeful and fruitful period of
internal reform, neither in his published writings nor in any private
utterance we know of, does he express much sympathy with those reforms,
or show any perception of the advantage that accrues to a nation whose
inhabitants interest themselves in public affairs. He never realised
that even if a people make for themselves bad laws, the very fact
of being invited to think about large practical matters, and being
allowed to test their own conclusions in practice, fosters a habit of
not fearing to think and to act in accord with one's thought; and that
this habit of applying thought to the guidance of practical affairs,
overflows into a nation's commerce and industry and agriculture, and
ultimately causes the difference between the comparative material
security of our Western world and the chronic fear of famine that
oppresses many Eastern lands.

But complex problems of public policy--which are always difficult, and
call for patience, tolerant co-operation, and a willingness to accept
half-loaves when whole ones are unobtainable--never were to Tolstoy's
taste. He hankers after simple, clear-cut solutions, such as are
obtainable only subjectively, in the mind.

A few years later than the time of which we are speaking, Tolstoy
commenced a novel called _The Decembrists_, which begins with a
description of these reform years. The passage shows how scornfully he
regarded the whole movement for the liberation of the people and the
democratisation of their institutions. These are his words:

This happened not long ago, in the reign of Alexander II, in our
times of civilisation, progress, _problems_, re-birth of Russia,
etc. etc.; the time when the victorious Russian army returned
from Sevastopol which it had surrendered to the enemy; when all
Russia was celebrating the destruction of the Black Sea fleet; and
white-walled Moscow greeted, and congratulated on that auspicious
event, the remainder of the crews of that fleet, offering them
a good old Russian goblet of vódka, and in the good old Russian
way bringing them bread and salt and bowing at their feet. This
was the time when Russia, in the person of her far-sighted virgin
politicians, wept over the destruction of her dream of a Te Deum
in the Cathedral of St. Sophia, and the deep-felt loss to the
fatherland of two great men who had perished during the war (one
who, carried away by impatience to hear the Te Deum referred to
above, had fallen on the fields of Wallachia, not without leaving
there two squadrons of Hussars; and the other an invaluable man
who distributed tea, other people's money, and sheets, to the
wounded without stealing any of them); in that time when from all
sides, in all departments of human activity in Russia, great men
sprang up like mushrooms: commanders, administrators, economists,
writers, orators, and simply great men without any special calling
or aim; in that time when at the Jubilee of a Moscow actor, public
opinion, fortified by a toast, appeared and began to punish all
wrongdoers; when stern Commissioners galloped from Petersburg to
the South and captured, exposed, and punished the commissariat
rascals; when in all the towns dinners with toasts were given to
the heroes of Sevastopol, and to those of them whose arms and legs
had been torn off, coppers were given by those who met them on the
bridges or highways; at that time when oratorical talents were so
rapidly developed among the people that one publican everywhere and
on all occasions wrote, printed, and repeated by heart at dinners,
such powerful speeches that the guardians of order were obliged to
undertake repressive measures to subdue his eloquence; when even
in the English Club in Moscow a special room was set apart for the
consideration of public affairs; when periodicals appeared under
the most varied banners; journals developing European principles
on a European basis but with a Russian world-conception, and
journals on an exclusively Russian basis, developing Russian
principles but with a European world-conception; when suddenly, so
many journals appeared that it seemed as if all possible titles
had been used up: 'The Messenger,' 'The Word,' 'The Discourse,'
'The Eagle,' and many others; when nevertheless fresh titles
presented themselves continually; at that time when pleiades of new
author-philosophers appeared, proving that Science is national and
is not national and is international, and so on: and pleiades of
writer-artists, who described woods and sun-rises, and thunders,
and the love of a Russian maiden, and the idleness of one official,
and the misconduct of many officials; at that time when from all
sides appeared problems (as in the year '56 every concourse of
circumstances was called of which nobody could make head or tail);
the problem of the Cadet Schools, the Universities, the Censor,
oral tribunals, finance, the banks, the police, the Emancipation,
and many others; everybody still tried to discover new questions,
and everybody tried to solve them; they wrote, and read, and
talked, and drew up projects, and all wished to amend, destroy
and alter, and all Russians, as one man, were in an indescribable
state of enthusiasm. That was a condition which has occurred twice
in Russia in the nineteenth century: the first time was in the
year '12 when we thrashed Napoleon I, and the second time was in
'56 when Napoleon III thrashed us. Great, unforgettable epoch of
the re-birth of the Russian people! Like the Frenchman who said
that he had not lived at all who had not lived during the Great
French Revolution, so I make bold to say that he who did not live
in Russia in '56, does not know what life is. The writer of these
lines not merely lived at that time, but was one of the workers of
that period. Not merely did he personally sit for some weeks in
one of the casemates of Sevastopol, but he wrote a work about the
Crimean War which brought him great fame, and in which he clearly
and minutely described how the soldiers in the bastion fired off
their muskets, how in the hospitals people were bound up with
bandages, and how in the cemetery they were buried in the earth.

Having performed these exploits, the writer of these lines arrived
at the heart of the Empire, at a rocket-station, where he reaped
his laurels. He witnessed the enthusiasm of both capitals and of
the whole people, and experienced in his own person how Russia
can reward real service. The great ones of the earth sought his
acquaintance, pressed his hands, offered him dinners, persistently
invited him to come and see them, and in order to hear from him
particulars about the war, narrated to him their own sensations.
Therefore the writer of these lines knows how to appreciate that
great and memorable time. But that is not what I want to tell about.

The very day he reached Petersburg from Sevastopol, in September 1855,
Tolstoy called on Tourgénef, who pressed him to stay with him and
introduced him to all that was most interesting in Petersburg literary
and artistic circles, watching over his interests 'like an old nurse,'
as Tourgénef himself once expressed it. Tourgénef fully appreciated
Tolstoy's artistic genius, but was strangely blind to the specially
Tolstoyan side of Tolstoy's complex nature. As we have already seen,
friction soon arose between the two men, and though they again and
again made friends, their friendship was very unstable and easily
upset.

1856

Early in 1856 Tolstoy's third brother, Demetrius, died in Orél. His
history has been told in Chapter II. Tolstoy says: 'I was particularly
horrid at that time. I went to Orél from Petersburg, where I frequented
society and was filled with conceit. I felt sorry for Mítenka, but not
very sorry. I paid him a hurried visit, but did not stay at Orél, and
my brother died a few days after I left.' On 2nd February the news
reached Leo; but he says: 'I really believe that what hurt me most, was
that it prevented my taking part in some private theatricals then being
got up at Court, and to which I had been invited.'

In March the war ended, and Tolstoy obtained furlough. On 25th March he
wrote to his brother Sergius:

I want to go abroad for eight months, and if they give me leave
I shall do so. I wrote to Nikólenka about it, and asked him to
come too. If we could all three arrange to go together it would
be first-rate. If each of us took Rs. 1000, we could do the trip
capitally.

Please write and tell me how you like _The Snow Storm_. I am
dissatisfied with it--seriously. But I now want to write many
things, only I positively have no time in this damned Petersburg.
Anyway, whether they let me go abroad or not, I intend to take
furlough in April and come to the country.

On 13th May he was still in Petersburg, and we find him noting in his
Diary:

The powerful means to true happiness in life, is to let flow from
oneself on all sides, without any laws, like a spider, a cobweb
of love, and to catch in it all that comes to hand: women old or
young, children, or policemen.

Among his literary acquaintances at this time the one for whom he
seems to have felt most sympathy and respect was Drouzhínin, a critic,
writer of stories, and translator of Shakespear. Before long we find
Drouzhínin leading a revolt against the _Contemporary_ and attracting
some of the contributors to the _Reading Library_, a rival magazine, to
which Tolstoy contributed an article in December 1856.

It was not till the end of May that he got away from Petersburg; and
on his road home he stopped in Moscow and visited the family of Dr.
Behrs, a Russian of German origin, who had married Miss Islényef. The
first mention one gets of Tolstoy's future wife is a note in his Diary
relating to this visit to the Behrs's country house near Moscow. He
says: 'The children served us. What dear, merry little girls! Little
more than six years later, the second of these 'merry little girls' was
Countess Tolstoy!

Three days later he writes to his brother Sergius: 'I spent ten days
in Moscow ... very pleasantly, without champagne or gipsies, but a
little in love--I will tell you later on with whom.' The object of his
affection at that time was of course not Dr. Behrs's twelve-year-old
daughter.

From Yásnaya he made a round of visits to see his married sister and
other neighbours; among them Tourgénef, at whose house a gathering of
the Tolstoys took place. Special honour was paid to Leo, who comically
posed as the hero of a Triumph. He was being crowned and almost covered
with flowers, leaves, grass, and anything that came handy, when the
approach of an unwelcome guest--a lady neighbour of Tourgénef's--was
announced. Thereupon the host seized his head in despair; the
triumpher, with a howl, began to turn rapid catherine-wheel somersaults
through the rooms; and his sister's husband was quickly bandaged up as
an invalid, to be used as an excuse and a protection from the unwelcome
intruder.

The letter to Sergius, quoted above, contains an allusion to Tolstoy's
first serious matrimonial project.

He had in childhood been much attached to a certain Sónitchka
Kalóshina. While at the University, he had had a sentimental love
affair with a certain Z. M., who seems hardly to have been aware of
his devotion. Then there was the Cossack damsel who figures in _The
Cossacks_, and subsequently he much admired a society lady, Madame
Sch., who may also have been scarcely aware of his feelings, for
Tolstoy was shy and timid in these matters--which were quite different
from his affairs with gipsy girls and other hireable women.

The present affair with V. V. A. was more serious than any of its
predecessors. It led to a long correspondence, and even to their
engagement being announced among relations and friends. The lady was
the good-looking daughter of a landowner in the neighbourhood of
Yásnaya Polyána.

In August she accompanied her family to Moscow for the Coronation
of Alexander II. At these festivities she enjoyed herself greatly,
and described her feelings in a letter which dealt the first blow to
Tolstoy's admiration. He at once assumed towards her the rôle which
more than twenty-five years later he assumed towards mankind in
general, and upbraided her with the insignificant and unworthy nature
of her interests and enjoyments, besides indulging in scathing sarcasms
about the fashionable circles with which she was so enraptured.

The young lady did not reply. Tolstoy then begged pardon--which was
granted.

Meanwhile he had fallen ill; and early in September he wrote to his
brother Sergius:

Only now, at nine o'clock on Monday evening, can I give you a
satisfactory reply, for till now things went worse and worse. Two
doctors were sent for, and administered another forty leeches,
but only now have I had a good sleep and, on waking up, feel
considerably better. All the same, there can be no question of my
leaving home for five or six days yet. So _au revoir_; please let
me know when you go (shooting) and whether it is true that your
farming has been seriously neglected; and do not kill all the game
without me. I will send the dogs, perhaps, to-morrow.

He recovered. The young lady returned to her family's estate at
Soudakóva, and his visits being renewed, Tolstoy's intimacy with her
continued and grew closer.

Yet to 'test himself,' he started for a visit to Petersburg, and as
soon as he had got as far as Moscow, wrote a letter to the young lady
in which he dwelt on the importance of the mutual attraction of the
sexes, the serious nature of his and her relation to one another, and
the necessity of testing themselves by time and distance.

While living in Petersburg, he learnt the particulars of a flirtation
the young lady had carried on at the time of the Coronation with
a French music-master, Mortier; and he wrote her a letter full
of reproaches. Instead of posting it, however, he wrote her
another--telling her of the one he had written, which he intended to
show her when they met.

After once breaking off relations with Mortier, the young lady allowed
them to be again renewed, and what Tolstoy learned of the matter caused
him seriously to reconsider his position. For some time his feelings
evidently wavered. The very day after posting his remonstrance, he
wrote another letter in a conciliatory tone, and though no reply
came, he assumed that all was well, and continued the correspondence
by sending her a detailed plan of the life they might hope to live
together: its surroundings, circle of acquaintance, and the arrangement
of their time. He also tried to interest her in the most serious
problems of life.

No answer reaching him for a long time, he became agitated and
perplexed. Then several letters, delayed in the post, arrived all at
once, and cordial intercourse was re-established between the lovers.
But though the engagement and correspondence continued, and expressions
of affection were interchanged, it gradually became more and more
evident that there was something artificial and unsatisfactory in their
relation to one another.

Meanwhile Tolstoy was having other difficulties in Petersburg. On 10th
November 1856 he writes to his brother Sergius:

Forgive me, dear friend Seryózha, for only writing two words--I
have no time for more. I have been most unlucky since I left home;
there is no one here I like. It seems that I have been abused in
the _Fatherland Journal_ for my war stories--I have not yet read
the attack; but the worst is that Konstantínof [the General under
whose command was the battery to which Tolstoy was attached]
informed me as soon as I got here that the Grand Duke Michael,
having learnt that I am supposed to have composed the Soldiers'
Song, is displeased, particularly at my having (as rumour says)
taught it to the soldiers. This is abominable. I have had an
explanation with the Head of the Staff. The only satisfactory thing
is that my health is good, and that (Dr.) Schipoulínsky says my
lungs are thoroughly sound.

On 20th November 1856 Tolstoy left the army, in which he had never
secured promotion though he had private influence enough to enable him,
about this time, to save from trial by Court Martial the Commander of
the battery in which he had served in the Crimea.

Early in December he left Petersburg for Moscow. From there, on 5th
December, he writes to Aunt Tatiána:

When I first went away and for a week after, I thought I was 'in
love' as it is called; but with an imagination such as mine that
was not difficult.

Now, however, especially since I have set to work diligently, I
should like--and very much like--to be able to say that I am in
love, or even that I love her; but it is not the case. The only
feeling I have for her is gratitude for her love of me, and the
thought that of all the girls I have known or know, she would have
made me the best wife, as I understand family life. And that is
what I should like to have your candid opinion about. Am I mistaken
or not? I should like to hear your advice because, in the first
place, you know both her and me; and chiefly because you love me,
and those who love are never wrong. It is true that I have tested
myself very badly, for from the time I left home I have led a
solitary rather than a dissipated life, and have seen few women;
but notwithstanding that, I have had many moments of vexation with
myself for having become connected with her, and I have repented
of it. All the same, I repeat that if I were convinced that she is
of a steadfast nature, and would love me always--even though not
as now, yet more than any one else--then I should not hesitate for
a moment about marrying her. I am confident that then my love of
her would increase more and more and that through that feeling she
would become a good woman.

[Illustration: TOLSTOY IN 1856, THE YEAR HE LEFT THE ARMY.]

The young lady in question visited Petersburg for part of the winter
season, but Tolstoy does not appear to have met her there, being
himself away in Moscow for several weeks. The correspondence was
largely didactic on his side, and was so unsatisfactory to the young
lady that she finally forbade him to write again. He disobeyed the
injunction, asking her pardon, telling her he was going abroad, and
begging that she would write to him once more, to an address in Paris.

He wrote to Aunt Tatiána from Moscow, on 12th January 1857, a letter in
which Russian and French alternate.

[31]CHÈRE TANTE!--J'ai reçu mon passeport pour l'étranger et je
suis venu à Moscou pour y passer quelques jours avec Marie arranger
mes affaires et prendre congé de vous.

But now I have reconsidered the matter, especially on Máshenka's
advice, and have decided to remain with her here a week or two
and then to go straight through Warsaw to Paris. You no doubt
understand, _chère tante_, why I do not wish and why it is not
right for me to come now to Yásnaya, or rather to Soudakóva. I, it
seems, have acted very badly in relation to V., but were I to see
her now, I should behave still worse. As I wrote you, I am more
than indifferent to her, and feel that I can no longer deceive
either her or myself. But were I to come, I might perhaps, from
weakness of character, again delude myself.

Vous rappelez-vous, chère tante, comme vous vous êtes moquée de
moi, quand je vous ai dit que je partais pour Pétersbourg 'pour
m'éprouver,' et cependant c'est à cette idée que je suis redevable
de n'avoir pas fait le malheur de la jeune personne et le mien,
car ne croyez pas que ce soit de l'inconstance ou de l'infidélité;
personne ne m'a plu pendant ces deux mois, mais tout bonnement j'ai
vu que je me trompais moi-même; que non seulement jamais je n'ai
eu, mais jamais je n'aurais pour V. le moindre sentiment d'amour
véritable. La seule chose qui me fait beaucoup de peine c'est que
j'ai fait du tort à la demoiselle et que je ne pourrai prendre
congé de vous avant de partir....

[31] DEAR AUNT,--I have received my passport for abroad, and I
have come to Moscow to pass some days with Mary, and to take
leave of you. (See sentences in English in letter above.)

But now I have reconsidered the matter, especially on
Máshenka's advice, and have decided to remain with her here a
week or two and then to go straight through Warsaw to Paris.
You no doubt understand, _chère tante_, why I do not wish and
why it is not right for me to come now to Yásnaya, or rather
to Soudakóva. I, it seems, have acted very badly in relation
to V., but were I to see her now, I should behave still worse.
As I wrote you, I am more than indifferent to her, and feel
that I can no longer deceive either her or myself. But were I
to come, I might perhaps, from weakness of character, again
delude myself.

Do you remember, dear Aunt, how you made fun of me when I
told you I was going to Petersburg 'to test myself'? Yet it
is that idea that has saved me from bringing misery on the
young lady and on myself; for do not suppose that it is a case
of inconstancy or unfaithfulness. No one has taken my fancy
during these two months, but simply I have come to see that
I was deceiving myself, and that I not only never had, but
never shall have, the least feeling of true love for V. V. A.
The only things which give me much pain are that I have hurt
the young lady, and that I cannot take leave of you before my
departure....

After reaching Paris (an event belonging properly to the next chapter)
he received a last communication from V. V. A. and wrote her a friendly
letter in reply, speaking of his love as of something past, thanking
her for her friendship, and wishing her every happiness.

His Aunt Tatiána--generally the mildest of critics where he was
concerned--appears to have blamed him for his conduct; and the friends
of V. V. A., including a French governess, Mlle. Vergani, did so yet
more severely. In one of his letters, which contains indications of an
agitation too strong to allow him to complete the construction of the
opening sentence, he says:

[32]Si Mlle. V. qui m'a écrit une lettre aussi ridicule, voulait
se rappeler toute ma conduite vis-à-vis de V. V. A., comment je
tâchais de venir le plus rarement possible, comment c'est elle qui
m'engageait à venir plus souvent et à entrer dans des relations
plus proches. Je comprends qu'elle soit fâchée de ce qu'une chose
qu'elle a beaucoup désirée ne s'est pas faite (j'en suis fâché
peut-être plus qu'elle) mais ce n'est pas une raison pour dire à un
homme qui s'est efforcé d'agir le mieux possible, qui a fait des
sacrifices de peur de faire le malheur des autres, de lui dire,
qu'il est un _pig_ [this one word is in Russian in the original] et
de le faire accroire à tout le monde. Je suis sûr que Toúla [the
town nearest his estate] est convaincu que je suis le plus grand
des monstres.

[32] If Mlle. Vergani, who has written me so absurd a letter,
would remember my whole conduct towards V. V. A., how I tried
to come as seldom as possible, and how it was she who induced
me to come more frequently and to enter into closer relations.
I understand her being vexed that an affair she much desired
has not come off (I perhaps am more vexed about it than she)
but that is no reason for her to tell a man who has tried to
act as well as he could, and who has made sacrifices in order
not to make others unhappy, that he is a pig, and to spread
that report about. I am sure all Toúla is convinced that I am
the greatest of monsters....

Turning from love to literature and friendship, we have two letters of
this period from Tourgénef. The first is dated Paris, 16th November
1856, and is as follows:

DEAREST TOLSTOY,--Your letter of 15 October took a whole month
crawling to me--I received it only yesterday. I have thought
carefully about what you write me--and I think you are wrong. It
is true I cannot be quite sincere, because I can't be quite frank,
with you. I think we got to know each other awkwardly and at a bad
time, and when we meet again it will be much easier and smoother.
I feel that I love you as a man (as an author it needs no saying);
but much in you is trying to me, and ultimately I found it better
to keep at a distance from you. When we meet we will again try
to go hand in hand--perhaps we shall succeed better; for strange
as it may sound, my heart turns to you when at a distance, as to
a brother: I even feel tenderly towards you. In a word, I love
you--that is certain; perchance from that, in time, all good will
follow. I heard of your illness and grieved; but now, I beg you,
drive the thought of it out of your head. For you too have your
fancies, and are perhaps thinking of consumption--but, God knows,
you have nothing of the sort....

You have finished the first part of _Youth_--that is capital. How
sorry I am to be unable to hear it read! If you do not go astray
(which I think there is no reason to anticipate) you will go very
far. I wish you good health, activity--and freedom, spiritual
freedom.

As to my _Faust_, I do not think it will please you very much. My
things could please you and perhaps have some influence on you,
only until you became independent. Now you have no need to study
me; you see only the difference of our manners, the mistakes and
the omissions; what you have to do is to study man, your own
heart, and the really great writers. I am a writer of a transition
period--and am of use only to men in a transition state. So
farewell, and be well. Write to me.

On 8th December 1856 he writes again:

DEAR TOLSTOY,--Yesterday my good genius led me past the
post-office, and it occurred to me to ask if there were any letters
for me at the _poste-restante_ (though I think that all my friends
ought long ago to have learnt my Paris address) and I found your
letter, in which you speak of my _Faust_. You can well imagine how
glad I was to read it. Your sympathy gladdened me truly and deeply.
Yes, and from the whole letter there breathes a mild, clear and
friendly peacefulness. It remains for me to hold out my hand across
the 'ravine' which has long since become a hardly perceptible
crack, about which we will speak no more--it is not worth it.

I fear to speak of one thing you mention: it is a delicate
matter,--words may blight such things before they are ripe, but
when they are ripe a hammer will not break them. God grant that all
may turn out favourably and well. It may bring you that spiritual
repose which you lacked when I knew you.

You have, I see, now become very intimate with Drouzhínin--and are
under his influence. That is right, only take care not to swallow
too much of him. When I was your age, only men of enthusiastic
natures influenced me; but you are built differently, and perhaps
also the times are changed.... Let me know in which numbers of the
_Contemporary_ your _Youth_ will appear; and by the way, let me
know the final impression made on you by _Lear_, which you probably
have read, if only for Drouzhínin's sake.

About the same time Tourgénef wrote to Drouzhínin:

I hear that you have become very intimate with Tolstoy--and he has
become very pleasant and serene. I am very glad. When that new wine
has finished fermenting, it will yield a drink fit for the Gods.
What about his _Youth_, which was sent for your verdict?

The allusion to Drouzhínin's translation of _King Lear_ is worth
noticing because fully fifty years later it was this play that Tolstoy
selected for hostile analysis in his famous attack on Shakespear.
One gathers from a letter written by V. P. Bótkin, that Drouzhínin's
rendering impressed Tolstoy favourably at the time.

Before quoting Drouzhínin's criticism of _Youth_, it will be in place
to mention other works by Tolstoy, not yet enumerated, which appeared
at this period. _Memoirs of a Billiard Marker_, giving a glimpse of
temptations Tolstoy had experienced, was published in January 1855,
while he was in Sevastopol. In January 1856 came _Sevastopol in
August_. In March 1856 appeared _The Snow Storm_. In May 1856 came a
rollicking tale, with flashes of humour like that of Charles Lever,
entitled _Two Hussars_. It is the only story Tolstoy ever wrote in
that vein; and in it are introduced gipsy singers such as those of
whom repeated mention occurs in his letters. In December, before he
went abroad, two more tales were published: one of these, entitled
_Meeting a Moscow Acquaintance in the Detachment_, containing a
scathing portrayal of the cowardice a man, who had passed muster in
'good society,' displayed when circumstances put him to the test. The
other story, _A Squire's Morning_, is closely drawn from Tolstoy's
own experience when on first leaving the University he settled on
his estate and attempted to better the condition of his serfs. Their
stolidity, their distrust, and the immense difficulty of introducing
any changes, are all brought out.

In a letter to Drouzhínin, Tourgénef wrote:

I have read his _Squire's Morning_, which pleased me exceedingly
by its sincerity and almost complete freedom of outlook. I say
'almost' because in the way he set himself the task, there still
is hidden (without his perhaps being aware of it) a certain
amount of prejudice. The chief moral impression produced by the
story (leaving the artistic impression aside) is that so long
as the state of serfdom exists, there is no possibility of the
two sides drawing together, despite the most disinterested and
honourable desire to do so; and this impression is good and true.
But beside it, like a horse cantering beside a trotter, there is
another: namely, that in general to try to enlighten or improve the
condition of the peasants leads to nothing; and this impression is
unpleasant. But the mastery of language, the way it is told, and
his character-drawing, are grand.

1857

In January 1857 appeared _Youth_, the continuation of _Childhood_ and
_Boyhood_.

How great Drouzhínin's influence was with Tolstoy at this time, may be
judged by the tone of his letter to him, giving an opinion on _Youth_.
He writes:

About _Youth_ one ought to write twenty pages. I read it with
anger, with yells and with oaths--not on account of its literary
quality, but because of the quality of the notebooks in which
it is written, and the handwritings. The mixing of two hands,
a known and an unknown, diverted my attention and hindered an
intelligent perusal. It was as though two voices shouted in my ear
and purposely distracted my attention, and I know that this has
prevented my receiving an adequate impression. All the same I will
say what I can. Your task was a terrible one, and you have executed
it very well. No other writer of our day could have so seized and
sketched the agitated and disorderly period of youth. To those who
are developed, your _Youth_ will furnish an immense pleasure; and
if any one tells you it is inferior to _Childhood_ and _Boyhood_
you may spit in his physiognomy. There is a world of poetry in
it--all the first chapters are admirable; only the introduction is
dry till one reaches the description of spring.... In many chapters
one scents the poetic charm of old Moscow, which no one has yet
reproduced properly. Some chapters are dry and long: for instance
all the stipulations with Dmítry Nehlúdof.... The conscription of
Semyónof will not pass the Censor.

Do not fear your reflections, they are all clever and original. But
you have an inclination to a super-refinement of analysis which may
become a great defect. You are sometimes on the point of saying
that so-and-so's thigh indicated that he wished to travel in India.
You must restrain this tendency, but do not extinguish it on any
account. All your work on your analyses should be of the same kind.
Each of your defects has its share of strength and beauty, and
almost every one of your qualities carries with it the seed of a
defect.

Your style quite accords with that conclusion: you are most
ungrammatical, sometimes with the lack of grammar of a reformer
and powerful poet reshaping a language his own way and for ever,
but sometimes with the lack of grammar of an officer sitting in a
casemate and writing to his chum. One can say with assurance that
all the pages you have written with love are admirable,--but as
soon as you grow cold, your words become entangled, and diabolical
forms of speech appear. Therefore the parts written coldly should
be revised and corrected. I tried to straighten out some bits, but
gave it up; it is a work which only you can and must do. Above
all, avoid long sentences. Cut them up into two or three; do not
be sparing of full-stops.... Do not stand on ceremony with the
particles, and strike out by dozens the words: _which_, _who_, and
_that_. When in difficulties, take a sentence and imagine that you
want to say it to some one in a most conversational way.

As a translator I may testify that Tolstoy never fully learned the
lesson Drouzhínin here set him, and that to the very last he continued
occasionally to intermingle passages of extraordinary simplicity and
force with sentences that defy analysis and abound in redundances.

Nearly fifty years later Tolstoy himself criticised the subject-matter
of _Childhood_, _Boyhood_, and _Youth_ as follows:

I have re-read them and regret that I wrote them; so ill,
artificially and insincerely are they penned. It could not be
otherwise: first, because what I aimed at was not to write my own
history but that of the friends of my youth, and this produced
an awkward mixture of the facts of their and my own childhood;
and secondly, because at the time I wrote it I was far from
being independent in my way of expressing myself, being strongly
influenced by two writers: Sterne (his _Sentimental Journey_) and
Töpffer (his _Bibliothèque de Mon Oncle_).

I am now specially dissatisfied with the two last parts. _Boyhood_
and _Youth_, in which besides an awkward mixture of truth and
invention, there is also insincerity: a desire to put forward as
good and important what I did not then consider good and important,
namely, my democratic tendency.

Before concluding this chapter it will be in place to give a list of
books Tolstoy mentions as having influenced him after he left the
University and before his marriage. They were: Goethe's _Hermann
und Dorothea_; Hugo's _Notre Dame de Paris_; Plato's _Phaedo_ and
_Symposium_ (in Cousin's French translation); and the _Iliad_ and
_Odyssey_ in Russian versions. All these, he says, had a 'very great'
influence on him, while the poems of his compatriots, Tútchef, Kóltsof,
and his friend Fet, had 'great' influence.

He tells us that artistic talent in literature influenced him more than
any political or social tendency; and this is quite in accord both with
his highly artistic nature and with his general apathy towards public
affairs. There was a Slavophil theory (built to justify things as they
were) which proclaimed it natural for a Slavonic people to leave the
task of governing to its rulers, while retaining its intellectual
freedom to disapprove of what was done amiss; and though Tolstoy never
joined the Slavophils, this has been very much his own attitude on the
matter.

Even in early childhood he had appreciated some of Poúshkin's poems,
such as _To the Sea_ and _To Napoleon_, and had learned them by heart
and recited them with feeling; but curiously enough it was the perusal
of Mérimée's French prose translation of Poúshkin's _Gipsies_ that,
after he was grown up, aroused Tolstoy's keen admiration of Poúshkin's
mastery of clear, simple, direct language. Later in life Tolstoy used
to say that Poúshkin's prose stories, such as _The Captain's Daughter_,
are his best works; but he never lost his appreciation of Poúshkin's
power of expression in verse. In his Diary (4th January 1857) he wrote:

I dined at Bótkin's with Panáef alone; he read me Poúshkin; I went
into Bótkin's study and wrote a letter to Tourgénef, and then I
sat down on the sofa and wept causeless but blissful tears. I am
positively happy all this time, intoxicated with the rapidity of my
moral progress.

Despite his headstrong outbursts and many vacillations, he seems to
have been always a welcome guest in almost any society he cared to
frequent, and none of his critics has spoken as harshly of him as he
speaks of himself when describing these

terrible twenty years of coarse dissipation, the service of
ambition, vanity, and above all of lust.... It is true that not
all my life was so terribly bad as this twenty-year period from
fourteen to thirty-four; and it is true that even that period of my
life was not the continuous evil that during a recent illness it
appeared to me to be. Even during those years, strivings towards
goodness awoke in me, though they did not last long, and were soon
choked by passions nothing could restrain.

In his _Confession_, written more than twenty years later, when
speaking of his religious beliefs at this time, Tolstoy tells us:

With all my soul I wished to be good; but I was young, passionate,
and alone, completely alone when I sought goodness. Every time I
tried to express my most sincere desire, namely, to be morally
good, I met with contempt and ridicule; but as soon as I yielded to
nasty passions I was praised and encouraged.

Ambition, love of power, covetousness, lasciviousness, pride, anger
and revenge--were all respected.... I cannot think of those years
without horror, loathing and heartache. I killed men in war, and
challenged men to duels in order to kill them; I lost at cards,
consumed the labour of the peasants, sentenced them to punishments,
lived loosely and deceived people. Lying, robbery, adultery of all
kinds, drunkenness, violence, murder--there was no crime I did not
commit, and people approved of my conduct, and my contemporaries
considered and consider me to be a comparatively moral man.

So I lived for ten years.

During that time I began to write from vanity, covetousness and
pride. In my writings I did the same as in my life. To get fame and
money, for the sake of which I wrote, it was necessary to hide the
good and to show the evil. And I did so. How often in my writings
did I contrive to hide under the guise of indifference or even
of banter, those strivings of mine towards goodness, which gave
meaning to my life! And I succeeded in this, and was praised.

At twenty-six years of age[33] I returned to Petersburg after the
war, and met the writers. They received me as one of themselves and
flattered me. And before I had time to look round I had adopted
the class views on life of the authors I had come among, and these
views completely obliterated all my former strivings to improve.
Those views furnished a theory which justified the dissoluteness
of my life. The view of life of these people, my comrades in
authorship, consisted in this: that life in general goes on
developing, and in this development we--men of thought--have
the chief part; and among men of thought it is we--artists and
poets--who have the chief influence. Our vocation is to teach
mankind. And lest the simple question should suggest itself: What
do I know, and what can I teach? it is explained in this theory
that this need not be known, and that the artist and poet teach
unconsciously. I was considered an admirable artist and poet, and
therefore it was very natural for me to adopt this theory. I,
artist and poet, wrote and taught, without myself knowing what. For
this I was paid money; I had excellent food, lodging, women and
society; and I had fame, which showed that what I taught was very
good.

[33] Tolstoy makes a slip here: he was over twenty-seven.

This faith in the meaning of poetry and in the development of life,
was a religion, and I was one of its priests. To be its priest was
very pleasant and profitable. And I lived a considerable time in
this faith without doubting its validity. But in the second, and
especially in the third year of this life, I began to doubt the
infallibility of this religion and to examine it. My first cause of
doubt was that I began to notice that the priests of this religion
were not all in accord among themselves. Some said: We are the best
and most useful teachers; we teach what is wanted, but the others
teach wrongly. Others said: No! we are the real teachers, and you
teach wrongly. And they disputed, quarrelled, abused one another,
cheated, and tricked one another. There were also many among them
who did not care who was right and who was wrong, but were simply
bent on attaining their covetous aims by means of this activity of
ours. All this obliged me to doubt the validity of our creed.

Moreover, having begun to doubt the truth of the authors' creed
itself, I also began to observe its priests more attentively, and
I became convinced that almost all the priests of that religion,
the writers, were immoral, and for the most part men of bad,
worthless character, much inferior to those whom I had met in my
former dissipated and military life; but they were self-confident
and self-assured as only those can be who are quite holy or who do
not know what holiness is. These people revolted me, and I became
revolting to myself, and I realised that that faith is a fraud.

But strange to say, though I understood this fraud and renounced
it, yet I did not renounce the rank these people gave me: the rank
of artist, poet, and teacher. I naïvely imagined that I was a poet
and artist and could teach everybody without myself knowing what I
was teaching, and I acted on that assumption.

From my intimacy with these men I acquired a new vice: abnormally
developed pride, and an insane assurance that it was my vocation to
teach men, without knowing what.

To remember that time, and my own state of mind and that of
those men (though there are thousands like them to-day) is sad
and terrible and ludicrous, and arouses exactly the feeling one
experiences in a lunatic asylum.

We were all then convinced that it was necessary for us to speak,
write, and print as quickly as possible and as much as possible,
and that it was all wanted for the good of humanity. And thousands
of us, contradicting and abusing one another, all printed and
wrote--teaching others. And without remarking that we knew nothing,
and that to the simplest of life's questions: What is good and what
is evil? we did not know how to reply, we all, not listening to one
another, talked at the same time, sometimes backing and praising
one another in order to be backed and praised in turn, sometimes
getting angry with one another--just as in a lunatic asylum.

Thousands of workmen laboured to the extreme limit of their
strength day and night setting the type and printing millions of
words which the post carried all over Russia, and we still went on
teaching and could nohow find time to teach enough, and were always
angry that sufficient attention was not paid to us.

It was terribly strange, but is now quite comprehensible. Our
real innermost consideration was, that we wanted to get as much
money and praise as possible. To gain this end we could do nothing
except write books and papers. So we did that. But in order to do
such useless work and feel assured that we were very important
people, we required a theory justifying our activity. And so among
us this theory was devised: 'All that exists develops. And it
all develops by means of Culture. And Culture is measured by the
circulation of books and newspapers. And we are paid money and are
respected because we write books and newspapers, and therefore we
are the most useful and the best of men.' This theory would have
been all very well if we had been unanimous, but as every thought
expressed by one of us was always met by a diametrically opposed
thought expressed by some one else, we ought to have been driven to
reflection. But we ignored this; people paid us money, and those on
our side praised us; so each one of us considered himself justified.

CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER V

Birukof.

Behrs.

A. Fet (Shenshin): _Moi Vospominaniya_, Moscow, 1890. These
_Recollections_ contain much authentic information about Tolstoy, as
well as a large number of his letters to Fet, which I have quoted in
subsequent chapters.

Bitovt.

Golovatcheva-Panaeva, _Rousskie Pisateli i Artisty_: Petersburg, 1890.

D. V. Grigorovitch, _Literatourniya Vospominaniya_: vol. xii. p. 326.

G. P. Danilevsky, _Istoritcheskii Vestnik_: March 1886.

P. A. Sergeyenko, _Tourgenef i Tolstoy_: _Niva_, No. 6, 1906.

Tolstoy's _Confession_.

See also, in Tolstoy's works. _The Decembrists_, chap. i.

CHAPTER VI

TRAVELS ABROAD

Paris. Relations with Tourgénef. _Albert._ An execution. Switzerland.
_Lucerne._ Yásnaya again. The _Iliad_ and the Gospels. Moscow:
gymnastics. _Three Deaths._ Musical Society. Aunty Tatiána.
'Ufanizing.' Emancipation. Bear-hunting. Moscow Society of Lovers of
Russian Literature. Attitude towards Art in 1859. Tourgénef. Farming.
Fet. Drouzhínin. Nicholas's illness. Goes abroad again. Germany.
Educational studies. Auerbach. Nicholas dies. Life at Hyères: children.
Italy. Marseilles. Paris. Paul de Kock. London. Herzen. Proudhon.
_Polikoúshka._ Auerbach again. Returns home.

1857

SINCE he took part in the Turkish war in 1854, Tolstoy has only
twice been out of Russia. The first time was at the period we have
now reached. On 10th February 1857 (new style) he left Moscow by
post-chaise for Warsaw, from whence a railway already ran westward. He
reached Paris on 21st February. There he met Tourgénef and Nekrásof,
with the former of whom he was still unable to get on smoothly.
Tourgénef writes: 'With Tolstoy I still cannot become quite intimate;
we see things too differently'; and in some moment of anger Tolstoy
even challenged his fellow-writer to a duel.[34] Nekrásof appears to
have patched matters up, and in March Tolstoy and Tourgénef went to
Dijon together, and spent some days there. During this trip Tolstoy
commenced his story _Albert_, founded on his experience with the
talented but drunken musician Rudolf, already mentioned in Chapter III.
After he had returned to Paris, he was present at an execution, and
made the following jotting in his Diary:

[34] See Golovátcheva-Panáeva's _Rousskie Pisateli i Artisty_.

I rose at seven o'clock and drove to see an execution. A stout,
white, healthy neck and breast: he kissed the Gospels, and
then--Death. How senseless.... I have not received this strong
impression for naught. I am not a man of politics. Morals and art I
know, love, and can (deal with). The guillotine long prevented my
sleeping and obliged me to reflect.

Tolstoy has a gift of telling the essential truth in few words, and
never did he sum himself up better than in the sentences, 'I am not a
man of politics. Morals and art I know, love, and can.' There is hardly
any possible room for doubt about the second sentence, and there is
certainly none about the first, as his whole life shows.

Many years later, he wrote of this event in his _Confession_:

When I saw the head separate from the body, and how they both
thumped into the box at the same moment, I understood, not with my
mind but with my whole being, that no theory of the reasonableness
of our present progress can justify this deed; and that though
everybody from the creation of the world, on whatever theory, had
held it to be necessary, I know it to be unnecessary and bad; and
therefore the arbiter of what is good and evil is not what people
say and do, and is not progress, but is my heart and I.

It was probably during this visit to Paris that Tolstoy witnessed
and admired Chevet's popularisation of music by an easy system of
instruction, of which he says:

I have seen hundreds of horny-handed working men sitting on benches
(under which lay the tool-bags they brought from their work)
singing at sight, and understanding and being interested in the
laws of music.

This experience he utilised later on in his school at Yásnaya.

In spring he went to Switzerland, and from Geneva he wrote to his Aunt
Tatiána:

[35]J'ai passé un mois et demi à Paris, et si agréablement que
tous les jours je me suis dit, que j'ai bien fait de venir à
l'étranger. Je suis très peu allé ni dans la société, ni dans le
monde littéraire, ni dans le monde des cafés et des bals publics,
mais malgré cela j'ai trouvé ici tant de choses nouvelles et
intéressantes pour moi, que tous les jours, en me couchant, je me
dis, quel dommage que la journée est passée si vite; je n'ai même
pas eu le temps de travailler, ce que je me proposais de faire.

Le pauvre Turgenef est très malade physiquement et encore plus
moralement. Sa malheureuse liaison avec Madame Viardot, et sa
fille, le retiennent ici dans un climat qui lui est pernicieux et
il fait pitié de voir. Je n'aurais jamais cru qu'il put aimer ainsi.

[35] I spent a month-and-a-half in Paris, and so agreeably
that every day I said to myself that I had done well to come
abroad. I went very little either into society or into the
literary world, or into the world of _cafés_ and public balls;
but in spite of that I found so many things that were new and
interesting to me, that every day on going to bed I said to
myself, 'What a pity the day has passed so quickly.' I have
not even had time to work, which I intended to do.

Poor Tourgénef is very ill physically, and still more so
morally. His daughter, and especially his unfortunate
_liaison_ with Madame Viardot, keep him here in a climate
which is bad for him, and it makes one sad to see him. I
should never have believed that he could be so in love.

Tolstoy's friends Drouzhínin and V. P. Bótkin visited Geneva at this
time, and they all three went on a walking tour into Piedmont together.
After that he settled at Clarens on the lake of Geneva, from whence he
again wrote to Aunt Tatiána:

_18 Mai 1857._

[36]Je viens de recevoir votre lettre, chère tante, qui m'a
trouvée comme vous devez le savoir d'après ma dernière lettre, aux
environs de Genève à Clarens dans ce même village, où a demeuré
la Julia de Rousseau.... Je n'essaierai pas de vous depeindre la
beauté de ce pays, surtout à présent, quand tout est en feuilles
et en fleurs; je vous dirai seulement, qu'à la lettre il est
impossible de se détacher de ce lac et de ces rivages et que je
passe la plus grande partie de mon temps à regarder et à admirer en
me promenant, ou bien en me mettant seulement à la fenêtre de ma
chambre.

Je ne cesse de me féliciter de l'idée que j'ai eu de quitter Paris
et de venir passer le printemps ici, quoique cela m'ait mérité de
votre part le reproche d'inconstance. Vraiment, je suis heureux,
and begin to feel the advantage of having been born with a caul.

Il y a ici société charmante de russes: les Poúshkins, the
Karamzíns and the Mestchérskys; and they have all, Heaven knows
why, taken to liking me; I feel it, and the month I have spent here
I have been so nice and good and cosy, that I am sad at the thought
of leaving.

[36] I have just received your letter, dear Aunt, which found
me, as you must know from my last letter, at Clarens, in the
neighbourhood of Geneva, in the same village where Rousseau's
Julie lived.... I will not try to depict the beauty of this
country, especially at present when all is in leaf and flower;
I will only say that it is literally impossible to detach
oneself from this lake and from these banks, and that I spend
most of my time gazing and admiring while I walk, or simply
sit at the window of my room.

I do not cease congratulating myself on the thought which made
me leave Paris and come to pass the spring here, though I
have thereby deserved your reproach for inconstancy. Truly I
am happy, and begin to feel the advantage of having been born
with a caul.

There is some charming Russian society here: les Poúshkins,
the Karamzíns and the Mestchérskys; and they have all, Heaven
knows why, taken to liking me; I feel it, and the month I have
spent here I have been so nice and good and cosy, that I am
sad at the thought of leaving.

From Clarens he took steamer to Montreux, and from there went on foot,
taking with him as companion a ten-year-old lad named Sásha, the son of
some Russians whose acquaintance he had made at Clarens. They crossed
the Pass of Jamon and, after changing their minds as to the direction
they would take, finally made for Château d'Oex, from whence they
proceeded by _diligence_ to Thun. From that town Tolstoy went on to
Lucerne, which he reached in July 1857.

Again and again in his Diary and letters Tolstoy's vivid delight in
Nature shows itself in descriptions of the scenery: 'It is wonderful,'
he writes, 'but I was at Clarens for two months, and every time--when
in the morning, and especially after dinner towards evening--I opened
the shutters on which the shadows were already falling, and glanced at
the lake and the distant blue of the mountains reflected in it, the
beauty blinded me and acted on me with the force of a surprise.' But
together with this keen appreciation, comes now and then a sort of
protest that this grandiose Swiss mountain scenery is, after all, not
the Nature that most appeals to him--a yearning for the vast steppes
and forests of his native land. After ascending the Pass of Jamon and
describing the magnificent scenery and the pleasure of the climb, he
adds:

It was something beautiful, even unusually beautiful, but I do not
love what are called magnificent and remarkable views: they are, as
it were, cold.... I love Nature when, though it surrounds me on all
sides and extends unendingly, I am part of it. I love it, when on
all sides I am surrounded by hot air, and that same air rolls away
to unending distance, and those same sappy leaves of grass which I
crush as I sit on them, form the green of the boundless meadows;
when those same leaves which, fluttering in the wind, run their
shadows across my face, form also the dark blue of the distant
forests; while the same air one breathes makes the deep, light blue
of the immeasurable sky; when you do not exult and rejoice alone in
Nature, but when around you myriads of insects buzz and whirl, and
beetles, clinging together, creep about, and all around you birds
overflow with song.

But this is bare, cold, desolate, grey plateau; and somewhere afar
there is something beautiful veiled with mist. But that something
is so distant that I do not feel the chief delight of Nature--do
not feel myself a part of that endless and beautiful distance: it
is foreign to me.

From Lucerne he writes:

[37]Je suis de nouveau tout seul, et je vous avouerai que très
souvent la solitude m'est pénible, car les connaissances qu'on fait
dans les hôtels et en chemin de fer ne sont pas des ressources;
mais cet isolement a du moins le bon côté de me pousser au travail.
Je travaille un peu, mais cela va mal, comme d'ordinaire en été.

[37] I am again all alone, and I confess that very often the
solitude is painful to me, for the acquaintanceships one makes
in hotels and on the railways are not a resource. But there is
at least this much good in this loneliness--it prompts me to
work. I am working a little, but it goes badly, as usual in
summer.

It was here that the incident occurred described in _Lucerne_, a sketch
published in the September number of the _Contemporary_ that same year,
and one which in its fierce castigation of the rich is a precursor of
much that he wrote thirty years later. Especially the conduct of the
wealthy English tourists roused his ire. The particular incident the
story deals with is this:

On 7 July 1857, in Lucerne, in front of the Schweizerhof Hotel,
where the richest people stay, an itinerant mendicant-singer sang
songs and played his guitar for half-an-hour. About a hundred
people listened to him. Three times the singer asked them to give
him something, but not one of them did so, and many laughed at him.

This is not fiction, but a positive fact, which any one who cares
may verify by asking the permanent inhabitants of the Schweizerhof,
and by looking up the newspaper lists of foreign visitors at the
Schweizerhof on 7 July.

It is an event which the historians of our times should inscribe in
indelible letters of fire.

In the story, Prince Nehlúdof, indignant at such treatment of a man who
was a real artist and whose songs all had enjoyed, brought the singer
into the hotel and treated him to a bottle of wine. He goes on to ask
himself:

Which is more a man, and which more a barbarian: the lord who, on
seeing the singer's worn-out clothes, angrily left the table, and
for his service did not give him a millionth part of his property,
and who now sits satiated, in a well-lit, comfortable room, calmly
discussing the affairs of China and approving the murders that are
being committed there--or the little singer who with a franc in
his pocket, risking imprisonment, has tramped over hill and dale
for twenty years, harming no one but cheering many by his songs,
and whom they insulted to-day and all but turned out, leaving
him--weary, hungry and humiliated--to make his bed somewhere on
rotting straw?

After passing a few weeks at Lucerne, Tolstoy returned to Russia _viâ_
Stuttgart, Berlin, and Stettin, from which port he took steamer to
Petersburg, and after staying a week there to see Nekrásof and meet his
colleagues of the _Contemporary_, he went through Moscow to Yásnaya,
where he arrived in August. In his Diary we find this note:

This is how, on my journey, I planned my future occupations: first,
literary work; next, family duties; then, estate management.
But the estate I must leave as far as possible to the steward,
softening him and making improvements, and spending only Rs. 2000
a year [then equal to about £270], and using the rest for the
serfs. Above all, my stumbling-block is Liberal vanity. To live for
oneself and do a good deed a day, is sufficient.

Further on he says: 'Self-sacrifice does not lie in saying "Take what
you like from me," but in labouring and thinking, and contriving how to
give oneself.'

At this time he read (in translation) the _Iliad_ and the Gospels,
which both impressed him greatly. 'I have finished reading the
indescribably beautiful end of the _Iliad_,' he notes, and expresses
his regret that there is no connection between those two wonderful
works.

In October he first accompanied his brother Nicholas and his sister
Mary to Moscow, and then spent a few days in Petersburg, where he found
that he had been forgotten by a world absorbed in the great measures of
public reform then in course of preparation. Here is a sentence from
his Diary:

Petersburg at first mortified me and then put me right. My
reputation has fallen and hardly gives a squeak, and I felt much
hurt; but now I am tranquil. I know I have something to say and
strength to say it strongly; and the public may then say what it
will. But I must work conscientiously, exerting all my powers; then
... let them spit upon the altar.

By the end of October (old style) he was back in Moscow, established in
furnished apartments in the Pyátnitsky Street, with his sister and his
brother Nicholas. His friend Fet was also in Moscow at this time, and
in his _Recollections_ makes frequent mention of the Tolstoys. He tells
us that the Countess Mary (who was an exceedingly accomplished pianist)
used to come to his house for music in the evenings, accompanied
sometimes by both her brothers and sometimes by Nicholas alone, who
would say:

'Lyóvotchka has again donned his evening clothes and white necktie, and
gone to a ball.'

Tolstoy's elegance in dress was very noticeable at this period. We read
of the grey beaver collar of his overcoat, of a fashionable cane he
carried, and of the glossy hat he wore placed on one side, as well as
of his curly, dark-brown hair.

Gymnastics were fashionable in Moscow in those days, and any one
wishing to find Tolstoy between one and two o'clock in the afternoon,
could do so at the Gymnasium on the Great Dmítrovka Street, where,
dressed in gymnastic attire, he might be seen intent on springing over
the vaulting-horse without upsetting a cone placed on its back. He
always was expert at physical exercises: a first-rate horseman, quick
at all games and sports, a swimmer, and an excellent skater.

Among the visitors Fet met at Tolstoy's house we note the name of
Saltykóf, who under the pseudonym of Stchedrín is known as one of the
keenest and most powerful of Russia's satirists, and who during the
last seven years of the reign of Nicholas I had lived in banishment
in the far-off town of Vyátka. Another guest was B. N. Tchitchérin,
philosopher and jurist, and author of works on _Science and Religion_,
_Property and the State_, and other subjects Tolstoy dealt with three
or four decades later. Katkóf, editor of the _Moscow Gazette_ and
monthly _Russian Messenger_, was another acquaintance; and in his
magazine some of Tolstoy's chief works appeared.

1858

In January 1858 Tolstoy's aunt, who had been a friend of his boyhood,
the Countess Alexandra A. Tolstoy, Maid of Honour to the Grand Duchess
Márya Nikoláyevna, came to Moscow. Through this aunt (who lived to
a great age, and died only a few years ago) Tolstoy used to receive
information of what went on at Court, and was sometimes able indirectly
to exert influence 'in the highest circles.' When she returned to
Petersburg Tolstoy accompanied her as far as the town of Klin, on
the Nicholas railway, and took the opportunity to visit the Princess
Volkónsky (a cousin of his mother's), who had a small estate in those
parts. He remained some weeks with this affectionate old lady, who
told him much about his mother and her family, and he greatly enjoyed
his quiet stay with her. At her house he wrote _Three Deaths_, which
appeared the following January in _The Reading Library_. It is an
admirably written study of the deaths of a rich lady, a poor post-horse
driver, and a tree.

In February he returned to Yásnaya Polyána; then again visited Moscow,
and in March spent a fortnight in Petersburg. His love of music
reasserted itself strongly at this period; and in conjunction with V.
P. Bótkin, Perfílief, Mortier (his late rival in love) and others,
he founded the Moscow Musical Society, which ultimately resulted in
the formation of the Moscow Conservatoire of which Nicholas Rubinstein
became Director.

One of Tolstoy's most intimate acquaintances at this period was S. T.
Aksákof, author of stories and memoirs, lover of hunting and fishing,
and father of two famous sons, both prominent Slavophil leaders.

The invigorating influence of spring shows itself in a letter Tolstoy
wrote about this time to his aunt, the Countess A. A. Tolstoy (whom he
calls 'Grandma'):

GRANDMA!--Spring!

For good people it is excellent to live in the world; and even
for such men as me, it is sometimes good. In Nature, in the
air, in everything, is hope, future--an attractive future....
Sometimes one deceives oneself and thinks that happiness and a
future await not only Nature but oneself also, and then one feels
happy. I am now in such a state, and with characteristic egotism
hasten to write to you of things that interest only me. When I
review things sanely, I know very well that I am an old, frozen
little potato, and one already boiled with sauce; but spring so
acts on me that I sometimes catch myself in the full blaze of
imagining myself a plant which with others has only now blossomed,
and which will peacefully, simply and joyfully grow in God's
world. The result is that at this time of year, such an internal
clearing-out goes on in me, such a cleansing and ordering, as
only those who have experienced this feeling can imagine. All the
old--away! All worldly conventions, all idleness, all egotism,
all vices, all confused indefinite attachments, all regrets, even
repentances--away with you all!... Make room for the wonderful
little flowers whose buds are swelling and growing with the
spring!...

After much more he concludes:

Farewell, dear Grandma, do not be angry with me for this nonsense,
but answer with a word of wisdom, imbued with kindness, Christian
kindness! I have long wished to say that for you it is pleasanter
to write French, and I understand feminine thoughts better in
French.

In April he was again at Yásnaya where, in spite of repeated visits to
Moscow, he spent most of the summer. There was at this time no railway
from Moscow southward to Toúla; and the serfs' belief concerning the
new telegraph posts which stood by the side of the highroad, was that
when the wire had been completed, 'Freedom' would be sent along it
from Petersburg. Even Tatiána Alexándrovna Érgolsky did not understand
these new-fangled things, and, when driving along the road one day,
asked Tolstoy to explain how letters were written by telegraph. He told
her as simply as he could how the telegraphic apparatus works, and
received the reply: '_Oui, oui, je comprends, mon cher!_' How much she
had really understood was however shown half an hour later when, after
keeping her eye on the wire all that time, she inquired: 'But how is
it, _mon cher Léon_, that during a whole half-hour I have not seen a
single letter go along the telegraph?'

Fet and his wife used to stay a day or two at Yásnaya when journeying
to and from Moscow, and Fet's account of Aunt Tatiána accords with
Tolstoy's own affectionate recollections of that lady. Fet says that
he and his wife 'made the acquaintance of Tolstoy's charming old aunt,
Tatiána Alexándrovna Érgolsky, who received us with that old-world
affability which puts one at once at one's ease on entering a new
house. She did not devote herself to memories of times long past, but
lived fully in the present.'

Speaking of them all by their pet names, she mentioned that
'Seryózhenka Tolstoy had gone to his home at Pirogóvo, but Nikólenka
would probably stay a bit longer in Moscow with Máshenka, but
Lyóvotchka's friend Dyákof had recently visited them,' and so on.

Many years later, Tolstoy jotted down his memories of the long autumn
and winter evenings spent with Aunt Tatiána to which, he says, he
owed his best thoughts and impulses. He would sit in his arm-chair
reading, thinking, and occasionally listening to her kindly and gentle
conversation with two of the servants: Natálya Petróvna (an old woman
who lived there not because she was of much use, but because she had
nowhere else to live) and a maid Doúnetchka.

The chief charm of that life lay in the absence of any material
care; in good relations with those nearest--relations no one could
spoil; and in the leisureliness and the unconsciousness of flying
time....

When, after living badly at a neighbour's in Toúla, with cards,
gipsies, hunting, and stupid vanity, I used to return home and
come to her, by old habit we would kiss each other's hand, I her
dear energetic hand, and she my dirty, vicious hand; and also by
old habit, we greeted one another in French, and I would joke with
Natálya Petróvna, and would sit down in the comfortable arm-chair.
She knew well all I had been doing and regretted it, but never
reproached me, retaining always the same gentleness and love....
I was once telling her how some one's wife had gone away with
another man, and I said the husband ought to be glad to be rid
of her. And suddenly my aunt lifted her eyebrows and said, as a
thing long decided in her mind, that that would be wrong of the
husband, because it would completely ruin the wife. After that she
told me of a drama that had occurred among the serfs. Then she
re-read a letter from my sister Máshenka, whom she loved if not
more, at least as much as she loved me, and she spoke of Másha's
husband (her own nephew) not to condemn him, but with grief for
the sorrow he inflicted on Máshenka.... The chief characteristic
of her life, which involuntarily infected me, was her wonderful,
general kindliness to every one without exception. I try to recall
a single instance of her being angry, or speaking a sharp word,
or condemning any one, and I cannot recall one such instance in
the course of thirty years. She spoke well of our real aunt, who
had bitterly hurt her by taking us away from her.... As to her
kindly treatment of the servants--that goes without saying. She
had grown up in the idea that there are masters and servants, but
she utilised her authority only to serve them.... She never blamed
me directly for my evil life, though she suffered on my account.
My brother Sergéy, too, whom also she loved warmly, she did not
reproach even when he took a gipsy girl to live with him. The only
shade of disquietude she showed on our account was that, when he
was very late in returning home, she would say: 'What has become of
our Sergius?' Only _Sergius_ instead of _Seryósha_.... She never
told us in words how to live, never preached to us. All her moral
work was done internally; externally one only saw her deeds--and
not even deeds: there were no deeds; but all her life, peaceful,
sweet, submissive and loving, not troubled or self-satisfied, but
a life of quiet, unobtrusive love.... Her affectionateness and
tranquillity made her society noticeably attractive and gave a
special charm to intimacy with her. I know of no case where she
offended any one, and of no one who did not love her. She never
spoke of herself, never of religion or of what we ought to believe,
or of how she believed or prayed. She believed everything, except
that she rejected one dogma--that of eternal torment. '_Dieu, qui
est la bonté même, ne peut pas vouloir nos souffrances._'[38]...
She often called me by my father's name (Nicholas) and this pleased
me very much, because it showed that her conceptions of me and of
my father mingled in her love of us both.

[38] God, who is goodness itself, cannot desire our pain.

It was not her love for me alone that was joyous. What was joyous
was the atmosphere of love to all who were present or absent, alive
or dead, and even to animals....

After telling of her goodness and her affection Tolstoy says in his
Memoirs that, though he appreciated his happiness with her, he did not
at the time nearly realise its full value; and he adds:

She was fond of keeping sweets: figs, gingerbreads and dates, in
various jars in her room. I cannot forget, nor remember without
a cruel pang of remorse, that I repeatedly refused her money she
wanted for such things and how she, sighing sadly, remained
silent. It is true I was in need of money, but I cannot now
remember without horror that I refused her.

Again in another place, after mentioning her self-devotion, he says:

And it was to her, to her, that I refused the small pleasure of
having figs and chocolate (and not so much for herself as to
treat me) and of being able to give a trifle to those who begged
of her.... Dear, dear Aunty, forgive me! _Si jeunesse savait, si
vieillesse pouvait_ [if youth but knew, if age but could], I mean
not in the sense of the good lost for oneself in youth, but in the
sense of the good not given and the evil done to those who are no
more.

Of Leo's life at Yásnaya at this time, his brother Nicholas gave Fet
the following humorous account:

Lyóvotchka is zealously trying to become acquainted with peasant
life and with farming, of both of which, like the rest of us, he
has till now had but a superficial knowledge. But I am not sure
what sort of acquaintance will result from his efforts: Lyóvotchka
wants to get hold of everything at once, without omitting
anything--even his gymnastics. So he has rigged up a bar under his
study window. And of course, apart from prejudice, with which he
wages such fierce war, he is right: gymnastics do not interfere
with farming; but the steward sees things differently and says,
'One comes to the master for orders, and he hangs head downward
in a red jacket, holding on by one knee to a perch, and swings
himself. His hair hangs down and blows about, the blood comes to
his face, and one does not know whether to listen to his orders or
to be astonished at him!'

Lyóvotchka is delighted with the way the serf Ufán sticks out his
arms when ploughing; and so Ufán has become for him an emblem of
village strength, like the legendary Michael; and he himself,
sticking his elbows out wide, takes to the plough and 'Ufanizes.'

In May 1858 Tolstoy wrote to Fet:

DEAREST LITTLE UNCLE [as we might say, Dear old Boy]!--I write
two words merely to say that I embrace you with all my might,
have received your letter, kiss the hand of Márya Petróvna [Fet's
wife] and make obeisance to you all. Aunty thanks you very much
for your message and bows to you, so also does my sister. What a
wonderful spring it has been and is! I, in solitude, have tasted it
admirably. Brother Nicholas must be at Nikólsk. Catch him and do
not let him go. I want to come to see you this month. Tourgénef has
gone to Winzig till August to cure his bladder.

Devil take him. I am tired of loving him. He deserts us, and won't
cure his bladder.

Now good-bye, dear friend. If you have no poem ready for me by the
time I come, I shall proceed to squeeze one out of you.--Your

COUNT L. TOLSTOY.

Another letter to Fet runs:

Ay, old fellow, ahoy! First, you give no sign, though it is
spring and you know we are all thinking of you, and that I, like
Prometheus, am bound to a rock, yet thirst for sight or sound
of you. You should either come, or at least send us a proper
invitation. Secondly, you have retained my brother, and a very good
brother, surnamed 'Firdusi' [an allusion to Nicholas's Oriental
wisdom]. The chief culprit in this matter, I suspect, is Márya
Petróvna, to whom I humbly bow, requesting her to return us our own
brother. Jesting apart, he bids me let you know that he will be
here next week. Drouzhínin will also come, so mind you come too,
old fellow.

The first record of any participation by Tolstoy in political affairs
relates to the preparations for the Emancipation of the serfs.
Immediately after the conclusion of the Crimean war Alexander II,
addressing the Marshals of the Nobility, in Moscow, had said: 'The
existing manner of possessing serfs cannot remain unchanged. It is
better to abolish serfdom from above than to await the time when it
will begin to abolish itself from below. I request you, gentlemen, to
consider how this can be done, and to submit my words to the Nobility
for their consideration.' Some time passed without any definite
response to this appeal, and meanwhile the Polish nobility of the
Lithuanian Provinces, dissatisfied with certain regulations enacted
in the previous reign, incautiously asked to have them revised. The
Government grasped the opportunity, and treating this as the expression
of a wish for Emancipation, replied that 'the abolition of serfdom must
be effected not suddenly, but gradually,' and authorised the Nobility
to form Committees for the preparation of definite projects to that
end. Four days later the Minister of the Interior, acting on secret
orders from the Emperor, sent a circular to all the Governors and
Marshals of the Nobility in Russia proper, stating that the Lithuanian
nobles 'had recognised the necessity of liberating the peasants,'
and that 'this noble intention' had afforded peculiar satisfaction
to His Majesty, and explaining the principles to be observed in
case the nobles of other Provinces should express a similar desire.
A few weeks later the Emperor publicly expressed a hope that, with
the co-operation of his nobles, the work of Emancipation would be
successfully accomplished. It therefore became quite evident that,
whether the nobles liked it or not, Emancipation was at hand; since
the Emperor had, at last, definitely ranged himself on the side of
the Emancipationists. By accepting the invitation to co-operate in
the preparation of the scheme, there appeared to be a chance that
the nobles might so shape the measure that their interests would not
suffer; and consequently, during 1858, a Committee was chosen in
almost every Province of Central Russia. Among the rest a Meeting of
the Nobility of the Government of Toúla was fixed for the first of
September, to elect Deputies to the Committee for the Improvement of
the Condition of the Peasants. Tolstoy attended this meeting, and
together with one hundred and four fellow-nobles signed a document
stating that 'with the object of improving the condition of the
peasants, preserving the property of the landowners, and securing
the safety of both the one and the other, we consider it necessary
that the peasants should be liberated not otherwise than with an
allotment of a certain amount of land in hereditary possession, and
that the landowners should receive for the land they give up, full,
equitable, pecuniary recompense by means of such financial measures
as will not entail any obligatory relations between peasants and
proprietors,--relations which the Nobility consider it necessary to
terminate.'

There is no indication that Tolstoy took any prominent part in
this meeting; and the resolution just quoted, while approving of
Emancipation, seems to attach at least equal importance to securing
full compensation for the landowners. Explain it how one may, the fact
remains that while the _Contemporary_, and all that was progressive
in Russian literature, was preoccupied with the effort to help to
shape the reforms so that they might really attain the ends aimed at,
Tolstoy almost retired from the scene, and hardly appeared aware of
the movement going on around him. The battle for freedom was fought
in the press by Tchernyshévsky, Kosheléf, and N. Samárin, by Herzen,
and by many others, including Nekrásof and Saltykóf; and Tolstoy's
indifference helps to explain the fact, already alluded to, that
during these years the critics ignored him, though his artistic
power continued to increase. His friend Fet also took no part in the
Emancipation movement; being in fact rather opposed to it.

On 24th October 1858 Tolstoy writes to Fet:

To write stories is stupid and shameful. To write verses--well,
write them; but to love a good man is very pleasant. Yet perhaps,
against my will and intention, not I, but an unripe story inside
me, compels me to love you. It sometimes seems like that. Do what
one will amid the manure and the mange, one somehow begins to
compose. Thank heaven, I have not yet allowed myself to write, and
will not do so.... Thank you exceedingly for your trouble about
a veterinary. I have found one in Toúla and have begun the cure,
but I do not know what will come of it.--And, may the devil take
them all,--Drouzhínin is appealing to me as a matter of friendship
to write a story. I really want to. I will spin such a yarn that
there will be no head or tail to it.... But joking apart, how is
your Hafiz getting on? [Fet was translating some poems by Hafiz.]
Turn it which way you will, the height of wisdom and fortitude for
me is to enjoy the poetry of others, and not to let my own in ugly
garb loose among men, but to consume it myself with my daily bread.
But at times one suddenly wishes to be a great man, and it is so
annoying that this has not yet come about! One even hurries to get
up quicker or to finish dinner in order to begin.... Send me a
poem, the healthiest of those you have translated from Hafiz, _me
faire venir l'eau à la bouche_,[39] and I will send you a sample of
wheat. Hunting has bored me to death. The weather is excellent, but
I do not hunt alone.

[39] To make my mouth water.

In company, Tolstoy was however a keen sportsman, and in December 1858
nearly lost his life while out bear-shooting. He has told the story,
with some embellishments, in one of the tales for children contained in
the volume. _Twenty-three Tales_.[40] The real facts were these:

[40] Included in the _World's Classics_.

Tolstoy and his brother Nicholas had made the acquaintance of S.
S. Gromeka, a well-known publicist who shared their fondness for
hunting--a sport very different in Russia from what it is in England,
as readers of Tolstoy's descriptions well know.

Gromeka having heard that a she-bear with two young ones had her
lair in the forest near the railway at Volotchók, half-way between
Petersburg and Moscow, arranged matters with the peasants of that
locality, and invited the Tolstoys and other guests to a hunt. The
invitation was accepted, and on 21st December Leo Tolstoy shot a bear.
On 22nd the members of the party, each armed with two guns, were placed
at the ends of cuttings running through the forest in which the big
she-bear had been surrounded. These paths or cuttings divided the wood
like the lines of a chess-board. Peasants employed as beaters were
stationed to prevent the animal escaping except by approaching one or
other of the sportsmen. Ostáshkof, a famous professional huntsman,
supervised the proceedings. The guests were advised to stamp down the
snow around them, so as to give themselves room to move freely; but
Tolstoy (with his usual objection to routine methods) argued that as
they were out to shoot the bear and not to box with her, it was useless
to tread down the snow. He therefore stood with his two-barrelled gun
in his hand, surrounded by snow almost up to his waist.

Tile bear, roused by the shouts of Ostáshkof, rushed down a cutting
directly towards one of the other sportsmen; but, perceiving him,
she suddenly swerved from her course and took a cross path which
brought her out on to the cutting leading straight to Tolstoy. He, not
expecting her visit, did not fire until the beast was within six yards,
and his first shot missed. The bear was only two yards from him when
his second shot hit her in the mouth. It failed to stop her rush, and
she knocked Tolstoy over on to his back in the snow. Carried past him
at first by her own impetus, the bear soon returned; and the next thing
Tolstoy knew was that he was being weighed down by something heavy and
warm, and he then felt that his face was being drawn into the beast's
mouth. He could only offer a passive resistance, by drawing down his
head as much as possible between his shoulders and trying to present
his cap instead of his face to the bear's teeth. This state of things
lasted only a few seconds, yet long enough for the bear, after one or
two misses, to get her teeth into the flesh above and below his left
eye. At this moment Ostáshkof, armed with a small switch, came running
up, shouting: 'Where are you getting to? Where are you getting to?'
At which the beast promptly took fright, and rushed off. Next day she
was followed up and killed. Owing to the amount of blood and torn
flesh, Tolstoy's wound at first appeared serious; but when it had been
washed with snow, and he had been taken to the nearest town and had had
it sewn up, it turned out to be superficial. He long retained a very
noticeable scar however as a memento of the encounter; and the bear's
skin may still be seen at Yásnaya.

_Family Happiness_, written partly in 1858, was published early in
1859. It grew out of the unsuccessful love affair mentioned in the last
chapter, and is Tolstoy's imaginative description of what might have
been.

1859

The first months of 1859 he spent in Moscow, and here on the occasion
of joining the Moscow Society of Lovers of Russian Literature, on
4th February, he for the first time made a public speech: a task for
which, he once told me, he had no aptitude, and which he much disliked.
He wrote it out, and it was to have appeared in the Proceedings of
the Society, but for some reason never got printed. Its subject was
'The Supremacy of the Artistic Element in Literature,' and in it he
maintained a position almost the opposite of the one he advocated so
ardently and with such full conviction in _What is Art?_ forty years
later.

He was answered by the Slavophil A. S. Homyakóf, who presided at the
meeting, and who in the course of his remarks said:

Allow me to remark that the justice of the opinion you have so
skilfully stated is far from destroying the legitimacy of the
temporary and exceptional side of literature. That which is always
right, that which is always beautiful, that which is as unalterable
as the most fundamental laws of the soul, undoubtedly holds, and
should hold, the first place in the thoughts, the impulses, and
therefore in the speech of man. It, and it alone, will be handed on
by generation to generation and by nation to nation as a precious
inheritance. But on the other hand, in the nature of man and of
society there is continual need for self-indictment. There are
moments, moments important in history, when that self-indictment
acquires a special and indefeasible right, and manifests itself in
literature with great definiteness and keenness....

The rights of literature, the servant of eternal beauty, do not
destroy the rights of the literature of indictment, which always
accompanies social deficiencies and sometimes appears as the healer
of social evils....

Of course, Art is perfectly free: it finds its justification and
its aim in itself. But the freedom of Art in the abstract, has
nothing to do with the inner life of the artist. An artist is not
a theory--a sphere of thought and mental activity--but a man, and
always a man of his own times, usually its best representative,
completely imbued with its spirit and its defined or nascent
aspirations. By the very impressionability of his nature, without
which he could not be an artist, he, even more than others,
receives all the painful as well as joyous sensations of the
society to which he is born....

So the writer, a servant of pure art, sometimes becomes an accuser
even unconsciously, and despite his own will. I allow myself,
Count, to cite you as an example. You consciously follow a definite
road faithfully and undeviatingly; but are you really completely
alien to the literature of indictment? Were it but in the picture
of a consumptive post-boy, dying on top of a stove amid a crowd of
comrades apparently indifferent to his sufferings [this refers to
_Three Deaths_] have you not indicated some social disease, some
evil? When describing that death, is it possible that you did not
suffer from the horny indifference of good but unawakened human
souls? Yes, you too have been and will be an involuntary indicter!

This question of the true position of literary art and its relation
to the rest of life, was one which occupied Tolstoy for many years,
and on which before the century closed he expressed himself in a book
which must be reckoned with by all who may hereafter deal with the
subject. The attitude he maintained at the time he entered the Society
of Lovers of Russian Literature, was in striking contrast with that
of the Slavophils, such as Homyakóf, and of the great majority of the
leading Russian writers of that day, who were fired with the hope of
Emancipation, just as in America at the same time, Lowell, Emerson,
Whittier, Thoreau, Walt Whitman, Longfellow, Channing, Lloyd Garrison,
and others, were stirred by the Anti-Slavery movement.

In April Tolstoy went to Petersburg and spent ten days very pleasantly
with his aunt the Countess A. A. Tolstoy. By the end of the month he
was back at Yásnaya. In July, Tourgénef, from France, wrote Fet a long
letter in blank verse, a few lines of which indicate the relation
between Leo Tolstoy and himself at this time:

'Kiss Nicholas Tolstoy on my behalf
And to his brother Leo make my bow,
--As to his sister also.
He rightly says in his postscriptum:
"There is no cause" for me to write to him,
Indeed, I know he bears me little love
And I love him as little. Too differently
Are mixed those elements of which we're formed.'

1859-1860

During this winter Tolstoy devoted much time to an attempt to organise
schools on and near his estate. The education of its peasant children
was one of the things Russia most needed, and most terribly neglected.
Tolstoy recognised this, and set himself strenuously and eagerly to
show how the great need could be met. The work he did at this time was,
however, only preliminary to what he undertook after his next visit to
Western Europe, and he was far from being mentally at peace. At the
commencement of the New Year he noted in his Diary: 'The burden of
the estate, the burden of bachelor life, and all sorts of doubts and
pessimistic feelings agitate my mind.'

One mention of the serfs (who were now nearing freedom) occurs in a
letter Tolstoy wrote to Fet on 23rd February 1860, in reply to a note
in which the latter had expressed a wish to buy an estate, settle down
in the country, and devote himself to farming. Tolstoy replies that
there is an estate for sale adjoining his own, containing:

Four hundred desyatíns of good land with, unfortunately, seventy
souls of bad serfs. But that does not matter; they will gladly pay
quit-rent [in lieu of personal service] as mine do, at the rate of
Rs. 30 a _tyaglo_ [man and wife with an allotment of land] or Rs.
660 for the twenty-two _tyaglos_, and you will get not less than
that, if not more, at the Emancipation, and will have sufficient
unexhausted land and meadow left to yield about Rs. 2000 a year,
or over Rs. 2600 in all. The price asked for the estate is Rs.
24,000, besides a mortgage of about Rs. 5000.... At any rate it
would be a good bargain to buy it for Rs. 20,000.... The seller is
an old man who is ruined, and wants to sell it quickly in order to
get rid of his son-in-law. He has twice sent to offer it me. The
above calculation shows what the estate should yield in a couple of
years' time if about Rs. 5000 be spent on improving it; but even
in its present condition one can answer for a return of Rs. 1500,
which is more than 7 per cent. on the cost.

In Russia to buy serfs was not then considered more discreditable than
it is in England to-day to buy shares in a china or match factory; and
in the same letter Tolstoy goes on to discuss literature:

I have read Tourgénef's _On the Eve_. This is my opinion: to write
novels is undesirable, especially for people who are depressed
and do not well know what they want from life. However, _On the
Eve_ is much better than _A Nest of Gentlefolk_, and there are in
it excellent negative characters: the artist and the father. The
rest are not types; even their conception, their position, is not
typical, or they are quite insignificant. That however is always
Tourgénef's mistake. The girl is hopelessly bad: 'Ah, how I love
thee ... her eyelashes were long.' In general it always surprises
me that Tourgénef, with his mental powers and poetic sensibility,
should even in his methods not be able to refrain from banality.
This banality shows itself most of all in his negative methods,
which recall Gógol. There is no humanity or sympathy for the
characters, but the author exhibits monsters whom he scolds and
does not pity. This jars painfully with the tone and intention of
Liberalism in everything else. It was all very well in the days of
Tsar Goroh [a character in a fairy story] or of Gógol (though if
one does not pity even the most insignificant of one's characters,
one should scold them so that the heavens grow hot, or laugh at
them so that one's sides split, and not as our splenetic and
dyspeptic Tourgénef does). On the whole, however, there is now no
one else who could write such a novel, though it will not meet with
success.

Ostróvsky's _The Storm_ is, in my opinion, a wretched work, but
will be successful. Not Ostróvsky and Tourgénef are to blame, but
the times.... Something else is now needed: not that we should
learn and criticise, but that we should teach Jack and Jill at
least a little of what we know.

This letter to Fet, who was in Moscow, ends with requests to procure
some books, including a veterinary handbook, a veterinary instrument,
and a lancet for use on human beings; to see about procuring six
ploughs of a special make, and to find out the price of clover and
timothy-grass, of which Tolstoy had some to sell.

1860

At this time Tolstoy worked at his story _The Cossacks_, the plan of
which he had sketched out in 1852, but which he did not complete till
1862.

One comes across notes in his Diary which indicate his state of mind
at this period with regard to religion. After reading a book on
Materialism he notes:

I thought of prayer. To what can one pray? What is God, imagined
so clearly that one can ask him to communicate with us? If I
imagine such an one, he loses all grandeur for me. A God whom one
can beseech and whom one can serve--is the expression of mental
weakness. He is God, because I cannot grasp his being. Indeed, he
is not a Being, but a Law and a Force.

He was a great puzzle to his friends and acquaintances--always ready to
take his own line strenuously, yet sometimes far from sure what that
line was. Tourgénef wrote to Fet:

Leo Tolstoy continues his eccentricities. Evidently it was so
decreed at his birth. When will he turn his last somersault and
stand on his feet?

The fact that Tolstoy, like his friend Fet, was neglecting literature
did not fail to call forth many remonstrances, one of the most urgent
of which came to him from Drouzhínin, who wrote:

Every writer has his moments of doubt and self-dissatisfaction, and
however strong and legitimate this feeling may be, no one on that
account has yet ceased his connection with literature; every one
goes on writing to the end. But all tendencies, good or bad, cling
to you with peculiar obstinacy; so that you, more than others, need
to think of this and to consider the whole matter amicably.

First of all, remember that after poetry and mental labour all
other work seems worthless. _Qui a bu, boira_; and at the age of
thirty to tear oneself away from authorship means losing half
the interest of life. But that is only half the matter; there is
something still more important.

On all of us lies a responsibility rooted in the immense importance
of literature to Russian society. An Englishman or an American may
laugh at the fact that in Russia not merely men of thirty, but
grey-haired owners of 2000 serfs sweat over stories of a hundred
pages, which appear in the magazines, are devoured by everybody,
and arouse discussion in society for a whole day. However much
artistic quality may have to do with this result, you cannot
explain it merely by Art. What in other lands is a matter of
idle talk and careless dilettantism, with us is quite another
affair. Among us things have taken such shape that a story--the
most frivolous and insignificant form of literature--becomes one
of two things: either it is rubbish, or else it is the voice of
a leader sounding throughout the Empire. For instance, we all
know Tourgénef's weakness, but a whole ocean divides the most
insignificant of his stories from the very best of Mrs. Eugene
Tour's, with her half-talent. By some strange instinct the Russian
public has chosen from among the crowd of writers four or five
bell-men whom it values as leaders, refusing to listen to any
qualifications or deductions. You--partly by talent, partly by
the practical qualities of your soul, and partly owing simply to
a concurrence of fortunate circumstances--have stepped into this
favourable relation with the public. On that account you must not
go away and hide, but must work, even to the exhaustion of your
strength and powers. That is one side of the matter; but here is
another. You are a member of a literary circle that is honourable
(as far as may be), independent, and influential; and which for ten
years, amid persecutions and misfortunes, and notwithstanding its
members' vices, has firmly upheld the banner of all that is Liberal
and enlightened, and has borne all this weight of abuse without
committing one mean action. In spite of the world's coldness and
ignorance and its contempt for literature, this circle is rewarded
with honour and moral influence. Of course, there are in it
insignificant and even stupid homunculi; but even they play a part
in the general union, and have not been useless. In that circle you
again, though you arrived but recently, have a place and a voice
such as Ostróvsky for instance does not possess, though he has
immense talent and his moral tendency is as worthy as your own. Why
this has happened it would take too long to analyse, nor is it to
the point. If you tear yourself off from the circle of writers and
become inactive, you will be dull, and will deprive yourself of an
important rôle in society....

At this time the state of health of his brother Nicholas--who (like
Demetrius) had consumptive tendencies--began to disturb Leo Tolstoy.
It was arranged that Nicholas should go to Germany for a cure. The
following letter written by Leo Tolstoy to Fet, after Nicholas had
started, refers to this and other matters:

... You are a writer and remain a writer, and God speed you. But
that, besides this, you wish to find a spot where you can dig like
an ant, is an idea which has come to you and which you must carry
out, and carry out better than I have done. You must do it because
you are both a good man and one who looks at life healthily....
However, it is not for me now to deal out to you approval or
disapproval with an air of authority. I am greatly at sixes and
sevens with myself. Farming on the scale on which it is carried
out on my estate, crushes me. To 'Ufanize'[41] is a thing I only
see afar off. Family affairs, Nicholas's illness (of which we have
as yet no news from abroad) and my sister's departure (she leaves
me in three days' time) also crush and occupy me. Bachelor life,
_i.e._ not having a wife, and the thought that it is getting too
late, torments me from a third side. In general, everything is now
out of tune with me. On account of my sister's helplessness and
my wish to see Nicholas, I shall at any rate procure a foreign
passport to-morrow, and perhaps I shall accompany my sister abroad;
especially if we do not receive news, or receive bad news, from
Nicholas. How much I would give to see you before leaving, how
much I want to tell you and to hear from you; but it is now hardly
possible. Yet if this letter reaches you quickly, remember that we
leave Yásnaya on Thursday or more probably on Friday.

[41] To work like a peasant. The origin of this word is given
on p. 179.

Now as to farming: The price they ask of you is not exorbitant,
and if the place pleases you, you should buy it. Only why do you
want so much land? I have learned by three years' experience that
with all imaginable diligence it is impossible to grow cereals
profitably or pleasantly on more than 60 or 70 desyatíns [160 to
190 acres] that is, on about 15 desyatíns in each of four fields.
Only in that way can one escape trembling for every omission (for
then one ploughs not twice but three or four times) and for every
hour a peasant misses, and for every extra rouble-a-month one pays
him; for one can bring 15 desyatíns to the point of yielding 30
to 40 per cent. on the fixed and working capital; but with 80 or
100 desyatíns under plough one cannot do so. Please do not let this
advice slip past your ears; it is not idle talk, but a result of
experience I have had to pay for. Any one who tells you differently
is either lying or ignorant. More than that, even with 15 desyatíns
an all-absorbing industry is necessary. But then one can gain
a reward--one of the pleasantest life gives; whereas with 90
desyatíns one has to labour like a post-horse, with no possibility
of success. I cannot find sufficient words to scold myself for not
having written to you sooner--in which case you would surely have
come to see us. Now farewell.

Things meanwhile were not going very well with Nicholas, who wrote from
Soden in Hesse-Nassau:

In Soden we joined Tourgénef, who is alive and well--so well that
he himself confesses that he is 'quite' well. He has found some
German girl and goes into ecstasies about her. We (this relates to
our dearest Tourgénef) play chess together, but somehow it does not
go as it should: he is thinking of his German girl, and I of my
cure.... I shall probably stay in Soden for at least six weeks. I
do not describe my journey because I was ill all the time.

Eventually Leo Tolstoy made up his mind to accompany his sister and
her children abroad, and on 3rd July (old style) they took steamer
from Petersburg for Stettin _en route_ for Berlin. Besides anxiety on
his brother's account, Tolstoy had another reason for going abroad: he
wished to study the European systems of education, in order to know
what had been accomplished in the line to which he now intended to
devote himself.

On reaching Berlin he suffered from toothache for four days, and
decided to remain there while his sister proceeded to join Nicholas at
Soden. He consulted a doctor, as he was suffering also from headache
and hemorrhoidal attacks, and he was ordered to take a cure at
Kissingen.

He only stayed a few days in Berlin after getting rid of his toothache,
and left on 14th July (old style), having however found time to attend
lectures on History by Droysen, and on Physics and Physiology by Du
Bois-Reymond, and having also visited some evening classes for artisans
at the _Handwerksverein_, where he was greatly interested in the
popular lectures, and particularly in the system of 'question-boxes.'
The method of arousing the interest of the audience by allowing them to
propound questions for the lecturer to reply to, was new to him, and he
was struck by the life it brought into the classes, and by the freedom
of mental contact between scholars and teacher. He noticed the same
thing when he was in London a few months later, for he told me that
nothing he saw there interested him more than a lecture he attended
in South Kensington, at which questions were put by working men, and
answered by a speaker who was master of his subject and knew how to
popularise it.

In Berlin he visited the Moabit Prison, in which solitary confinement
was practised. Tolstoy strongly disapproved of this mechanical attempt
to achieve moral reformation. From Berlin he went to Leipzig, where he
spent a day inspecting schools; but he derived little satisfaction from
the Saxon schools he visited, as is indicated by a remark he jotted
down in his Diary, 'Have been in school--terrible. Prayers for the
King, blows, everything by rote, frightened, paralysed children....' He
then proceeded to Dresden, where he called on the novelist Auerbach,
whose story, _Ein Neues Leben_ (_A New Life_), had much influenced
him. The chief character in that story is Count Fulkenberg, who after
being an officer in the army, gets into trouble, escapes from prison,
buys the passport of a school-master, Eugene Baumann, and under that
name devotes himself to the task of educating peasant children. When
Auerbach entered the room in which his visitor was waiting, the latter
introduced himself with the words: 'I am Eugene Baumann,' in such
solemn tones and with so morose an appearance, that the German writer
was taken aback and feared that he was about to be threatened with an
action for libel. Tolstoy however hastened to add: '--not in name, but
in character--' and went on to explain how good an effect Auerbach's
_Schwarzwälder Dorfgeschichten_ (_Village Tales of the Black Forest_)
had had on him.

After three days in Dresden, he went on to Kissingen, which was in
those days about five hours' journey from Soden, where Nicholas was
staying. Still intent on his educational inquiries, he read _en route_
a history of pedagogics.

From Kissingen he wrote his Aunt Tatiána that he thought the cure was
doing him good, and added:

Tell the steward to write me most minutely about the farming, the
harvest, the horses and their illness. Tell the schoolmaster to
write about the school: how many pupils come, and whether they
learn well. I shall certainly return in autumn and intend to
occupy myself more than ever with the school, so I do not wish its
reputation to be lost while I am away, and I want as many pupils as
possible from different parts.

While in Kissingen he read Bacon and Luther and Riehl, and made the
acquaintance of Julius Froebel, author of _The System of Social
Politics_ and nephew of Froebel, the founder of the Kindergarten
system. Julius Froebel was himself much interested in educational
matters, and was a particularly suitable person to explain his uncle's
ideas to Tolstoy.

The latter astonished his new acquaintance, with whom he used to go
for walks, by the uncompromising rigidity of his views, which showed
a considerable tinge of Slavophilism. Progress in Russia, declared
Tolstoy, must be based on popular education, which would give better
results in Russia than in Germany, because the Russian people were
still unperverted, whereas the Germans were like children who had
for years been subjected to a bad education. Popular education should
not be compulsory. If it is a blessing, the demand for it should come
naturally, as the demand for food comes from hunger.

Tolstoy visited the country round Kissingen, and travelling northward
through a part of Germany rich both in scenery and in historic
interest, reached Eisenach and visited the Wartburg, where Luther
was confined after the Diet of Worms. The personality of the great
Protestant reformer interested Tolstoy greatly, and after seeing the
room in which Luther commenced his translation of the Bible, he noted
in his Diary: 'Luther was great'! Twenty years later Tolstoy himself
attempted to free the minds of men from the yoke of an established
Church, and he too shaped his chief weapon against the Church by
translating, not, it is true, like Luther, the whole Bible, but the
Gospels.

Meanwhile Nicholas Tolstoy's health had been growing worse rather than
better. Sergius, having been unlucky at roulette, decided to return to
Russia, and visiting Leo at Kissingen _en route_, told him of his fears
for Nicholas. On 9th August Sergius left Kissingen and Nicholas himself
arrived there to visit Leo, but soon returned to Soden. Leo then spent
a fortnight in the Harz Mountain district, enjoying nature and reading
a great deal. On 26th August he rejoined Nicholas, his sister and her
children, at Soden. The doctors had decided that Nicholas must winter
in a warmer climate, and the place decided on was Hyères near Toulon,
on the shores of the Mediterranean.

The first stage of the journey undertaken by the family party was to
Frankfurt-on-Main, where their aunt, the Countess A. A. Tolstoy, was
staying. She tells the following story of Leo's visit to her on this
occasion:

One day Prince Alexander of Hesse and his wife were calling on me,
when suddenly the door of the drawing-room opened and Leo appeared
in the strangest garb, suggestive of a picture of a Spanish bandit.
I gasped with astonishment. Leo apparently was not pleased with my
visitors, and soon took his departure.

[42]'Qui est donc ce singulier personnage?' inquired my visitors in
astonishment.

'Mais c'est Léon Tolstoy.'

'Ah, mon Dieu, pourquoi ne l'avez vous pas nommé? Après avoir lu
ses admirables écrits, nous mourions d'envie de le voir,' said
they, reproachfully.

[42] Who is that singular person?--inquired my visitors in
astonishment.

Why, it is Leo Tolstoy!

Ah, good heavens! Why did you not tell us who it was?
After reading his admirable writings, we were dying to see
him.--said they, reproachfully.

From Frankfurt the party proceeded to Hyères, where Nicholas, growing
rapidly worse and worse, died on 20th September (new style).

Few men have been so admired and loved as he was by all who knew him.
The only thing recorded against him is the fact that when serving in
the Caucasus he, like many of his fellow-officers, gave way to some
extent to intemperance; but after returning home he recovered his
self-control. I have already told of his influence over Leo in the
early days of the Ant-Brotherhood, and of the green stick, buried where
Tolstoy himself wishes his body to lie. Such influence he retained all
through life, and men and women of most different temperaments make
equally enthusiastic mention of his charm and goodness. That Leo's
judgment of what is good and bad has remained strongly influenced by
his love for and memory of Nicholas, is plain enough to all who have
the facts before them and read his works attentively.

Tourgénef once said:

The humility which Leo Tolstoy developed theoretically, his brother
actually practised in life. He always lived in the most impossible
lodgings, almost hovels, somewhere in the out-of-the-way quarters
of Moscow, and he willingly shared all he had with the poorest
outcast. He was a delightful companion and narrator, but writing
was to him almost a physical impossibility, the actual process of
writing being as difficult for him as for a labourer whose stiff
hands will not hold a pen.

Nicholas did, however, as a matter of fact, contribute some _Memoirs of
a Sportsman_ to the _Contemporary_.

Never was any one's death more sincerely regretted. This is the letter
Leo wrote to Aunt Tatiána, the night the event occurred.

CHÈRE TANTE!--The black seal will have told you all. What I have
been expecting from hour to hour for two weeks occurred at nine
o'clock this evening. Only since yesterday did he let me help him
undress, and to-day for the first time he definitely took to his
bed and asked for a nurse. He was conscious all the time, and a
quarter-of-an-hour before he died he drank some milk and told me
he was comfortable. Even to-day he still joked and showed interest
in my educational projects. Only a few minutes before he died he
whispered several times: 'My God, my God!' It seems to me that he
felt his position, but deceived himself and us. Máshenka, only
to-day, some four hours before, had gone three miles out of Hyères
to where she is living. She did not at all expect it to come so
soon. I have just closed his eyes. I shall now soon be back with
you and will tell you all personally. I do not intend to transport
the body. The funeral will be arranged by the Princess Golítsin,
who has taken it all on herself.

Farewell, _chère tante_. I cannot console you. It is God's
will--that is all. I am not writing to Seryózha now. He is probably
away hunting, you know where. So let him know, or send him this
letter.

On the day after the funeral he wrote to Sergius:

I think you have had news of the death of Nicholas. I am sorry for
you that you were not here. Hard as it is, I am glad it all took
place in my presence, and that it acted on me in the right way--not
like Mítenka's [his third brother, Demetrius] death, of which I
heard when I was not thinking at all about him. However, this is
quite different. With Mítenka only memories of childhood and family
feeling were bound up; but this was a real man both to you and to
me, whom we loved and _respected_ positively more than any one else
on earth. You know the selfish feeling which came latterly, that
the sooner it was over the better; it is dreadful now to write it
and to remember that one thought it. Till the last day, with his
extraordinary strength of character and power of concentration,
he did everything to avoid becoming a burden to me. On the day
of his death he dressed and washed himself, and in the morning I
found him dressed on his bed. Only about nine hours before he died
did he give way to his illness and ask to be undressed. It first
happened in the closet. I went downstairs, and heard his door open.
I returned and did not find him. At first I feared to go to him--he
used not to like it; but this time he himself said, 'Help me!'

And he submitted and became different that day, mild and gentle.
He did not groan, did not blame any one, praised everybody, and
said to me: 'Thank you, _my friend_.' You understand what that
meant between us. I told him I had heard how he coughed in the
morning, but did not come to him from _fausse honte_ [false shame].
'Needlessly,' said he--'it would have consoled me.' Suffering? He
suffered; but it was not until a couple of days before his death
that he once said: 'How terrible these nights without sleep are!
Towards morning the cough chokes one, unendingly! And it hurts--God
knows how! A couple more such nights--it's terrible!' Not once did
he say plainly that he felt the approach of death. But he only did
not _say_ it. On the day of his death he ordered a dressing-gown,
and yet when I remarked that if he did not get better, Máshenka and
I would not go to Switzerland, he replied: 'Do you really think I
shall be better?' in such a tone that it was evident what he felt
but for my sake did not say, and what I for his sake did not show;
all the same, from the morning I knew what was coming, and was with
him all the time. He died quite without suffering--externally, at
all events. He breathed more and more slowly--and it was all over.
The next day I went to him and feared to uncover his face. I
thought it would show yet more suffering and be more terrible than
during his illness; but you cannot imagine what a beautiful face it
was, with his best, merry, calm expression.

Yesterday he was buried here. At one time I thought of transporting
him, and of telegraphing for you; but I reconsidered it. It is no
use chafing the wound. I am sorry for you that the news will have
reached you out hunting, amid distractions, and will not grip you
as it does us. It is good for one. I now feel what I have often
been told, that when one loses some one who was what he was to us,
it becomes much easier to think of one's own death.

On 13th October 1860 he notes in his Diary:

It is nearly a month since Nicholas died. That event has torn me
terribly from life. Again the question: Why? Already the departure
draws near. Whither? Nowhere. I try to write, I force myself,
but do not get on, because I cannot attach enough importance to
the work to supply the necessary strength and patience. At the
very time of the funeral the thought occurred to me to write a
Materialist Gospel, a Life of Christ as a Materialist.

One sees how bit by bit the seeds of the work Tolstoy was to do in
later years planted themselves in his mind. In early childhood came the
enthusiasm for the Ant-Brotherhood and the influence of his brother,
of Aunt Tatiána, and of the pilgrims; then an acquaintance with the
writings of Voltaire and other sceptics, undermining belief in the
miraculous; then, in Sevastopol, the idea of 'founding a new religion:
Christianity purged of dogmas and mysticism'; then a study of Luther's
Reformation, and now the idea of a rationalist Life of Christ.

[Illustration: TOLSTOY IN 1860, THE YEAR HIS BROTHER NICHOLAS DIED.]

On 17th October Tolstoy writes to Fet:

I think you already know what has happened. On 20 September he
died, literally in my arms. Nothing in my life has so impressed
me. It is true, as he said, that nothing is worse than death. And
when one reflects well that yet _that_ is the end of all, then
there is nothing worse than life. Why strive or try, since of
what was Nicholas Tolstoy nothing remains his? He did not say that
he felt the approach of death, but I know he watched each step
of its approach and knew with certainty how much remained. Some
moments before his death he drowsed off, but awoke suddenly and
whispered with horror: 'What is that?' That was when he saw it--the
absorption of himself into Nothingness. And if he found nothing
to cling to, what can I find? Still less! And assuredly neither I
nor any one will fight it to the last moment, as he did. Two days
before, I said to him: 'We ought to put a commode in your room.'

'No,' said he, 'I am weak, but not yet so weak as that; I will
struggle on yet awhile.'

To the last he did not yield, but did everything for himself,
and always tried to be occupied. He wrote, questioned me about
my writings, and advised me. But it seemed to me that he did all
this not from any inner impulse, but on principle. One thing--his
love of Nature--remained to the last. The day before, he went into
his bedroom and from weakness fell on his bed by the open window.
I came to him, and he said with tears in his eyes, 'How I have
enjoyed this whole hour.'

From earth we come, and to the earth we go. One thing is left--a
dim hope that there, in Nature, of which we become part in the
earth, something will remain and will be found.

All who knew and saw his last moments, say: 'How wonderfully
calmly, peacefully he died'; but I know with what terrible pain,
for not one feeling of his escaped me.

A thousand times I say to myself: 'Let the dead bury their dead.'
One must make some use of the strength which remains to one, but
one cannot persuade a stone to fall upwards instead of downwards
whither it is drawn. One cannot laugh at a joke one is weary of.
One cannot eat when one does not want to. And what is life all
for, when to-morrow the torments of death will begin, with all
the abomination of falsehood and self-deception, and will end
in annihilation for oneself? An amusing thing! Be useful, be
beneficent, be happy while life lasts,--say people to one another;
but you, and happiness, and virtue, and utility, consist of truth.
And the truth I have learned in thirty-two years is, that the
position in which we are placed is terrible. 'Take life as it is;
you have put yourselves in that position.' How! I take life as it
is. As soon as man reaches the highest degree of development, he
sees clearly that it is all nonsense and deception, and that the
truth--which he still loves better than all else--is terrible. That
when you look at it well and clearly, you wake with a start and say
with terror, as my brother did: 'What is that?'

Of course, so long as the desire to know and speak the truth lasts,
one tries to know and speak. That alone remains to me of the moral
world; higher than that I cannot place myself. That alone I will
do, but not in the form of your art. Art is a lie, and I can no
longer love a beautiful lie.

I shall remain here for the winter because I am here, and it is
all the same where one lives. Please write to me. I love you as my
brother loved you, and he remembered you to his last moment.

A month later we find him writing in a different state of mind:

A boy of thirteen has died in torment from consumption. What for?
The only explanation is given by faith in the compensation of a
future life. If that does not exist, there is no justice, and
justice is vain, and the demand for justice--a superstition.

Justice forms the most essential demand of man to man. And man
looks for the same in his relation to the universe. Without a
future life it is lacking. Expediency is the sole, the unalterable
law of Nature, say the naturalists. But in the best manifestations
of man's soul: love and poetry--it is absent. This has all existed
and has died--often without expressing itself. Nature, if her one
law be expediency, far o'erstepped her aim when she gave man the
need of poetry and love.

Nearly twenty years later, in his _Confession_, Tolstoy referred to his
brother's death in the words:

Another event which showed me that the superstitious belief in
progress is insufficient as a guide to life, was my brother's
death. Wise, good, serious, he fell ill while still a young man,
suffered for more than a year and died painfully, not understanding
why he had lived, and still less why he had to die. No theories
could give me, or him, any reply to these questions during his slow
and painful dying.

Any one who has read the works Tolstoy wrote during the quarter of a
century which succeeded his brother's death, will be aware how long he
remained in doubt on this matter of a future life, and how he expressed
now one, and now another view.

At Hyères he continued to study the question of education, and for that
purpose made many visits to Marseilles. He also wrote: continuing _The
Cossacks_ and commencing an article on Popular Education. We get a
glimpse of him at this period from his sister, who tells us that they
had been invited to an At Home at Prince Doundoukóf-Korsákof's; but
Tolstoy, who was to have been the lion of the occasion, failed to put
in an appearance. The company, which included all the 'best' people,
were getting dull, despite everything the hostess could devise for
their amusement, when at last, very late, Count Tolstoy was announced.
The hostess and her guests immediately brightened up; but what was
their astonishment to see him appear in tourist garb and wearing wooden
_sabots_! He had been for a long walk, and returning late, had come to
the party without calling at his lodgings; and no sooner was he in the
room than he began assuring everybody that wooden _sabots_ were the
very best and most comfortable of foot-gear, and advising every one to
adopt them. Even in those days he was a man to whom all things were
allowed, and the evening, instead of being spoilt, became all the gayer
from his eccentricity. There was a great deal of singing, and it fell
to Tolstoy's lot to accompany the singers.

At Hyères, after his brother's death, Tolstoy lived with his sister
and her three children in a _pension_ where the only other lodgers
were a Madame Pláksin and her delicate nine-year-old son Sergéy, whose
lungs were thought to be affected, but who lived to become a poet
and to publish his recollections of Tolstoy. Pláksin describes him
as having been at that time a strongly built, broad-shouldered man,
with a good-natured smile on his face, which was fringed by a thick,
dark-brown beard. Under a large forehead, still bearing a deep scar
from the wound inflicted by the bear two years before, wise, kind eyes
shone out of very deep sockets. 'Tolstoy,' says Pláksin, 'was the soul
of our little society, and I never saw him dull; on the contrary, he
liked to amuse us with his stories, which were sometimes extremely
fantastic.' Tolstoy rose early, and while he was at work the children
were not allowed to disturb him beyond running in for a moment to say
'good-morning.' Being himself an indefatigable walker, Tolstoy used to
plan out excursions for the company, constantly discovering new places
to visit: the salterns on the peninsula of Porquerolle; the holy hill
where the chapel with the wonder-working image of the Madonna stands;
or the ruins of the castle called _Trou des Fées_. They used to have
with them on these excursions, a small ass carrying provisions, fruit
and wine.

On the way Tolstoy used to tell us various tales; I remember one
about a golden horse and a giant tree, from the top of which all
the seas and all towns were visible. Knowing that my lungs were
delicate, he often took me on his shoulder and continued his tale
as he walked along. Need I say that we would have laid down our
lives for him?

At dinner-time Tolstoy used to tell the French proprietors of the
_pension_ the strangest stories about Russia, which they never knew
whether or not to believe until the Countess or Madame Pláksin came to
their rescue by separating the truth from the fiction.

After dinner, either on the terrace or indoors, a performance
commenced, opera or ballet, to the sound of the piano: the children
'mercilessly tormenting the ears of the audience' (which consisted of
the two ladies, Tolstoy, and Pláksin's nurse). Next came gymnastic
exercises, in which Tolstoy acted as professor. 'He would lie at full
length on the floor, making us do the same, and we had then to get up
without using our hands.' He also contrived an apparatus out of rope,
which he fixed up in the doorway; and on this he performed somersaults,
to the great delight of his juvenile audience.

When the latter became too turbulent and the ladies begged Tolstoy to
subdue the noise, he would set the children round the table, and tell
them to bring pens and ink.

The following is an example of the sort of occupation he provided:

'Listen,' said he one day; 'I am going to give you a lesson.'

'What on?' demanded bright-eyed Lisa.

Disregarding his niece's question, he continued:

'Write...'

'But what are we to write, uncle?' persisted Lisa.

'Listen; I will give you a theme...!'

'What will you give us?'

'A theme!' firmly replied Tolstoy. 'In what respect does Russia
differ from other countries? Write it here, in my presence, and
don't copy from one another! Do you hear?' added he, impressively.

In half an hour the 'compositions' were ready. Pláksin had to read his
own, as his lines were so irregular that no one else could decipher
them. In his opinion Russia differed from other countries in that, at
carnival time, Russians eat pancakes and slide down ice-hills, and at
Easter they colour eggs.

'Bravo!' said Tolstoy, and proceeded to make out Kólya's MS., in which
Russia was distinguished by its snow, and Lisa's, in which 'troikas'
(three-horse conveyances) played the chief part.

In reward for these evening exercises, Tolstoy brought water-colour
paints from Marseilles and taught the children drawing.

He often spent nearly the whole day with the children, teaching them,
taking part in their games, and intervening in their disputes, which he
analysed, proving to them who was in the right and who in the wrong.

There was at this time some mutual attraction between Tolstoy and a
young Russian lady, Miss Yákovlef, who was staying at Hyères; but, like
many other similar affairs, it came to nothing.

On leaving Hyères, Tolstoy, his sister, and her children, went to
Geneva, and from thence he proceeded alone to Nice, Leghorn, Florence,
Rome, and Naples. In Italy he says he experienced his first lively
impression of antiquity; but very little record remains of this
journey, and it is nowhere reflected in his writings.

He returned to Paris _viâ_ Marseilles, the schools and other
institutions of which he observed closely, trying to discover how man's
intelligence is really best developed.

He was very unfavourably impressed by the popular schools of
Marseilles. The studies, he says, consisted in learning by heart the
Catechism, sacred and general History, the four rules of Arithmetic,
French spelling and Book-keeping--the latter without sufficient
comprehension of the use of arithmetic to enable the children to deal
sensibly with the simplest practical problems requiring addition and
subtraction, though they could do long multiplication sums quickly and
well when only abstract figures were given. Similarly, they answered
well by rote questions in French History, but, when asked at hazard,
they would give such answers as that Henry IV was killed by Julius
Cæsar.

He observed the instruction given by the Churches, and visited the
adult schools of the town, as well as its _Salles d'Asile_, in which,
he says:

I saw four-year-old children perform like soldiers, evolutions
round benches to orders given by whistle, and raise and cross their
arms to the word of command, and with strange trembling voices
sing hymns of praise to God and their benefactors; and I became
convinced that the educational establishments of Marseilles were
extremely bad.

Any one seeing them would naturally conclude that the French people
must be ignorant, coarse, hypocritical, full of superstition and
almost savage.

Yet one need only come in contact with and chat with any of the
common people, to convince oneself that on the contrary the French
people are almost what they consider themselves to be: intelligent,
clever, sociable, freethinking, and really civilised. Take a
workman of, say, thirty years of age: he will write a letter
without such mistakes as at school, sometimes even quite correctly;
he has some idea of politics, and therefore of recent history and
geography; he knows some history from novels, knows something of
natural history, and he very often draws, and is able to apply
mathematical formulae to his trade. Where did he get all this?

I recently discovered the answer in Marseilles, by wandering about
the streets, drink-shops, _cafés chantants_, museums, workshops,
wharves and book-stalls. The very boy who told me that Henry IV was
killed by Julius Cæsar, knew the history of _The Three Musketeers_
and of _Monte Cristo_ very well.

In Marseilles Tolstoy found that everybody had read Dumas' works, of
which there were twenty-eight cheap editions. He estimated that each
week, in the _cafés chantants_, at least one-fifth of the population
received oral education, as the Greeks and Romans used to do. Comedies
and sketches were performed, verses declaimed, and the influence for
good or evil of this unconscious education far outweighed that of the
compulsory education given in schools.

1861

In January he reached Paris, where he spent a large part of his time
in omnibuses, amusing himself by observing the people. He declares
he never met a passenger who was not represented in one or other
of Paul de Kock's stories. Of that writer, as of Dumas _père_, he
thinks highly. 'Don't talk nonsense to me,' he once said, 'about
Paul de Kock's immorality. He is, according to English ideas,
somewhat improper. He is more or less what the French call _leste_
and _gaulois_, but never immoral. In everything he says, and despite
his rather free jests, his tendency is quite moral. He is a French
Dickens.... As to Dumas, every novelist should know him by heart. His
plots are admirable, not to mention the workmanship. I can read and
re-read him, though he aims chiefly at plots and intrigue.'

In Paris he again met Tourgénef; and from France he went on to London,
where he remained six weeks, not enjoying his visit much as he suffered
severely from toothache nearly all the time. It is characteristic
of Tolstoy that though he has often been a victim to toothache and
has also been much tried by digestive troubles, he never appears to
have had his teeth properly attended to by a dentist. A dentist's
establishment seems to him so unnatural and artificial that it must
be wrong. Moreover, dentists do not always do their work well; and
toothache--if one endures it long enough--cures itself, and in the past
the majority of mankind have got along without dentists. So he has been
inclined to put up with toothache as one of the ills it is best to bear
patiently.

During his stay he, and Tourgénef who had also come to London, saw
a great deal of Alexander Herzen, who was editing _Kólokol_ (_The
Bell_)--the most influential paper ever published by a Russian exile.

I have already remarked on the fact that the Reform movements of that
time left Tolstoy curiously cold; and here again it may be noted that
though Tourgénef contributed to Herzen's prohibited paper, Tolstoy
never wrote anything for it.

Herzen's little daughter, who had read and greatly enjoyed _Childhood_,
_Boyhood_, and _Youth_, hearing that the author was coming to see her
father, obtained permission to be present when he called. She ensconced
herself in an arm-chair in a corner of the study at the appointed time,
and when Count Tolstoy was announced, awaited his appearance with
beating heart; but she was profoundly disillusioned by the entrance
of a man of society manners, fashionably dressed in the latest style
of English tailoring, who began at once to tell with gusto of the
cock-fights and boxing-matches he had already managed to witness in
London. Not a single word with which she could sympathise did she
hear from Tolstoy throughout that one and only occasion on which she
was privileged to listen to his conversation; and in this she was
particularly unlucky, for Tolstoy saw Herzen very frequently during his
stay in London, and the two discussed all sorts of important questions
together.

One of Herzen's closest friends and co-workers during his long
exile from Russia, was the poet N. P. Ogaryóf, who had been his
fellow-student at the Moscow University. Ogaryóf, besides being a man
of ability, possessed a very amiable character that greatly endeared
him to his friends; but in an essay entitled _The First Step_[43]
written in 1892, we get a glimpse of what alienated Tolstoy's sympathy
from the progressive movement these men represented. He there says:

[43] In the volume _Essays and Letters_, included in the
_World's Classics_.

I have just been reading the letters of one of our highly educated
and advanced men of the forties, the exile Ogaryóf, to another
yet more highly educated and gifted man, Herzen. In these letters
Ogaryóf gives expression to his sincere thoughts and highest
aspirations, and one cannot fail to see that--as was natural to
a young man--he rather shows off before his friend. He talks
of self-perfecting, of sacred friendship, love, the service of
science, of humanity, and the like. And at the same time he calmly
writes that he often irritates the companion of his life by, as he
expresses it, 'returning home in an unsober state, or disappearing
for many hours with a fallen, but dear creature.'...

Evidently it never even occurred to this remarkably kind-hearted,
talented, and well-educated man that there was anything at all
objectionable in the fact that he, a married man, awaiting the
confinement of his wife (in his next letter he writes that his
wife has given birth to a child) returned home intoxicated, and
disappeared with dissolute women. It did not enter his head that
until he had commenced the struggle, and had at least to some
extent conquered his inclination to drunkenness and fornication, he
could not think of friendship and love, and still less of serving
any one or any thing. But he not only did not struggle against
these vices--he evidently thought there was something very nice in
them, and that they did not in the least hinder the struggle for
perfection; and therefore instead of hiding them from the friend in
whose eyes he wishes to appear in a good light, he exhibits them.

Thus it was half a century ago. I was contemporary with such men.
I knew Ogaryóf and Herzen themselves and others of that stamp, and
men educated in the same traditions. There was a remarkable absence
of consistency in the lives of all these men. Together with a
sincere and ardent wish for good, there was an utter looseness of
personal desire, which, they thought, could not hinder the living
of a good life, nor the performance of good and even great deeds.
They put unkneaded loaves into a cold oven, and believed that bread
would be baked. And then, when with advancing years they began to
remark that the bread did not bake--_i.e._ that no good came of
their lives--they saw in this something peculiarly tragic.

This was written twenty years later; but it was latent in his mind at
the time, and furnishes a clue to the fact that he never really made
friends with these men.

Of Herzen as a writer Tolstoy ultimately came to have a very high
opinion, and admitted that he exerted a very considerable influence on
the mind of educated Russia.

In England, as elsewhere, Tolstoy saw as much as he could of the
educational methods in vogue. He also visited the House of Commons and
heard Palmerston speak for three hours; but he told me he could form no
opinion of the oration, for 'at that time I knew English with my eyes
but not with my ears.'

While in London, he received news that he had been nominated Arbiter of
the Peace for his own district, near Toúla. The duties of the office
were to settle disputes between the serfs and their former proprietors.
Except a short service on the Zémstvo in 1874, this was the only
official position in which Tolstoy ever took much active part after
leaving the army.

On 3rd March (new style), the day of Alexander II's famous Manifesto
emancipating the serfs, Tolstoy left London for Russia _viâ_ Brussels.
In that city he made the acquaintance of Proudhon (the author of
_Qu'est-ce que la Propriété?_ and a _Système des Contradictions
Économiques_) to whom Herzen had given him a letter of introduction.
Proudhon impressed Tolstoy as a strong man who had the courage of
his opinions; and though Proudhon's theories had no immediate effect
on Tolstoy's life, the social political and economic views expounded
by the latter a quarter of a century later, are deeply dyed with
Proudhonism. Both writers consider that property is robbery; interest
immoral; peaceful anarchy the desirable culmination of social progress,
and that every man should be a law unto himself, restrained solely by
reason, conscience and moral suasion. Another writer whose acquaintance
Tolstoy made in Brussels was the Polish patriot Lelewel, who had
taken a prominent part in the rebellion of 1830, and had written on
Polish history and on many other subjects. He was at this time a
decrepit old man living in great poverty. While in Brussels Tolstoy
wrote _Polikoúshka_, almost the only story of his (besides _A Squire's
Morning_) that implies a condemnation of serfdom.

Passing through Germany, Tolstoy stopped at Weimar, where he stayed
with the Russian Ambassador, Von Maltitz, and was introduced to the
Grand Duke Carl Alexander. Tolstoy (who had been reading Goethe's
_Reineke Fuchs_ not long before) visited the house in which Goethe had
lived, but was more interested in a Kindergarten conducted by Minna
Schelholm, who had been trained by Froebel. From another school he
visited, we hear of his collecting and carrying off the essays the
pupils had written, explaining to the master that he was much concerned
with the problem, 'How to make thought flow more freely.'

At Jena he made acquaintance with a young mathematician named Keller,
whom he persuaded to accompany him to Yásnaya to help him in his
educational activities. He also stopped at Dresden, where he again
visited Auerbach, concerning whom he jots down in his Diary:

_21 April, Dresden_: Auerbach is a most charming man. Has given me
a light.... He spoke of Christianity as the spirit of humanity,
than which there is nothing higher. He reads verse enchantingly.
Of Music as _Pflichtloser Genuss_ (dutyless pleasure).... He is 49
years old. Straightforward, youthful, believing, not troubled by
negation.

On another occasion Tolstoy expressed surprise at never having seen
Auerbach's _Village Tales of the Black Forest_ in any German peasant's
house, and declared that Russian peasants would have wept over such
stories.

From Dresden he wrote to his Aunt Tatiána:

[44] Je me porte bien et brûle d'envie de retourner en Russie.
Mais une fois en Europe et ne sachant quand j'y retournerai,
vous comprenez que j'ai voulu profiter, autant que possible, de
mon voyage. Et je crois l'avoir fait. Je rapporte une si grande
quantité d'impressions, de connaissances, que je devrai travailler
longtemps, avant de pouvoir mettre tout cela en ordre dans ma tête.

I am bringing with me a German from the University, to be a teacher
and clerk, a very nice, well-educated man, but still very young and
unpractical.

[44] I am in good health and burn with desire to return to
Russia. But once in Europe and not knowing when I shall
return, you understand that I wanted to benefit as much as
possible by my travels. And I think I have done so. I am
bringing back such a great quantity of impressions and facts,
that I must work a long time before I can get it all in order
in my head.

I am bringing with me a German from the University, to be a
teacher and clerk, a very nice, well-educated man, but still
very young and unpractical.

He adds that he intends to return to Yásnaya _viâ_ St. Petersburg, as
he wants to obtain permission to publish an educational magazine he is
projecting.

On 22nd April he was already in Berlin, where he made the acquaintance
of the head of the Teachers' Seminary, the son of the celebrated
pedagogue Diesterweg, whom, to his disappointment, he found to be 'a
cold, soulless pedant, who thinks he can develop and guide the souls of
children by rules and regulations.'

On 23rd April (old style) he re-entered Russia, after a stay abroad of
nearly ten months.

He brought with him complete editions of the works of several of the
greatest European writers. They were kept at the Custom House to be
submitted to the Censor, and, as Tolstoy plaintively remarked nearly
half a century later, 'he is still reading them!'

CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER VI

Birukof.

Bitovt.

Fet, _Moi Vospominaniya_: Moscow, 1890.

Tolstoy's _Confession_.

Golovatcheva-Panaeva, _Rousskie Pisateli i Artisty_.

Tourgenef, _Letters_.

S. Plaksin, _Graf L. Tolstoy sredi detey_.

Tolstoy's works, vol. iv.: Moscow, 1903.

R. Löwenfeld, _Leo N. Tolstoj_.

R. Löwenfeld, _Gespräche über und mit Tolstoy_.

CHAPTER VII

AT YÁSNAYA AGAIN; TOURGÉNEF; ARBITER; MAGAZINE

Quarrel with Tourgénef. Attitude towards Reforms. Arbiter of the Peace.
Educational Magazine.

AFTER the winter's snow has so far thawed that sleighing is
impracticable, there comes a time during which there is still too much
snow left, and the roads have become too soft to allow of travelling
on wheels, and when transit is practically impossible. Tolstoy reached
Moscow at this transition period, but had not to wait long before
the roads were dry enough for carriage traffic. He made the journey
southward to Toúla in company with Mrs. Fet, wife of his friend the
poet. Mrs. Fet was travelling in her own carriage, accompanied by her
maid, to the estate Fet had purchased at some distance from Yásnaya.
Tolstoy had his own conveyance, but for company's sake changed places
with the maid and travelled with Mrs. Fet. In the cool of the evening
he borrowed and wrapped himself in a cloak of Fet's, declaring that
this would be sure to result in his producing a lyric poem.

1861

Soon after reaching Yásnaya he wrote (in the third week of May) to
congratulate Fet on having become a landed proprietor:

How long it is since we met, and how much has happened to both
of us meanwhile! I do not know how to rejoice sufficiently when
I hear or think of your activity as a farmer, and I am rather
proud to have had at least some hand in the matter.... It is good
to have a friend; but he may die or go away, or one may not be
able to keep pace with him; but Nature, to which one is wedded by
a Notarial Deed, or to which one has been born by inheritance, is
still better. It is one's own bit of Nature. She is cold, obdurate,
disdainful and exacting, but then she is a friend one does not
lose till death, and even then one will be absorbed into her. I
am however at present less devoted to this friend: I have other
affairs that attract me; yet but for the consciousness that she is
there, and that if I stumble she is at hand to hold on to--life
would be but a sad business.

A few days later, having received an invitation from Tourgénef, Tolstoy
paid him a visit the first hours of which passed off to their mutual
satisfaction. Tourgénef had just finished his favourite novel, _Fathers
and Sons_, and it was arranged that after dinner Tolstoy was to read it
and give his opinion on it. To do this the more comfortably, Tolstoy,
left in the drawing-room by himself, lay down on a large sofa. He began
to read; but the story seemed to him so artificially constructed and so
unimportant in its subject-matter, that he fell fast asleep.

'I awoke,' he narrates, 'with a strange sensation, and when I opened my
eyes I saw Tourgénef's back just disappearing.'

In spite of this occurrence and the unpleasant feeling it occasioned,
the two novelists set out next morning to visit Fet, who was not
expecting them that day.

While the visitors rested for a couple of hours, recovering from the
fatigue of their journey, Mrs. Fet saw to it that the dinner assumed 'a
more substantial and inviting appearance.' During the meal the whole
party began an animated conversation, and Tourgénef, always fond of
good eating, fully appreciated the efforts Fet's excellent man-cook had
made. Champagne flowed, as was usual at such reunions. After dinner the
three friends strolled to a wood a couple of hundred yards from the
house, and lying down in the high grass at its outskirts, continued
their talk with yet more freedom and animation.

Next morning at the usual breakfast time, about eight o'clock, the
visitors entered the room where Mrs. Fet presided at the samovár.
Fet sat at the opposite end of the table, Tourgénef at the hostess's
right hand, and Tolstoy at her left. Knowing the importance Tourgénef
attached to the education of his natural daughter, who was being
brought up in France, Mrs. Fet inquired whether he was satisfied
with her English governess. Tourgénef praised the latter highly, and
mentioned that, with English exactitude, she had requested him to fix
the sum his daughter might give away in charity. 'And now,' added
Tourgénef, 'she requires my daughter to take in hand and mend the
tattered clothes of the poor.'

To Tolstoy, the foreign education Tourgénef was giving his daughter,
who was quite forgetting her own language, was very distasteful; and
his feeling no doubt showed itself in his question:

'And you consider that good?'

'Certainly: it places the doer of charity in touch with everyday needs.'

'And I consider that a well-dressed girl with dirty, ill-smelling rags
on her lap, is acting an insincere, theatrical farce.'

'I beg you not to say that!' exclaimed Tourgénef, with dilated nostrils.

'Why should I not say what I am convinced is true?' replied Tolstoy.

'Then you consider that I educate my daughter badly?'

Tolstoy replied that his thought corresponded to his speech.

Before Fet could interpose, Tourgénef, white with rage, exclaimed: 'If
you speak in that way I will punch your head!' and, jumping up from
the table and seizing his head in his hands, he rushed into the next
room. A second later he returned and, addressing Mrs. Fet, said: 'For
heaven's sake excuse my improper conduct, which I deeply regret!' and
again left the room.

Fet, realising the impossibility of keeping his visitors together after
what had happened, was perplexed what to do, for they had both arrived
in Tourgénef's vehicle, and, newly established in the country, Fet,
though he had horses, had none accustomed to be driven in the only
conveyance he possessed. To get Tourgénef off was easy; but it was
not without some difficulty and even danger from the restive horses,
that Tolstoy was conveyed to the nearest post-station at which a hired
conveyance could be procured.

From Novosélok, the first country house Tolstoy reached, he wrote
Tourgénef a letter demanding an apology; and asked for an answer to be
sent to the next post-house at Bogousláf. Tourgénef, not noticing this
request, sent his reply to Fet's house, in consequence of which it was
several hours late in reaching Tolstoy--who was so enraged at this (as
it seemed to him) fresh act of discourtesy, that from Bogousláf he sent
a messenger to procure pistols, and wrote a second letter containing a
challenge to Tourgénef, and stating that he did not wish to fight in a
merely formal manner, like literary men who finish up with champagne,
but that he was in earnest, and hoped Tourgénef would meet him with
pistols at the outskirt of the Bogousláf woods.

That night was a sleepless one for Tolstoy. The morning brought
Tourgénef's reply to his first letter. It commenced in the usual formal
manner of polite communications:

GRACIOUS SIR, LEO NIKOLÁYEVITCH!--In reply to your letter, I can
only repeat, what I myself considered it my duty to announce to you
at Fet's: namely, that carried away by a feeling of involuntary
enmity, the causes of which need not here be considered, I insulted
you without any definite provocation; and I asked your pardon. What
happened this morning proved clearly that attempts at intimacy
between such opposite natures as yours and mine can lead to no good
result; and I the more readily fulfil my duty to you, because the
present letter probably terminates our relations with one another.
I heartily hope it may satisfy you, and I consent in advance to
your making what use you please of it.

With perfect respect, I have the honour to remain, Gracious Sir,
your most humble servant,

IV. TOURGÉNEF.

SPÁSSKY, _27 May 1861_.

_P.S._ 10.30 P.M.:

Iván Petróvitch has just brought back my letter, which my servant
stupidly sent to Novosélok instead of to Bogousláf. I humbly beg
you to excuse this accidental and regrettable mistake, and I hope
my messenger will still find you at Bogousláf.

Tolstoy thereupon wrote to Fet:

I could not resist opening another letter from Mr. Tourgénef in
reply to mine. I wish you well of your relations with that man,
but I despise him. I have written to him, and therewith have
terminated all relations, except that I hold myself ready to give
him any satisfaction he may desire. Notwithstanding all my apparent
tranquillity, I was disturbed in spirit and felt I must demand a
more explicit apology from Mr. Tourgénef; I did this in my letter
from Novosélok. Here is his answer, which I accept as satisfactory,
merely informing him that my reason for excusing him is not our
opposite natures, but one he may himself surmise.

In consequence of the delay which occurred, I sent besides this,
another letter, harsh enough and containing a challenge, to which
I have not received any reply; but should I receive one I shall
return it unopened. So there is an end of that sad story, which, if
it goes beyond your house, should do so with this addendum.

Tourgénef's reply to the challenge came to hand later, and ran as
follows:

Your servant says you desire a reply to your letter; but I do not
see what I can add to what I have already written; unless it be
that I admit your right to demand satisfaction, weapons in hand.
You have preferred to accept my spoken and repeated apology. That
was as you pleased. I will say without phrases, that I would
willingly stand your fire in order to efface my truly insane words.
That I should have uttered them is so unlike the habits of my whole
life, that I can only attribute my action to irritability evoked by
the extreme and constant antagonism of our views. This is not an
apology--I mean to say, not a justification--but an explanation.
And therefore, at parting from you for ever--for such occurrences
are indelible and irrevocable--I consider it my duty to repeat once
again that in this affair you were in the right and I in the wrong.
I add that what is here in question is not the courage I wish, or
do not wish, to show, but an acknowledgment of your right to call
me out to fight, in the accepted manner of course (with seconds),
as well as your right to pardon me. You have chosen as you pleased,
and I have only to submit to your decision. I renew my assurance of
my entire respect,

IV. TOURGÉNEF.

The quarrel was not, however, destined to die out so quickly. Even
good-natured Fet got into trouble by trying to reconcile the irascible
novelists. Here is one of the notes he received from Tolstoy:

I request you not to write to me again, as I shall return your
letters, as well as Tourgénef's, unopened.

Fet remarks: 'So all my attempts to put the matter right ended in a
formal rupture of my relations with Tolstoy, and I cannot now even
remember how friendly intercourse between us was renewed.'

Before four months had passed, Tolstoy repented him of his quarrel.
Like Prince Nehlúdof in _Resurrection_, he used from time to time to
repent of all his sins and all his quarrels, and undertook a sort
of spring- or autumn-cleaning of his soul. It was at such a moment
that, on 25th September, he wrote to Tourgénef expressing regret that
their relations to one another were hostile, and he added: 'If I have
insulted you, forgive me; I find it unendurably hard to think I have
an enemy.' Not knowing Tourgénef's address in France, he sent this
letter to a bookseller in Petersburg (with whom he knew Tourgénef
corresponded) to be forwarded. The letter took more than three months
to reach its destination, nor was this the only thing that went wrong,
as is shown by the following portion of a letter, dated 8th November,
from Tourgénef to Fet:

Apropos, 'one more last remark' about the unfortunate affair
with Tolstoy. Passing through Petersburg I learned from certain
'reliable people' (Oh, those reliable people!) that copies of
Tolstoy's last letter to me (the letter in which he 'despises' me)
are circulating in Moscow, and are said to have been distributed
by Tolstoy himself. That enraged me, and I sent him a challenge
to fight when I return to Russia. Tolstoy has answered that the
circulation of the copies is pure invention, and he encloses
another letter in which, recapitulating that, and how, I insulted
him, he asks my forgiveness and declines my challenge. Of course
the matter must end there, and I will only ask you to tell him (for
he writes that he will consider any fresh communication from me to
him as an insult) that I myself repudiate any duel, etc., and hope
the whole matter is buried for ever. His letter (apologising) I
have destroyed. Another letter, which he says he sent me through
the bookseller Davídof, I never received. And now as to the whole
matter--_de profundis_.

Tolstoy noted in his Diary one day in October:

Yesterday I received a letter from Tourgénef in which he accuses me
of saying he is a coward and of circulating copies of my letter. I
have written him that it is nonsense, and I have also sent him a
letter: 'You call my action dishonourable and you formerly wished
to punch my head; but I consider myself guilty, ask pardon, and
refuse the challenge.'

1862

Even then the matter was not at an end, for on 7th January [new style?]
Tourgénef writes to Fet:

And now a plain question: Have you seen Tolstoy? I have only to-day
received the letter he sent me in September through Davídof's
bookshop (how accurate are our Russian merchants!). In this letter
he speaks of his intention to insult me, and apologises, etc. And
almost at that very time, in consequence of some gossip about
which I think I wrote you, I sent him a challenge. From all this
one must conclude that our constellations move through space in
definitely hostile conjunction, and that therefore we had better,
as he himself says, avoid meeting. But you may write or tell him
(if you see him) that I (without phrase or joke) _from afar_ love
him very much, respect him and watch his fate with sympathetic
interest; but that in proximity all takes a different turn. What's
to be done? We must live as though we inhabited different planets
or different centuries.

Tolstoy evidently took umbrage at Tourgénef's message, and visited his
wrath on Fet's innocent head. To be profoundly humble and forgiving
at his own command, was always, it seems, easier for Tolstoy than to
let his opponent have an opinion of his own. Tolstoy likes things to
be quite clear-cut and definite, and it complicates matters to have to
reckon with any one else's views. At any rate Tourgénef writes:

PARIS, _14 Jan. [o.s.?] 1862_.

DEAREST AFANÁSY AFANÁSYEVITCH! [Fet's Christian name and
patronymic].--First of all I must ask your pardon for the quite
unexpected tile (_tuile_, as the French say) that tumbled on
your head as a result of my letter. The one thing which somewhat
consoles me is that I could not possibly have expected such a freak
on Tolstoy's part, and thought I was arranging all for the best. It
seems it is a wound of a kind better not touched at all.

To judge the relations between these two great writers fairly, one must
remember that Tourgénef was ten years the elder and, until _War and
Peace_ appeared, ranked higher in popular esteem; yet Tolstoy showed
him no deference, but on the contrary often attacked him and his views
with mordant irony. Tourgénef was neither ill-natured nor quarrelsome.
If Tolstoy had treated him with consideration or had been willing to
let him alone, there would have been no question either of insult or
of challenge. But the younger man sought the elder's company, and
then made himself disagreeable; and this, not of malice prepense,
but because it is his nature to demand perfection from great men, and
vehemently to attack those who fail to reach the standard he sets up.
This conduct was no doubt all the more trying for Tourgénef, because
Tolstoy neither co-operated with the Liberal movement then current, nor
lived more abstemiously with regard to food, wine, women, and cards
than others of his set whom he scolded; or if he did so, he did it so
spasmodically and with such serious lapses, as to be little entitled
to condemn others with the fervour he frequently displayed. On the
occasion of the great quarrel Tourgénef was certainly the aggressor,
and his prompt apology was not addressed to Tolstoy, whom he had
chiefly offended, but to Mrs. Fet. It is, however, plain that he acted,
as he said, on the irritable impulse of the moment. Tolstoy aggravated
matters by sending a challenge before receiving a reply to his first
letter, and also by suggesting that he despised Tourgénef and pardoned
him for reasons 'he may himself surmise.' Again, in relation to Fet,
who merely wished to pour oil on the troubled waters, Tolstoy showed a
strange irritability. No one however can read the _Recollections_ Fet
wrote thirty years later, without seeing that that poet--who not only
witnessed this affair, but had been the confidant of both writers for
years--respected Tolstoy far more than he respected Tourgénef.

In this whole story, one may detect traces of the qualities which have
made Tolstoy so interesting and so perplexing a personality. He cares
intensely about everything with which he is occupied. Tourgénef, and
Tourgénef's opinions and conduct, were of tremendous importance to him.
So were his own views of how young ladies should be brought up. So was
the question whether he ought to challenge his enemy; and, later on,
the question whether he ought to forgive him, and whether Fet should
be allowed to act as mediator. It is this fact--that he cares about
things a hundred times more than other people care about them--that
makes Tolstoy a genius and a great writer. What was admirable in his
conduct was not that he acted well (as a matter of fact he acted very
badly) but that he _wished_ to act well.

The same spirit which made him so intolerant with Tourgénef: his
strong feeling that 'To whom much is given, of him much shall be
required'--had something to do, later in life, with his fierce
attacks on Governments, on Shakespear, on Wagner, and on other great
institutions and men. At the same time, the incident throws light on
that side of Tolstoy's character which has brought it about that,
despite the very real charm he possesses, and despite the fact that
many men and women have been immensely attracted by his writings,
he has had very few intimate friends, and has constantly been
misunderstood.

V. P. Bótkin, who was in touch both with Tolstoy and Tourgénef, wrote
to Fet after hearing of the quarrel:

The scene between him [Tourgénef] and Tolstoy at your house,
produced on me a sad impression. But do you know, I believe that in
reality Tolstoy has a passionately loving soul; only he wants to
love Tourgénef ardently, and unfortunately his impulsive feeling
encounters merely mild, good-natured indifference. That is what he
cannot reconcile himself to. And then (again unfortunately) his
mind is in a chaos, _i.e._ I wish to say it has not yet reached
any definite outlook on life and the world's affairs. That is
why his conviction changes so often, and why he is so apt to
run to extremes. His soul burns with unquenchable thirst; I say
'unquenchable,' because what satisfied it yesterday, is to-day
broken up by his analysis. But that analysis has no durable and
firm reagents, and consequently its results evaporate _ins blaue
hinein_. Without some firm ground under one's feet it is impossible
to write. And that is why at present he _cannot_ write, and this
will continue to be the case till his soul finds something on which
it can rest.

To any one acquainted with the history of Russia at that period, but
not acquainted with Tolstoy's idiosyncrasies, it must indeed seem
strange that the story of his life can be told with so little reference
to the Emancipation or the Reform movements of the years 1860-1864, to
which allusion has already been made. Two passages written by him in
1904 state his relation to those movements with the sincerity which is
so prominent and valuable a feature of his character:

As to my attitude at that time to the excited condition of our
whole society, I must say (and this is a good and bad trait always
characteristic of me) that I always involuntarily opposed any
external, epidemic pressure; and that if I was excited and happy
at that time, this proceeded from my own personal, inner motives:
those which drew me to my school work and into touch with the
peasants.

I recognise in myself now the same feeling of resistance to the
excitement at present prevailing; which resembles that which, in a
more timid form, was then current.

When the Emancipation came, the peasants received freedom, and an
allotment of land, subject to a special land-tax for sixty years; while
their masters retained the rest of the land and received State Bonds
for the capitalised value of the peasants' land-tax. An expedient
resorted to by many a proprietor was, to allot land to the peasants
in such a way that the latter were left without any pasture, and
(being surrounded by the owner's estate) found themselves obliged
to hire pasture land of him on his own terms. There were, till the
Emancipation, two ways of holding serfs: (1) the primitive way of
obliging them to work so many days a week for their master, before they
could, on the other days, provide for their own wants; and (2) another
way, which left the serf free to work for himself, provided that he
paid _obrók_, _i.e._ a certain yearly tribute to his owner. These
explanations will render intelligible the second passage referred to
above and quoted below:

Some three or four years before the Emancipation, I let my serfs go
on _obrók_. When complying with the Emancipation Decree I arranged,
as the law required, to leave the peasants in possession of the
land they were cultivating on their own behalf, which amounted
to rather less than eight acres per head, and (to my shame be it
said) I added nothing thereto. The only thing I did--or the one
evil I refrained from doing--was that I abstained from obliging the
peasants to exchange land (as I was advised to do) and left them in
possession of the pasture they needed. In general, however, I did
not show any disinterested feeling in the affair.

In the first edition of _Tolstoy and his Problems_ I erroneously stated
that Tolstoy, before the Decree of Emancipation, voluntarily freed
his serfs; and though this was corrected in the second edition, it is
necessary to repeat the correction here, as the same mistake occurs in
the article on Tolstoy in the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. I therefore
quote the following passage from a letter he wrote me on the subject:

I have received your book and read it with pleasure. The short
biography is excellent, except the place where you, quoting the
words of Sophia Andréyevna, say that 'he liberated his peasants
before the Emancipation.' That is wrong: I placed them on _obrók_
instead of keeping them on _bárstchina_ [_i.e._ the state in which
the peasants rendered labour dues]. It would not have been possible
to emancipate them....

1861

Tolstoy's curious tendency to underrate the influence of the Liberal
reformers of that time, may be illustrated by an incident that occurred
at a dinner in Toúla. The local elections had taken place, and a public
banquet was given in honour of those Arbiters of the Peace who were
visiting the town. Tolstoy was at this dinner, and when the toast
to the health of Alexander II, the 'Tsar-Liberator,' was proposed,
Tolstoy remarked to his neighbour: 'I drink this toast with particular
pleasure. No others are needed, for in reality we owe the Emancipation
to the Emperor alone.'

A yet more curious instance of the same tendency occurs in an article
on _Progress, and the Definition of Education_, which he published a
year later, and in which, arguing that printing has been of little use
to the people, he says that:

Even taking as an example the abolition of serfdom, I do not see
that printing helped the solution of the problem in a progressive
sense. Had the Government not said its decisive word in that
affair, the press would, beyond a doubt, have explained matters
in quite a different way to what it did. We saw that most of the
periodicals would have demanded the emancipation of the peasants
without any land, and would have produced arguments apparently just
as reasonable, witty and sarcastic [as they actually produced in
favour of the more Liberal solution ultimately adopted]....

If, however, Tolstoy did not stand in the ranks of the Reformers,
he was much less of a partisan of his own class than many of his
fellow-nobles desired; and we find the Marshal of the Nobility of Toúla
writing to Valoúef, Minister of Home Affairs, complaining of Tolstoy's
appointment as Arbiter of the Peace on the ground that he was disliked
by the neighbouring landowners. In consequence of this complaint
Valoúef made inquiries, and received a 'confidential' reply from the
Governor of the Province, stating that:

Knowing Count Tolstoy personally, as an educated man warmly
sympathising with the matter in hand, and in view of a wish
expressed to me by some of the proprietors of the district that he
should be appointed Arbiter, I cannot replace him by some one I do
not know.

Tolstoy tried his best to act fairly between peasants and landowners;
but from the start his unsuitability for duties involving methodical
care was obvious.

The very first 'charter,' regulating the relations between a landlord
and his newly-liberated peasants, that he sent up to the Government
Board for Peasant Affairs, was signed as follows: 'At the request of
such-and-such peasants, because of their illiteracy, the house-serf
so-and-so has signed this charter for them.' Not a single name did the
charter contain! As Tolstoy had dictated the words, so his servant had
written them down, and the charter had been sealed and sent off without
being read over.

He could at times be wonderfully patient in dealing with the peasants,
though they were exasperatingly pertinacious in demanding more than
it was possible to grant. An eye-witness tells how Tolstoy visited
a neighbouring estate on which differences had arisen between the
peasants and their former master, as to the land which should be
allotted to them. Tolstoy received a deputation, consisting of three of
the leading peasants of the village, and asked them:

'Well, lads, what do you want?'

They explained what land they wished to have, and Tolstoy replied, 'I
am very sorry I can't do what you wish. Were I to do so I should cause
your landlord a great loss'; and he proceeded to explain to them how
the matter stood.

'But you'll manage it for us somehow, _bátushka_' [literally,
'little-father'], said the peasants.

'No, I can't do anything of the kind,' repeated Tolstoy.

The peasants glanced at one another, scratched their heads, and
reiterated their 'But somehow, _bátushka_!' and one of them added, 'If
only you want to, _bátushka_, you'll know how to find a way to do it!'
at which the other peasants nodded their heads approvingly.

Tolstoy crossed himself, as orthodox Russians are wont to do, and
said: 'As God is holy, I swear that I can be of no use at all to
you.' But still the peasants repeated: 'You'll take pity on us, and
do it somehow, _bátushka_!' Tolstoy at last turned vehemently to the
steward, who was present, and said: 'One can sooner, like Amphion, move
the hills and woods, than convince peasants of anything!'

The whole conversation, says the steward, lasted more than an hour,
and up to the last minute the Count retained his patient and friendly
manner towards the peasants. Their obstinacy did not provoke him to
utter a single harsh word.

With the landowners Tolstoy had even more trouble than with the
peasants. He received many threatening letters, plans were formed
to have him beaten, he was to have been challenged to a duel; and
denunciations against him were sent to those in authority.

After some three months of the work, in July 1861, he jotted down in
his Diary: 'Arbitration has given me but little material [for literary
work], has brought me into conflict with all the landed-proprietors,
and has upset my health.'

Here is a sample of the cases he had to deal with. A Mrs. Artukóf
complained that a certain Mark Grigóref (who had been a house-serf, and
was therefore not entitled to land) had left her, considering himself
to be 'perfectly free.'

Tolstoy, in his reply to the lady, said:

Mark, by my order, is at liberty to go immediately, with his
wife, where he likes; and I beg you (1) to compensate him for the
three-and-a-half months he has been illegally kept at work by you
since the Decree was published, and (2) for the blows still more
illegally inflicted on his wife. If my decision displeases you,
you have a right of appeal to the Magistrates' Sessions and to the
Government Sessions. I shall not enter into further explanations
on this subject.--With entire respect I have the honour to remain,
your humble servant,

C^{t.} L. TOLSTOY.

The lady appealed to the Magistrates' Sessions, and Tolstoy's decision
was annulled; but on the case being carried to the Government Sessions,
his view of the case prevailed.

Before he had been a year in office we find him writing to the
Government of the Toúla Board of Peasant Affairs as follows:

As the complaints [here follows a list of several cases] lodged
against my decisions have no legal justification, but yet in these
and many other cases my decisions have been and are being repealed,
so that almost every decision I give is subsequently reversed; and
as under such conditions--destructive both of the peasants' and
the landowners' confidence in the Arbiter--the latter's activity
becomes not merely useless but impossible, I humbly request the
Government Board to authorise one of its members to hasten the
examination of the above-mentioned appeals, and I have to inform
the Government Board that until such investigations are completed
I do not consider it proper that I should exercise the duties of
my office, which I have, therefore, handed over to the senior
Candidate.

The following month he resumed official work, but six weeks later,
on 30th April 1862, on the score of ill-health, he handed the duties
over to a substitute; and on 26th May--about a year after he had first
assumed the office--the Senate informed the Governor of Toúla that
it 'had decided to discharge the Lieutenant of Artillery, Count Leo
Tolstoy, on the ground of ill-health' from the post of Arbiter of the
Peace.

His unsatisfactory experience of administrative work no doubt helps to
account for the anti-Governmental bias shown in his later works. Even
at this time, he quite shared the dislike of civil and criminal law
expressed by Rousseau when he wrote in his _Confession_:

The justice and the inutility of my appeals left in my mind a germ
of indignation against our stupid civil institutions, in which the
true welfare of the public, and veritable justice, are always
sacrificed to I know not what apparent order, really destructive of
all order, and which merely adds the sanction of public authority
to the oppression of the weak and the iniquity of the strong.

We may at any rate be sure that tiresome, petty administrative work,
never quite satisfactory, but at best consisting of compromises and of
decisions based on necessity rather than on such principles of abstract
justice as are dear to Tolstoy's soul, could never be an occupation
satisfactory to him. He has not the plodding patience and studious
moderation that such work demands; nor could his impulsive genius find
scope in it. It has never been easy for him to be checked by others,
or to have to reckon with their opinions and wishes. Like Rousseau, it
suits him better to reform the world on paper, or even to alter his own
personal habits of life, than to concern himself with the slow social
progress, the bit-by-bit amelioration, which alone is possible to those
harnessed to the car that carries a whole society of men.

Tolstoy used at this time to find recreation in hunting, and often
went out for days together with his friend and relation Prince D. D.
Obolénsky, who describes him as having been a bold and active hunter,
leaping all sorts of obstacles, and a wonderful man to talk to.

Concurrently with his duties as Arbiter, Tolstoy had been carrying on
an enterprise in which he had to deal with people younger and more easy
to mould than the peasants and proprietors whose quarrels he found
it so hard to adjust; and during the winter of 1861-1862 he devoted
himself with especial fervour to the task of educating the peasant
children of Yásnaya and the surrounding district.

As we have already seen, a chief aim of his travels abroad had been
to study the theory and practice of education; and not only did
he now personally devote himself to the school at Yásnaya, but in
the surrounding neighbourhood eleven similar schools were soon
started, all more or less inspired by his ideals and encouraged by
his co-operation. The monthly magazine, _Yásnaya Polyána_ (now a
bibliographical rarity) which he produced and edited during 1862, aimed
at propagating his theories of education and making known the results
attained in his school, and it also contained an account of sums
voluntarily contributed for its support. From articles published in it
(and republished in his collected writings) we get a vivid description
of the work carried on in November and December 1861.[45] Like many
Russian magazines, _Yásnaya Polyána_ always appeared late, and, to
begin with, the January number was several weeks behind time.

[45] In one edition after another of Tolstoy's works, the
article referred to above is called 'Yásno-Polyána School in
Nov. and Dec. 1862,' though the article itself appeared in the
first number of _Yásnaya Polyána_, in February of that year.
In small matters of detail of this kind, Tolstoy has always
been careless.

In this educational work, Tolstoy showed the qualities and limitations
which in later years marked all his propagandist activity. There was
the same characteristic selection of a task of great importance; the
same readiness to sweep aside and condemn nearly all that civilised
humanity had accomplished up to then; the same assurance that he could
untie the Gordian knot; and the same power of devoted genius enabling
him really to achieve much more than one would have supposed possible,
though not a tithe of what he set himself to do.

In later life Tolstoy laid no particular emphasis on what he wrote
in these educational articles: in fact, we shall find him sometimes
speaking very scornfully of them; but they throw so much light on his
then state of mind, and often come so near to the views he strongly
advocated twenty or thirty years later, that it will be worth devoting
a good deal of attention to them.

Tolstoy, then, defines Education as: _a human activity, aving for its
basis a desire for equality, and the constant tendency to advance in
knowledge_. This he illustrates by saying that the aim of a teacher
of arithmetic should be to enable his pupil to grasp all the laws of
mathematical reasoning he himself is master of; the aim of a teacher
of French, or chemistry, or philosophy, should be similar; and as soon
as that aim is attained, the activity will naturally cease. Everywhere
and always, teaching which makes the pupil the master's equal, has been
considered good. The more nearly and rapidly this is accomplished, the
better; the less nearly and more slowly it is accomplished, the worse.
Similarly in literature (an indirect method of teaching) those books
are written best, in which the author succeeds in transmitting his
whole message most easily to the reader.

By 'the constant tendency to advance in knowledge,' Tolstoy meant
that the equality aimed at in education can only be obtained on the
higher, and not on the lower, level: that is to say, not by the teacher
forgetting what he knows, but by the pupil acquiring the teacher's
knowledge. Much tuition however is based not on the desire to equalise
knowledge, but on quite false foundations.

These are: (1) First and commonest, the child learns in order not to be
punished; (2) the child learns in order to earn a reward; (3) the child
learns in order to be better than others; (4) the child, or young man,
learns in order to obtain an advantageous position in the world....

With reference to the practice of sending boys to school, not for their
natural development, but that they may be moulded into a set form,
Tolstoy declares that 'Education, as a deliberate moulding of people
into certain forms, is _sterile, illegitimate, and impossible_.'

Of examinations he strongly disapproves, as tending to arbitrariness on
the side of the examiners, and deception on the side of the pupils.

Under what circumstances, asks Tolstoy, can a pupil acquire knowledge
most rapidly? 'A child or a man is receptive only when he is aroused;
and therefore to regard a merry spirit in school as an enemy or a
hindrance, is the crudest of blunders.

The pupil's state of mind is the most important condition of successful
education; and to secure good results, freedom is indispensable. No
child should be forced to learn what it does not want to, or when it
does not wish to.

One need only glance at one and the same child at home or in the
street, and at school. Here you see a vivacious, inquisitive being,
with a smile in his eye and on his mouth, seeking information
everywhere as a pleasure, and clearly, and often forcibly,
expressing his thoughts in his own way; while there you see a
weary, shrinking creature repeating, merely with his lips, some one
else's thoughts in some one else's words, with an air of fatigue,
fear and listlessness: a creature whose soul has retreated like a
snail into its shell. One need but glance at these two conditions
to see which of them is the more conducive to the child's
development. That strange physiological condition which I call the
'School state of mind,' and which unfortunately we all know so
well, consists in all the higher capacities: imagination, creative
power and reflection, yielding place to a semi-animal capacity to
pronounce words without imagination or reflection.

When the pupils have been reduced to this 'School state of mind' we
encounter those 'not accidental, but often-repeated cases,' of the
stupidest boy being at the top of the class, and the cleverest boy at
the bottom.

In short, a child's mental capacities are really active only when that
child is free; and the teacher's chief task lies 'in studying the free
child' and discovering how to supply him with knowledge. Therefore
'the only method of education is experiment, and its only criterion is
_freedom_.'

The attempts to enforce obedience and quiet in school-rooms, converts
schools into places of torture which have a stupefying effect, well
called by the Germans _Verdummen_.

In Germany nine-tenths of those who pass through the primary
schools leave them possessed of an ability to read and write
mechanically, but imbued with so strong a loathing for the
experience they have had of the paths of knowledge, that they
subsequently never take a book in their hands. Let those who
doubt what I say, point out to me what books are read by the
labourers.... No one who will seriously consider the education of
the people, not only in Russia but also in the rest of Europe, can
help coming to the conclusion that the people get their mental
development quite independently of a knowledge of reading and
writing, and that usually, except in a few cases of exceptional
ability, these rudiments remain a quite unapplied art--which is
even harmful, since nothing in life can remain indifferent....

* * * * *

Schools are not so arranged as to make it convenient for children
to learn, but so as to make it convenient for teachers to teach.
The voices, movements and mirth of the children, which form a
necessary condition of their studying successfully, incommode the
teachers, and therefore in the prison-like schools of to-day,
questions, conversation, and movement are forbidden.

Schools based on compulsion, supply 'not a shepherd for the flock, but
a flock for the shepherd.'

* * * * *

To deal successfully with any object, it is necessary to study it,
and in education the object is a free child; yet the pedagogues
wish to teach in their own way--the way that seems good in their
own eyes; and when this does not act, they want not to alter their
way of teaching but the nature of the child. ...Not till experiment
becomes the basis of the School, and every school is, so to say, a
pedagogic laboratory, will schools cease to lag behind the general
level of the world's progress.

For boarding-schools Tolstoy had scant respect:

At home all the comforts of life--water, fires, good food, a
well-cooked dinner, the cleanliness and comfort of the rooms--all
depended on the work and care of the mother and of the whole
family. The more work and care, the greater the comfort; the less
work and care, the less comfort. A simple matter this no doubt, but
more educational I think, than the French language or a knowledge
of Alexander the Great. In a boarding-school, this constant vital
reward for labour is so put out of sight, that not only is the
dinner no better or worse, the napkins no cleaner or dirtier, and
the floors no brighter or duller, because of the girl's exertion
or non-exertion, but she has not even a cell or corner of her own
to keep straight or leave untidy at her pleasure, and she has no
chance of making a costume for herself out of scraps and ribbons.

His general charge against day-schools, boarding-schools and
universities alike is that:

At the base of them all lies one and the same principle: the right
of one man, or of a small group of men, to shape other people as
they like.

He adds that:

It is not enough for School to tear children away from real life
for six hours a day during the best years of their life: it wishes
to tear three-year-old children from their mother's influence.
Institutions have been contrived (_Kleinkinderbervahranstalten_,
infant schools, _salles d'asile_) about which we shall have
to speak more in detail later on. It only remains to invent a
steam-engine which will replace the nursing mother! All agree that
schools are imperfect; I, personally, am convinced that they are
noxious.

He argues that no man or set of men has any right to force any
particular kind of education on any one else. The teacher has no right
to do more than offer such knowledge as he possesses, and he should
respect the child's right to reject it as indigestible, or as badly
served up:

On what grounds does the School of to-day teach this and not that,
and in this and not that way?

Where, in our day, can we get such faith in the indubitability
of our knowledge as would give us a right to educate people
compulsorily? Take any medieval school, before or after Luther,
take the whole scholastic literature of the Middle Ages, what a
strength of belief and what a firm, indubitable knowledge of what
was true and what was false, we see in them! It was easy for them
to know that a knowledge of Greek was the one essential condition
of education; for Aristotle's works were in Greek, and no one
doubted the truth of his propositions till centuries later. How
could the monks help demanding the study of the Holy Scriptures,
which stood on an immovable foundation? It was well for Luther
to demand the compulsory study of Hebrew, being sure, as he was,
that in that language God himself has revealed the truth to man.
Evidently, as long as man's critical sense was not aroused, the
school had to be dogmatic; and it was natural for pupils to learn
by heart the truths revealed by God, as well as Aristotle's science
and the poetic beauties of Virgil and Cicero. For centuries after,
no one could imagine any truer truth, or more beautiful beauty.
But what is the position of the schools of our time, which retain
these same dogmatic principles, while in the room next the class
where the immortality of the soul is taught, it is suggested to the
pupils that the nerves common to man and to the frog are what was
formerly called 'the soul'; and where after hearing the story of
Joshua the son of Nun read to him without explanations, the pupil
learns that the sun never did go round the earth; and when after
the beauties of Virgil have been explained to him, he finds the
beauties of Alexandre Dumas (whose novels he can buy for sixpence)
much greater; when the only belief held by the teacher is that
nothing is true, but that whatever exists is reasonable; and that
progress is good and backwardness bad, though nobody knows in what
this progress, that is so generally believed in, consists?

In another article he says:

Luther insists on teaching the Holy Scriptures from the originals,
and not from the commentaries of the Fathers of the Church. 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. Each step
forward in the philosophy of pedagogics merely consists in freeing
the schools from the idea of teaching the younger generations what
the elder generations believed to be science, and in substituting
studies that accord with the needs of the younger generations.

Again, he says

It is very usual to read and hear it said that the home conditions,
the coarseness of parents, field labour, village games and so
forth, are the chief hindrances to school-work. Possibly they
really interfere with the kind of school-work aimed at by the
pedagogues; but it is time we understood that those conditions
are the chief bases of all education, and far from being inimical
to, or hindrances of the School, are its first and chief motive
power.... The wish to know anything whatever, and the very
questions to which it is the School's business to reply, arise
entirely from these home conditions. All instruction should
be simply a reply to questions put by life. But School, far
from evoking questions, fails even to answer those which life
suggests.... To such questions the child receives no reply; more
especially as the police regulations of the School do not allow him
to open his mouth, even when he wants to be let out for a minute,
but obliges him to make signs in order not to break the silence or
disturb the teacher.

The great questions, Tolstoy says, are: (1) What must I teach? and (2)
How must I teach it? He remarks that a couple of centuries ago, neither
in Russia nor in Western Europe could these questions have arisen.
Education was then bound up with religion, and to become a scholar
meant to learn the Scriptures. In Mohammedan countries this union of
religion with education still exists in full force. To learn, means
to learn the Koran, and therefore to learn Arabic. But as soon as the
criterion of what to learn ceased to be religion, and the School became
independent of the Church, the question of what to teach was bound to
arise. That it did not arise suddenly, was due to the fact that the
emancipation of the School from the Church took place gradually. But
the day has at last come when the question must be faced; and no clear
guidance is given us either by philosophy or by any definite consensus
of opinion among those concerned with education. In the higher schools
some advocate a classical, others a scientific, education; while in the
primary schools, if the education is controlled by the priests it is
carried on in one way, and if it is controlled by the anti-clericals it
is carried on in another. Under these circumstances the only possible
criterion must be the wish of the pupils or of their parents. Tolstoy
then goes on to maintain that the demand of the mass of the Russian
people is for tuition in the Russian and Ecclesiastico-Slavonic
languages, and for mathematics.

As to _how_ to teach, he contends that this resolves itself into the
question, How to establish the best possible relations between those
who want to learn and those who want to teach, and he says:

No one, probably, will deny that the best relation between a
teacher and his pupils is a natural one, and that the opposite
to a natural one is a compulsory one. If that be so, then the
measure of all scholastic methods consists in the greater or lesser
naturalness, and consequently in the less or more compulsion
employed. The less the children are compelled, the better is the
method; the more they are compelled, the worse is the method. I am
glad that it is not necessary for me to prove this obvious truth.
All are agreed that it cannot be good for health to employ foods,
medicines, or exercises which create disgust or pain; and so also
in learning, there can be no need to compel children to grind at
anything dull or repugnant to them; and if it seems necessary to
use compulsion, that fact can merely prove the imperfection of
the methods employed. All who have taught children have probably
noticed that the worse the teacher knows the subject he is dealing
with and the less he likes it, the more he has to be stern and the
more compulsion he has to use; while on the contrary, the better
the teacher knows and loves his subject, the more free and natural
will be his tuition.

If history be closely examined, it will be found that every advance
in pedagogics has consisted merely in a diminution of compulsion,
a facilitation of study, and a greater and greater approach to
naturalness in the relations between teacher and pupil.

People have asked, How can we find the degree of freedom to be
allowed in school? To which I reply that the limit of that freedom
is naturally defined by the teacher, by his knowledge, and by his
capacity to manage the school. Such freedom cannot be dictated; its
measure is merely the result of the greater or lesser knowledge
and talent possessed by the master. Freedom is not a rule, but
it serves as a gauge when comparing one school with another, or
when judging of new methods. The school in which there is less
compulsion, is better than the one in which there is more. That
method is good which, when introduced into a school, does not
necessitate any increase of discipline; while that is certainly bad
which necessitates greater severity.

From his main subject of Education, Tolstoy digresses in these articles
into a discussion of other problems, in a way which reminds one of
those wonderful essays he began to pour forth a quarter of a century
later.

That he had been somewhat influenced by the Slavophils is indicated
by his readiness to assume that Russia may advance along a line
of her own, entirely different to that the Western nations have
travelled. 'Progress,' in which like almost all his contemporaries he
had believed, he now questions; and he indulges in a sharp attack on
Macaulay for the third chapter of his _History_, which he says contains
no proof that any real progress has been achieved. Buckle, similarly,
is roughly handled for the assumption of progress that underlies his
_History of Civilisation_; but most scathing of all is his onslaught
upon Hegel, who (till Darwin appeared) was the rock on which many of
the intellectual Liberals took their stand.

From the time of Hegel and his famous aphorism: 'What is historic
is reasonable,' a very queer mental hocus-pocus has prevailed in
literary and in verbal disputes, especially among us, under the
name of 'the historic view.' You say, for instance, that man has
a right to freedom, or to be tried on the basis of laws of which
he himself approves; but the historic view replies that history
evolves a certain historic moment conditioning a certain historic
legislation and a people's historic relation thereto. You say
you believe in a God; and the historic view replies that history
evolves certain historic views and humanity's relation to those
views. You say the _Iliad_ is the greatest of epic works; and the
historic view replies that the _Iliad_ is merely the expression
of the historic consciousness of a people at a certain historic
moment. On this basis, the historic view does not dispute with you
as to whether man needs freedom, or whether there is or is not a
God, or whether the _Iliad_ is good or bad: it does nothing to
establish the freedom you desire; to persuade or dissuade you of
the existence of a God or of the beauty of the _Iliad_; it merely
points out to you the place your inner need or your love of truth
or beauty, occupy in history. It merely recognises--and recognises
not by direct cognition, but by historic ratiocination.

Say that you love or believe anything, and the historic view tells
you: 'Love and believe, and your love and faith will find their
place in our historic view. Ages will pass and we shall find the
place you are to occupy in history. Know however in advance, that
what you love is not absolutely beautiful, and what you believe in
is not absolutely true; yet amuse yourselves, children: your love
and faith will find their place and application.'

It is only necessary to add the word 'historic' to any conception
you like, and that conception loses its real vital meaning, in an
artificially-formed historic world-conception.

Of the introduction of telegraphs and railways he remarks that people
attribute great importance to these inventions, and boast of the
progress that is being made, declaring that:

'Man is mastering the forces of Nature. Thought, with the rapidity
of lightning, flies from one end of the world to the other. Time is
vanquished.'

This, says Tolstoy, is excellent and touching.

But let us see who gains by it. We are speaking of the progress
of the electric telegraph. Evidently the advantage and use of the
telegraph is reserved for the upper, so-called 'educated' class;
while the people, nine-tenths of the whole, only hear the droning
of the wires and are hampered by the strict laws made for the
protection of the telegraph.

Along the wires flies the thought that the demand for such-and-such
an article has increased, and that the price must therefore be
raised; or the thought that I, a Russian landed proprietress,
living in Florence, have, thank God, recovered from my nervous
prostration, and that I embrace my adored husband and beg him to
send me 40,000 francs as quickly as possible.

Without going into exact statistics of the messages sent, one may
be quite sure that they all belong to the kind of correspondence
of which the above are samples. No peasant of Yásnaya Polyána in
the Government of Toúla, or any other Russian peasant (and let it
not be forgotten that the peasants form the mass of the people
whose welfare 'progress' is supposed to secure) ever has sent or
received, or for a long time to come will either send or receive,
a single telegram. All the messages that fly above his head add
no jot to his welfare, because all he needs he gets from his own
fields and his own woods, and he is equally indifferent to the
cheapness or dearness of sugar or cotton, to the dethronement of
King Otho, the speeches of Palmerston and Napoleon III, or the
feelings of the lady in Florence. All those thoughts that fly with
the rapidity of lightning round the world, do not increase the
fertility of his fields nor diminish the strictness of the keepers
in the squire's or the Crown's forests, nor do they add to his or
his family's working power, or supply him with an extra labourer.
All these great thoughts may impair his welfare, but cannot secure
or further it, and can have but a negative interest for him. To
the True-Believers in progress, however, the telegraph wires
have brought and are bringing immense advantages. I do not deny
those advantages: I only wish to prove that one must not think,
or persuade others, that what is advantageous for me, is a great
blessing to all the world....

In the opinion of the Russian people what increases their welfare
is an increase of the fertility of the soil, an increase in the
herds of cattle, an increase of the quantity of grain and its
consequently becoming cheaper, an increase of working power,
an increase in woods and pastures, and the absence of town
temptations. (I beg the reader to observe that no peasant ever
complains of the cheapness of bread; it is only the political
economists of Western Europe who soothe him with the prospect that
bread will become dearer and render it more possible for him to
purchase manufactured articles, in which he is not interested.)

Which of these benefits does the railway bring to the peasant? It
increases the temptations; it destroys the woods; it draws away
labourers; it raises the price of grain....

The real people, that is to say those who themselves work and live
productively--nine-tenths of the whole nation--without whom no
progress is conceivable, are always hostile to the railway. And so
what it comes to is this: that the believers in 'progress,' a small
part of society, say that railways increase the welfare of the
people; while the larger part of the nation say that the railways
decrease it.

Interesting, stimulating and suggestive as Tolstoy's articles were, and
valuable as was the experience gained in his school, his magazine had
very few subscribers and only existed for one year: the twelfth number
was the last.

In an article written thirteen years later, he says of his attempts in
1861-2:

At that time I met with no sympathy in the educational journals,
nor even with any contradiction, but only with the completest
indifference to the question I was raising. There were, it is true,
some attacks on a few insignificant details, but the question
itself evidently interested no one. I was young at that time, and
this indifference galled me. I did not understand that I with my
question: How do you know what and how to teach? was like a man
who, in an assembly of Turkish Pachas discussing how to collect
more taxes from the people, should say to them: Gentlemen, before
discussing how much to take from each man, we must first consider
what right we have to collect taxes at all? Obviously, the Pachas
would continue to discuss the methods of collecting, and would
ignore the irrelevant question.

Before passing on to tell of the actual working of the Yásnaya Polyána
school, there is one matter to be noted, small indeed in itself, but
characteristic, and helpful for the understanding of Tolstoy's later
development.

Tolstoy's personal honour has never been questioned, and the reader
will remember that at Sevastopol he flatly refused to touch money
which, according to the long-standing regimental custom, was at his
disposal. Well, in his magazine he printed a story written by one of
the boys in the school, and appraised it with enthusiasm. The hero of
the story, who had been wretchedly poor, returns from the army with
money to spare, and explains the matter to his wife by saying: 'I
was a non-commissioned officer and had Crown money to pay out to the
soldiers, and some remaining over, I kept it.'

Commenting on this, Tolstoy says:

It is revealed that the soldier has become rich, and has done so
in the simplest and most natural manner, just as almost everybody
does who becomes rich--that is, by other people's, the Crown's,
or somebody's, money remaining in his hands owing to a fortunate
accident. Some readers have remarked that this incident is immoral,
and that the people's conception of the Crown as a milch cow should
be eradicated and not confirmed. But not to speak of its artistic
truth, I particularly value that trait in the story. Does not the
Crown money always stop somewhere? And why should it not, once in
a way, stop with a homeless soldier like Gordéy?

In the views of honesty held by the peasants and the upper class,
a complete contrast is often noticeable. The peasants' demands are
specially serious and strict with regard to honesty in the nearest
relations of life; for instance, in respect to one's family, one's
village, or one's commune. In respect to outsiders: the public, the
Crown, or foreigners, or the Treasury especially, the applicability
of the rules of honesty seems to them obscure. A peasant who would
never tell a lie to his brother peasant, and who would bear all
possible hardships for the sake of his family, and not take a
farthing from a fellow-villager or neighbour without having fully
earned it--will be ready to squeeze a foreigner or a townsman like
an orange, and at every second word will lie to a gentleman or an
official. If he is a soldier, he will without the slightest twinge
of conscience stab a French prisoner, and should Crown money come
his way, he would consider it a crime to his family not to take it.
In the upper class, on the contrary, it is quite the reverse....
I do not say which is better, I only say what I believe to be the
case....

To return to the story. The mention of the Crown money, which at
first seems immoral, in our opinion has a most sweet and touching
character. How often a writer of our circle, when wishing to show
his hero as an ideal of honesty, naïvely displays to us the dirty
and depraved nature of his own imagination! Here, on the contrary,
the author has to make his hero happy. His return to his family
would suffice for that, but it was also necessary to remove the
poverty which for so many years had weighed on the family. Where
was he to take money from? From the impersonal Crown! If the author
is to give him wealth, it has to be taken from some one, and it
could not have been found in a more legitimate or reasonable way.

No doubt Tolstoy's statement of peasant morality is true enough; but
Tolstoy's attitude towards the matter is remarkable. He has always had
a keen sense of personal morality, but when public morality was in
question, his decisions seem to me often to have been at fault.

Passing from the moral to the economic aspect of the question, to
Western ears it sounds strange to hear the medieval or Oriental
conception so boldly announced, that property 'has to be taken from
some one' before it can be obtained. In our world, wealth has, during
the last five generations, been increased enormously by inventions, by
organisation, by division of labour, by the skilful utilisation of the
forces of Nature, as well as by co-operation and the bringing together
into one place of industries and individuals mutually helpful; and it
has become impossible for us to believe that the _only_ way to obtain
wealth is by depriving some one else of wealth they already possess.

AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER VII

Birukof.

Fet.

Tolstoy's letter to A. Maude.

Tolstoy's Educational Articles.

Löwenfeld's _Leo N. Tolstoj_.

P. A. Sergeyenko in _Niva_, No. 7, 1906.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SCHOOL

Yásno-Polyána School. Freedom in class. Natural laws. A fight. Theft
and punishment. A walk and talk on art. Peasants' opinion of the
school. Gymnastics. Reading. The Bible. Penmanship. Grammar. History.
Geography. Drawing. Singing. Composition. A literary genius. Art:
exclusive or universal? Reading useless for lack of what to read. The
value of freedom in education. A contrast.

AS already mentioned, Tolstoy's magazine, besides its theoretical
articles, contained others describing the work done at the
Yásno-Polyána school, and from these we learn in his own words, how
Tolstoy and his pupils, and the masters (including the young German,
Keller, whom he had brought back with him from abroad) were occupied
in November and December 1861. The following passages are part of his
description of the school:

No one brings anything with him, neither books nor copy-books.
No homework is set them. Not only do they carry nothing in their
hands, they have nothing to carry even in their heads. They are
not obliged to remember any lesson, nor any of yesterday's work.
They are not tormented by the thought of the impending lesson. They
bring only themselves, their receptive nature, and an assurance
that it will be as jolly in school to-day as it was yesterday.
They do not think of their classes till they have begun. No one
is ever scolded for being late, and they never are late, except
perhaps some of the older boys whose fathers occasionally keep them
at home to do some work. In such cases the boy comes to school
running fast and panting. Until the teacher arrives, some gather
at the porch, pushing one another off the steps or sliding on the
ice-covered path, and some go into the rooms. When it is cold,
while waiting for the master, they read, write, or play about. The
girls do not mix with the boys. When the boys take any notice of
the girls, they never address any one of them in particular, but
always speak to them collectively: 'Hey, girls, why don't you come
and slide?' or, 'Look how frozen the girls are,' or, 'Now girls,
all of you against me!'

Suppose that by the time-table the lesson for the youngest class
is elementary reading; for the second, advanced reading; and for
the third, mathematics. The teacher enters the room, on the floor
of which the boys are lying in a heap, shouting, 'The heap is too
small!' or, 'Boys, you're choking me!' or, 'Don't pull my hair!'
etc.

'Peter Miháylovitch!' cries a voice from the bottom of the heap,
to the teacher as he enters: 'Tell them to stop!'--'Good morning,
Peter Miháylovitch!' cry others, continuing their scrimmage. The
teacher takes the books and gives them to those who have followed
him to the cupboard, while from the heap of boys on the floor,
those on top, still sprawling, demand books. The heap gradually
diminishes. As soon as most of the boys have taken books, the rest
run to the cupboard crying, 'Me too! Me too!'--'Give me yesterday's
book!'--'Give me Kóltsof!' and so forth. If a couple of boys
excited by their struggle still remain on the floor, those who have
taken books and settled down, shout at them, 'What are you up to?
We can't hear anything! Stop it!' The excited ones submit, and,
panting, take to their books; and only just at first swing their
legs with unspent excitement as they sit reading. The spirit of
war flies away and the spirit of reading reigns in the room. With
the same ardour with which he pulled Mítka's hair, he now reads
Kóltsof's works: with almost clenched teeth, with sparkling eyes,
and oblivious of all around him but his book. To tear him from his
reading now would need as much effort as formerly to tear him from
his wrestling.

They sit where they like: on the benches, tables, window-sills,
floor, or in the arm-chair. The girls always sit together. Friends
from the same village, especially the little ones (among whom
there is most comradeship) always sit together. As soon as one of
them decides that he will sit in a certain corner, all his chums,
pushing and diving under the forms, get there too, and sit together
looking about them with faces that express as much happiness and
satisfaction as though, having settled in that place, they would
certainly be happy for the rest of their lives. The large arm-chair
(which somehow found its way into the room) is an object coveted
by the more independent personalities.... As soon as one of them
decides to sit in it, another discerns his intention from his
looks, and they collide and squeeze in. One dislodges the other,
and curling up, sprawls with his head far below the back, but reads
like the rest, quite absorbed in his work. During lessons I have
never seen them whispering, pinching, giggling, laughing behind
their hands, or complaining of one another to the teacher.

The two lower classes sort themselves in one room, the upper
class in another. The teacher appears, and in the first class all
surround him at the blackboard, or lie on the forms, or sit on
the table, near him or near one of the boys who reads. If it is a
writing lesson, they place themselves in a more orderly way, but
keep getting up to look at one another's exercise books, and to
show their own to the teacher. According to the time-table there
should be four lessons before dinner; but sometimes in practice
these become three or two, and may be on quite other subjects.
The teacher may begin with arithmetic and pass on to geometry; or
may begin with Sacred History and end up with grammar. Sometimes
teacher and pupils are so carried away, that a lesson lasts three
hours instead of one. Sometimes the pupils themselves cry: 'Go on,
go on!' and shout contemptuously to any who are tired: 'If you're
tired, go to the little ones!'

In my opinion this external disorder is useful and necessary,
however strange and inconvenient it may seem to the teacher. Of
its advantages I shall have frequent occasion to speak; but of its
apparent disadvantages I will say:

First, this disorder, or free order, only frightens us because we
ourselves were educated in, and are accustomed to, something quite
different. Secondly, in this as in many similar cases, coercion is
used only from hastiness or from lack of respect for human nature.
We think the disorder is growing greater and greater, and that
it has no limit. We think there is no way of stopping it except
by force; but one need only wait a little, and the disorder (or
animation) calms down of itself, and calms down into a far better
and more durable order than any we could devise.

In another place he says:

Our school evolved freely from the principles brought into it by
the teachers and pupils. In spite of the predominant influence of
the teacher, the pupil always had the right not to go to school;
and even when in school, not to listen to the teacher. The teacher
had the right not to admit a pupil....

Submitting naturally only to laws derived from their own nature,
children revolt and rebel when subjected to your premature
interference. They do not believe in the validity of your bells and
time-tables and rules. How often have I seen children fighting. The
teacher rushes to separate them, and the separated enemies look
at one another askance, and even in the stern teacher's presence
cannot refrain from giving one another a parting blow, yet more
painful than its predecessors. How often, any day, do I see some
Kirúshka, clenching his teeth, fly at Taráska, seize his hair,
and throw him to the ground, apparently--though it costs him his
life--determined to maim his foe; yet not a minute passes before
Taráska is already laughing under Kirúshka. One, and then the
other, moderates his blows, and before five minutes have passed
they have made friends, and off they go to sit together.

The other day, between lessons, two boys were struggling in a
corner. The one, a remarkable mathematician about ten years old,
is in the second class; the other, a close-cropped lad, the son
of a servant, is a clever but vindictive, tiny, black-eyed lad,
nicknamed Pussy. Pussy seized the mathematician's long hair and
jammed his head against the wall; the mathematician vainly clutched
at Pussy's close-cropped bristles. Pussy's black eyes gleamed
triumphantly. The mathematician, hardly refraining from tears, kept
saying: 'Well, well, what of it?' But though he tried to keep
up appearances, it was plain he was faring badly. This went on
for some time, and I was in doubt what to do. 'A fight, a fight!'
shouted the boys, and crowded towards the corner. The little ones
laughed; but the bigger ones, though they did not interfere,
exchanged serious glances, and their silence and these glances did
not escape Pussy's observation. He understood that he was doing
something wrong, and began to smile shamefacedly, and by degrees
let go of the mathematician's hair. The mathematician shook himself
free, and giving Pussy a push that banged the back of the latter's
head against the wall, went off satisfied. Pussy began to cry, and
rushed after his enemy, hitting him as hard as he could on his
sheepskin coat, but without hurting him. The mathematician wished
to pay him back, but at that moment several disapproving voices
were raised. 'There now; he's fighting a little fellow!' cried the
onlookers, 'get away, Pussy!'--and therewith the affair ended as
though it had never occurred, except, I think, that both combatants
retained a dim consciousness that fighting is unpleasant, because
both get hurt.

In this case I seemed to detect a feeling of fairness influencing
the crowd; but how often such affairs are settled so that one
does not know what law has decided them, and yet both sides are
satisfied! How arbitrary and unjust by comparison are all School
methods of dealing with such cases. 'You are both to blame: kneel
down!' says the teacher; and the teacher is wrong, because one boy
is in the wrong, and that one triumphs while on his knees, and
chews the cud of his unexpended anger, while the innocent one is
doubly punished....

I am convinced that the School should not interfere with that part
of education which belongs to the family. The School should not,
and has no right to, reward or punish; and the best police and
administration of a School consist in giving full freedom to the
pupils to learn and get on among themselves as they like. I am
convinced of this; and yet the customary School habits are still so
strong in us that in the Yásno-Polyána school we frequently break
this rule....

During last summer, while the school-house was being repaired,
a Leyden jar disappeared from the physical cabinet; pencils
disappeared repeatedly, as well as books--and this at a time when
neither the carpenters nor the painters were at work. We questioned
the boys. The best pupils, those who had been with us longest,
old friends of ours, blushed and were so uneasy that any Public
Prosecutor would have thought their confusion a sure proof of their
guilt. But I knew them, and could answer for them as for myself.
I understood that the very idea of being suspected offended them
deeply and painfully. A gifted and tender-hearted boy, whom I will
call Theodore, turned quite pale, trembled and wept. They promised
to tell me, if they found out; but they declined to undertake a
search. A few days later the thief was discovered. He was the son
of a servant from a distant village. He had led astray, and made an
accomplice of, a peasant boy from the same village; and together
they had hidden the stolen articles in a box. This discovery
produced a strange feeling in the other pupils: a kind of relief
and even joy, accompanied by contempt and pity for the thief. We
proposed that they should allot the punishment themselves. Some
demanded that the thief should be flogged, but stipulated that they
should do the flogging; others said: 'Sew a card on him, with the
word _thief_.' This latter punishment, to our shame be it said,
had been used by us before, and it was the very boy who a year
ago had himself been labelled _liar_, who now most insistently
demanded a card for the thief. We consented, and when one of the
girls was sewing the card on, all the pupils watched and teased
the punished boys with malicious joy. They wanted the punishment
increased: 'Let them be led through the village; and let them wear
cards till the holidays,' said they. The victims cried. The peasant
boy who had been led astray by his comrade, a gifted narrator and
jester, a plump, white, chubby little chap, wept without restraint
and with all his childish might. The other, the chief offender, a
hump-nosed boy with a thin-featured, clever face, became pale, his
lips quivered, his eyes looked wildly and angrily at his joyous
comrades, and occasionally his face was unnaturally distorted by a
sob. His cap, with a torn peak, was stuck on the very back of his
head; his hair was ruffled, his clothes soiled with chalk. All this
now struck me and everybody else as though we saw it for the first
time. The unkindly attention of all was directed to him, and he
felt it painfully. When, with bent head and without looking round,
he started homeward with (as it seemed to me) a peculiar, criminal
gait, and when the boys ran after him in a crowd, teasing him in an
unnatural and strangely cruel way as though, against their will,
they were moved by some evil spirit, something told me that we were
not doing right. But things took their course, and the thief wore
the card that whole day. From this time he began, as it seemed to
me, to learn worse, and one did not see him playing and talking
with his fellows out of class.

One day I came to a lesson, and the pupils informed me, with
a kind of horror, that the boy had again stolen. He had taken
twenty copecks (seven pence) in coppers from the teacher's room,
and had been caught hiding them under the stairs. We again hung
a card on him; and again the same revolting scene recommenced. I
began to admonish him, as all masters admonish; and a big boy,
fond of talking, who was present, also admonished him--probably
repeating words he had heard his father, an innkeeper, use: 'You
steal once, and you do it again,' said he distinctly, glibly, and
with dignity; 'it becomes a habit, and leads to no good.' I began
to get vexed. I glanced at the face of the punished boy, which
had become yet paler, more suffering and harder than before; and
somehow I thought of convicts, and suddenly I felt so ashamed and
disgusted that I tore the stupid card off him, told him to go where
he liked, and became convinced--and convinced not by reason, but by
my whole nature--that I had no right to torment that unfortunate
boy, and that it was not in my power to make of him what I and the
innkeeper's son wanted to make of him. I became convinced that
there are secrets of the soul, hidden from us, on which life may
act, but which precepts and punishments do not reach.

It may be said that any department of life could be treated in this
way: we have merely to invert an established order founded on the
experience of men, and a topsy-turvy millennium is born. It may also be
said that in the foregoing pages Tolstoy appears as the evangelist of
an educational system founded on the free play of youthful instincts
which, speaking merely the language of natural animal life, call for
sympathetic discipline. But in his _Confession_ Tolstoy has treated
his educational writings with such scant respect that criticism is
disarmed; more especially as the actual working of his school was
extremely interesting and much more successful than might have been
expected.

N. V. Ouspénsky, the writer, narrates that he visited Yásnaya Polyána
in 1862, and Tolstoy, having to leave him alone for awhile, asked him
to glance at some of the compositions the boys had written in school.
Taking up one of these, Ouspénsky read:

One day, Lyóf Nikoláyevitch (Tolstoy) called Savóskin up to the
blackboard and ordered him to solve a problem in arithmetic. 'If I
give you five rolls, and you eat one of them, how many rolls will
you have left?'... Savóskin could nohow solve this problem, and the
Count pulled his hair for it....

When Tolstoy returned Ouspénsky pointed out to him this essay, and
Tolstoy, sighing heavily, crossed his hands before him and merely said:
'Life in this world is a hard task.'

Ouspénsky considered that he had unearthed an extraordinary
contradiction between theory and practice; but no one who realises the
difficulty and novelty of Tolstoy's attempt, and how far he is from
claiming perfection for himself or for his achievements, should agree
with Ouspénsky. On the contrary, the essay proves a freedom of relation
between teacher and pupil, which would certainly not have existed had
the hair-pulling been other than impulsive and exceptional.

The school was closed, or nearly so, during the summer, as most of the
pupils then helped their parents with field work; obtaining, Tolstoy
considers, more mental development that way than they could have done
in any school. To make up for this, the hours of study in winter were
long.

The classes generally finish about eight or nine o'clock (unless
carpentering keeps the elder boys somewhat later), and the whole
band run shouting into the yard, and there, calling to one another,
begin to separate, making for different parts of the village.
Occasionally they arrange to coast down-hill to the village in a
large sledge that stands outside the gate. They tie up the shafts,
throw themselves into it, and squealing, disappear from sight in a
cloud of snow, leaving here and there on their path black patches
of children who have tumbled out. In the open air, out of school
(for all its freedom) new relations are formed between pupil and
teacher: freer, simpler and more trustful--those very relations
which seem to us the ideal which School should aim at.

Not long ago we read Gógol's story _Viy_ [an Earth-Spirit] in the
highest class. The final scenes affected them strongly, and excited
their imagination. Some of them played the witch, and kept alluding
to the last chapters....

Out of doors it was a moonless, winter night, with clouds in the
sky, not cold. We stopped at the crossroads. The elder boys, in
their third year, stopped near me, asking me to accompany them
further. The younger ones looked at us, and rushed off down-hill.
They had begun to learn with a new master, and between them and
me there is not the same confidence as between the older boys and
myself.

'Well, let us go to the wood' (a small wood about 120 yards from
the house), said one of them. The most insistent was Fédka, a boy
of ten, with a tender, receptive, poetic yet daring nature. Danger
seems to form the chief condition of pleasure for him. In summer it
always frightened me to see how he, with two other boys, would swim
out into the very middle of the pond, which is nearly 120 yards
wide, and would now and then disappear in the hot reflection of the
summer sun, and swim under water; and how he would then turn on
his back, causing fountains of water to rise, and calling with his
high-pitched voice to his comrades on the bank to see what a fine
fellow he was.

He now knew there were wolves in the wood, and so he wanted to go
there. All agreed; and the four of us went to the wood. Another
boy, a lad of twelve, physically and morally strong, whom I will
call Syómka, went on in front and kept calling and 'ah-ou-ing' with
his ringing voice, to some one at a distance. Prónka, a sickly,
mild and very gifted lad, from a poor family (sickly probably
chiefly from lack of food), walked by my side. Fédka walked between
me and Syómka, talking all the time in a particularly gentle voice:
now relating how he had herded horses in summer, now saying there
was nothing to be afraid of, and now asking, 'Suppose one should
jump out?' and insisting on my giving some reply. We did not go
into the wood: that would have been too dreadful; but even where
we were, near the wood, it was darker, and the road was scarcely
visible, and the lights of the village were hidden from view.
Syómka stopped and listened: 'Stop, lads! What is that?' said he
suddenly.

We were silent, and though we heard nothing, things seemed to grow
more gruesome.

'What shall we do if it leaps out ... and comes at us?' asked Fédka.

We began to talk about Caucasian robbers. They remembered a
Caucasian tale I had told them long ago, and I again told them of
'braves,' of Cossacks, and of Hádji Mourát.[46] Syómka went on in
front, treading boldly in his big boots, his broad back swaying
regularly. Prónka tried to walk by my side, but Fédka pushed him
off the path, and Prónka--who, probably on account of his poverty,
always submitted--only ran up alongside at the most interesting
passages, sinking in the snow up to his knees.

[46] The daring Caucasian leader mentioned by Tolstoy in a
letter quoted in Chapter III.

Every one who knows anything of Russian peasant children knows
that they are not accustomed to, and cannot bear, any caresses,
affectionate words, kisses, hand touchings, and so forth. I have
seen a lady in a peasant school, wishing to pet a boy, say: 'Come,
I will give you a kiss, dear!' and actually kiss him; and the boy
was ashamed and offended, and could not understand why he had been
so treated. Boys of five are already above such caresses--they are
no longer babies. I was therefore particularly struck when Fédka,
walking beside me, at the most terrible part of the story suddenly
touched me lightly with his sleeve, and then clasped two of my
fingers in his hand, and kept hold of them. As soon as I stopped
speaking, Fédka demanded that I should go on, and did this in such
a beseeching and agitated voice that it was impossible not to
comply with his wish.

'Now then, don't get in the way!' said he once angrily to Prónka,
who had run in front of us. He was so carried away as even to be
cruel; so agitated yet happy was he, holding on to my fingers, that
he could let no one dare to interrupt his pleasure.

'Some more! Some more! It is fine!' said he.

We had passed the wood and were approaching the village from the
other end.

'Let's go on,' said all the boys when the lights became visible.
'Let us take another turn!'

We went on in silence, sinking here and there in the rotten snow,
not hardened by much traffic. A white darkness seemed to sway
before our eyes; the clouds hung low, as though something had
heaped them upon us. There was no end to that whiteness, amid which
we alone crunched along the snow. The wind sounded through the bare
tops of the aspens, but where we were, behind the woods, it was
calm.

I finished my story by telling how a 'brave,' surrounded by his
enemies, sang his death-song and threw himself on his dagger. All
were silent.

'Why did he sing a song when he was surrounded?' asked Syómka.

'Weren't you told?--He was preparing for death!' replied Fédka,
aggrieved.

'I think he sang a prayer,' added Prónka.

All agreed. Fédka suddenly stopped.

'How was it, you told us, your Aunt had her throat cut?' asked he.
(He had not yet had enough horrors.) 'Tell us! Tell us!'

I again told them that terrible story of the murder of the Countess
Tolstoy,[47] and they stood silently about me, watching my face.

[47] Some details of this crime are given in 'Why do Men
Stupefy Themselves?' in _Essays and letters_, published in the
_World's Classics_.

'The fellow got caught!' said Syómka.

'He was afraid to go away in the night, while she was lying with
her throat cut!' said Fédka; 'I should have run away!' and he
gathered my two fingers yet more closely in his hand.

We stopped in the thicket, beyond the threshing-floor at the very
end of the village. Syómka picked up a dry stick from the snow and
began striking it against the frosty trunk of a lime tree. Hoar
frost fell from the branches on to one's cap, and the noise of the
blows resounded in the stillness of the wood.

'Lyóf Nikoláyevitch,' said Fédka to me (I thought he was going
again to speak about the Countess), 'why does one learn singing? I
often think, why, really, does one?'

What made him jump from the terror of the murder to this question,
heaven only knows; yet by the tone of his voice, the seriousness
with which he demanded an answer, and the attentive silence of
the other two, one felt that there was some vital and legitimate
connection between this question and our preceding talk. Whether
the connection lay in some response to my suggestion that crime
might be explained by lack of education (I had spoken of that) or
whether he was testing himself--transferring himself into the mind
of the murderer and remembering his own favourite occupation (he
has a wonderful voice and immense musical talent) or whether the
connection lay in the fact that he felt that now was the time for
sincere conversation, and all the problems demanding solution rose
in his mind--at any rate his question surprised none of us.

'And what is drawing for? And why write well?' said I, not knowing
at all how to explain to him what art is for.

'What is drawing for?' repeated he thoughtfully. He really was
asking, What is Art for? And I neither dared nor could explain.

'What is drawing for?' said Syómka. 'Why, you draw anything, and
can then make it from the drawing.'

'No, that is designing,' said Fédka. 'But why draw figures?'

Syómka's matter-of-fact mind was not perplexed.

'What is a stick for, and what is a lime tree for?' said he, still
striking the tree.

'Yes, what is a lime tree for?' said I.

'To make rafters of,' replied Syómka.

'But what is it for in summer, when not yet cut down?'

'Then, it's no use.'

'No, really,' insisted Fédka; 'why does a lime tree grow?'

And we began to speak of the fact that not everything exists for
use, but that there is also beauty, and that Art is beauty; and we
understood one another, and Fédka quite understood why the lime
tree grows and what singing is for.

Prónka agreed with us, but he thought rather of moral beauty:
goodness.

Syómka understood with his big brain, but did not acknowledge
beauty apart from usefulness. He was in doubt (as often happens to
men with great reasoning power): feeling Art to be a force, but not
feeling in his soul the need of that force. He, like them, wished
to get at Art by his reason, and tried to kindle that fire in
himself.

'We'll sing _Who hath_ to-morrow. I remember my part,' said he. (He
has a correct ear, but no taste or refinement in singing.) Fédka,
however, fully understood that the lime tree is good when in leaf:
good to look at in summer; and that that is enough.

Prónka understood that it is a pity to cut it down, because it,
too, has life:

'Why, when we take the sap of a lime, it's like taking blood.'

Syómka, though he did not say so, evidently thought that there was
little use in a lime when it was sappy.

It feels strange to repeat what we then said, but it seems to me
that we said all that can be said about utility, and plastic and
moral beauty.

We went on to the village. Fédka still clung to my hand; now, it
seemed to me, from gratitude. We all were nearer one another that
night than we had been for a long time. Prónka walked beside us
along the broad village street.

'See, there is still a light in Mazánof's house,' said he. 'As I
was going to school this morning, Gavrúka was coming from the pub,
as dru-u-nk as could be! His horse all in a lather and he beating
it! I am always sorry for such things. Really, why should it be
beaten?'

'And the other day, coming from Toúla, my daddy gave his horse the
reins,' said Syómka; 'and it took him into a snow-drift and there
he slept--quite drunk.'

'And Gavrúka kept on beating his horse over the eyes, and I felt so
sorry,' repeated Prónka again. 'Why should he beat it? He got down
and just flogged it.'

Syómka suddenly stopped.

'Our folk are already asleep,' said he, looking in at the window of
his crooked, dirty hut. 'Won't you walk a little longer?'

'No.'

'Go-o-od-bye, Lyóf Nikoláyevitch!' shouted he suddenly, and tearing
himself away from us, as it were with an effort, he ran to the
house, lifted the latch and disappeared.

'So you will take each of us home? First one and then the other?'
said Fédka.

We went on. There was a light in Prónka's hut, and we looked in at
the window. His mother, a tall and handsome but toil-worn woman,
with black eyebrows and eyes, sat at the table, peeling potatoes.
In the middle of the hut hung a cradle. Prónka's brother, the
mathematician from our second class, was standing at the table,
eating potatoes with salt. It was a black, tiny, and dirty hut.

'What a plague you are!' shouted the mother at Prónka. 'Where have
you been?'

Prónka glanced at the window with a meek, sickly smile. His mother
guessed that he had not come alone, and her face immediately
assumed a feigned expression that was not nice.

Only Fédka was left.

'The travelling tailors are at our house, that is why there's a
light there,' said he in the softened voice that had come to him
that evening. 'Good-bye, Lyóf Nikoláyevitch!' added he, softly
and tenderly, and he began to knock with the ring attached to the
closed door. 'Let me in!' his high-pitched voice rang out amid the
winter stillness of the village. It was long before they opened the
door for him. I looked in at the window. The hut was a large one.
The father was playing cards with a tailor, and some copper coins
lay on the table. The wife, Fédka's stepmother, was sitting near
the torch-stand, looking eagerly at the money. The young tailor,
a cunning drunkard, was holding his cards on the table, bending
them, and looking triumphantly at his opponent. Fédka's father,
the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, his brow wrinkled with mental
exertion and vexation, changed one card for another, and waved his
horny hand in perplexity above them.

'Let me in!'

The woman rose and went to the door.

'Good-bye!' repeated Fédka, once again. 'Let us always have such
walks!'

Thus Tolstoy for the second time found himself faced by the question:
What is Art? which had arisen when he spoke to the Society of Lovers
of Russian Literature. This time it was put to him by a ten-year-old
peasant boy, and it seemed to him that: 'We said all that can be said
about utility, and plastic and moral beauty.' Twenty years later,
after achieving the highest fame as a literary artist, he returned
to the subject and tried to write an essay on the connection between
life and Art, thinking that he would be able to accomplish it at a
single effort. It proved, however, as he tells us, 'that my views on
the matter were so far from clear, that I could not arrange them in a
way that satisfied me. From that time I did not cease to think of the
subject, and I recommenced writing on it six or seven times; but each
time, after writing a considerable part of it, I found myself unable to
bring the work to a satisfactory conclusion, and had to put it aside.'
Only after another fifteen years' study and reflection did he succeed,
in 1898, in producing _What is Art?_ which raised such a storm in the
esthetic dovecots, and induced the editor of _Literature_ to declare
that 'There was never any reason for inferring that Count Tolstoy's
opinions on the philosophy of art would be worth the paper on which
they were written'; while A. B. Walkley was asserting that 'this calmly
and cogently reasoned effort to put art on a new basis is a literary
event of the first importance.'

We have, however, as yet only reached the year 1862, and must not
anticipate.

At first the peasants were rather afraid of the school, but before
long they gained confidence and the report became current among them
that: 'At Yásno-Polyána school they learn everything, including all
the sciences, and there are such clever masters that it is dreadful;
it is said that they even imitate thunder and lightning. Anyway, the
lads understand well, and have begun to read and write.' Another
very general opinion was that: 'They teach the boys everything (like
gentlemen's sons) much of it is no use, but still, as they quickly
learn to read, it is worth sending the children there.'

Naturally Tolstoy, himself in those days an ardent gymnast, had
parallel and horizontal bars put up, and gave the children physical
training. To the effects of this on the stomach, the village mothers
did not fail to attribute any digestive troubles that befell their
children from time to time; especially when the long Lenten fast was
succeeded by a return to more appetising food, or when, after such
luxuries had long been lacking, fresh vegetables again came into use in
summer.

In his account of the Yásno-Polyána school, Tolstoy tells us there were
about forty pupils enrolled, but more than thirty were rarely present
at a time; among them were four or five girls, and sometimes three or
four male adults who came either for a month or for a whole winter.
Most of the boys were from seven to ten years old. (Tolstoy says that
children learn to read most rapidly, easily and well, between the ages
of six and eight.)

There were four teachers, and generally from five to seven lessons a
day. The teachers kept diaries of their work, and discussed matters
together on Sundays, when they drew up plans for the coming week. These
plans were, however, not strictly adhered to, but were constantly
modified to meet the demands of the pupils.

Tolstoy's sister told me of another Sunday occupation at Yásnaya
Polyána in those days. Tolstoy used to invite all the boys from the
neighbouring schools within reach, and used to play games with them;
the favourite game being _Barre_, which I assume to be a form of 'Storm
the Castle.'

Tolstoy came to the conclusion that teachers involuntarily strive to
find a method of teaching convenient for themselves, and that the more
convenient a method is for the teacher, the less convenient it is for
the pupil; and only _that_ method is good which satisfies the pupils.

His theory of freedom as the basis of success in instruction, was put
to a rude test by the fact that for a considerable time his pupils made
little or no headway in learning to read. He says:

The simple thought that the time had not yet come for good reading
and that there was at present no need of it, but that the pupils
would themselves find the best method when the need arose, only
recently entered my head.

After telling how the boys first met the difficulty of mastering the
mechanical process of reading, Tolstoy goes on to tell how in the upper
class progress was suddenly made owing to what seemed an accident.

In the class of advanced reading some one book is used, each boy
reading in turn, and then all telling its contents together. They
had been joined that autumn by an extremely talented lad, T., who
had studied for two years with a sacristan, and was therefore ahead
of them all in reading. He reads as we do, and so the pupils only
understand anything of the advanced reading (and then not very much
of it) when he reads; and yet each of them wishes to read. But as
soon as a bad reader begins, the others express dissatisfaction,
especially when the story is interesting. They laugh, and get
cross, and the bad reader feels ashamed, and endless disputes
arise. Last month one of the boys announced that at any cost he
would manage, within a week, to read as well as T.; others made the
same announcement, and suddenly mechanical reading became their
favourite occupation. For an hour or an hour-and-a-half at a time,
they would sit without tearing themselves away from the books,
which they did not understand; and they began taking books home
with them; and really, within three weeks, they made such progress
as could not have been expected.

In their case the reverse had happened of what usually occurs with
those who learn the rudiments. Generally a man learns to read, and
finds nothing he cares to read or understand. In this case the
pupils were convinced that there is something worth reading and
understanding, but felt that they lacked the capacity; and so they
set to work to become proficient readers.

A difficulty of enormous importance was the absence of books really
suitable for simple folk to read.

The insoluble problem was that for the education of the people an
ability and a desire to read good books is essential. Good books
are, however, written in a literary language the people don't
understand. In order to learn to understand it, one would have to
read a great deal; and people won't read willingly unless they
understand what they read.

Connected with this difficulty of finding books suited to the
understanding of peasants and of peasant children, was the parallel
difficulty of finding literary subjects that interested them. This was
first met by reading the Old Testament stories to them:

A knowledge of Sacred History was demanded both by the pupils
themselves and by their parents. Of all the oral subjects I tried
during three years, nothing so suited the understanding and mental
condition of the boys as the Old Testament. The same was the case
in all the schools that came under my observation. I tried the
New Testament, I tried Russian History and Geography, I tried
explanations of natural phenomena (so much advocated to-day), but
it was all listened to unwillingly and quickly forgotten. But the
Old Testament was remembered and narrated eagerly both in class and
at home, and so well remembered that after two months the children
wrote Scripture tales from memory with very slight omissions.

It seems to me that the book of the childhood of the race will
always be the best book for the childhood of each man. It seems to
me impossible to replace that book. To alter or to abbreviate the
Bible, as is done in Sonntag's and other school primers, appears
to me bad. All--every word--in it is right, both as revelation and
as art. Read about the creation of the world in the Bible, and
then read it in an abbreviated Sacred History, and the alteration
of the Bible into the Sacred History will appear to you quite
unintelligible. The latter can only be learnt by heart; while the
Bible presents the child with a vivid and majestic picture he will
never forget. The omissions made in the Sacred History are quite
unintelligible, and only impair the character and beauty of the
Scriptures. Why, for instance, is the statement omitted in all the
Sacred Histories, that when there was nothing, the Spirit of God
moved upon the face of the waters, and that after having created,
God looked at His creation and saw that it was good, and that then
it was the morning and evening of such and such a day? Why do they
omit that God breathed into Adam's nostrils the breath of life, and
that having taken one of his ribs He with the flesh closed up the
place thereof, and so forth? One must read the Bible to unperverted
children, to understand how necessary and true it all is. Perhaps
one ought not to give the Bible to perverted young ladies; but
when reading it to peasant children I did not alter or omit a
single word. None of them giggled behind another's back; but all
listened eagerly and with natural reverence. The story of Lot and
his daughters, and the story of Judah's son, evoked horror but not
laughter....

How intelligible and clear it all is, especially for a child, and
yet how stern and serious! I cannot imagine what instruction would
be possible, without that book. Yet when one has learnt these
stories only in childhood, and has afterwards partly forgotten
them, one thinks: What good do they do us? Would it not be all
the same if one did not know them at all? So it seems till, on
beginning to teach, you test on other children the elements that
helped to develop you. It seems as if one could teach children
to write and read and calculate, and could give them an idea of
history, geography, and natural phenomena, without the Bible, and
before the Bible; yet nowhere is this done: everywhere the child
first of all gets to know the Bible, its stories, or extracts from
it. The first relations of the learner to the teacher are founded
on that book. Such a general fact is not an accident. My very free
relations with my pupils at the commencement of the Yásno-Polyána
school helped me to find the explanation of this phenomenon.

A child or a man on entering school (I make no distinction between
a ten-, thirty-, or seventy-year-old man) brings with him the
special view of things he has deduced from life and to which he is
attached. In order that a man of any age should begin to learn,
it is necessary that he should love learning. That he should love
learning, he must recognise the falseness and insufficiency of
his own view of things, and must scent afar off that new view of
life which learning is to reveal to him. No man or boy would have
the strength to learn, if the result of learning presented itself
to him merely as a capacity to write, to read, and to reckon.
No master could teach if he did not command an outlook on life
higher than his pupils possess. That a pupil may surrender himself
whole-heartedly to his teacher, one corner must be lifted of the
veil which hides from him all the delight of that world of thought,
knowledge, and poetry to which learning will admit him. Only by
being constantly under the spell of that bright light shining ahead
of him, will the pupil be able to use his powers in the way we
require of him.

What means have we of lifting this corner of the veil?... As I
have said, I thought as many think, that being myself in the world
to which I had to introduce my pupils, it would be easy for me to
do this; and I taught the rudiments, explained natural phenomena,
and told them, as the primers do, that the fruits of learning are
sweet; but the scholars did not believe me, and kept aloof. Then I
tried reading the Bible to them, and quite took possession of them.
The corner of the veil was lifted, and they yielded themselves to
me completely. They fell in love with the book, and with learning,
and with me. It only remained for me to guide them on....

To reveal to the pupil a new world, and to make him, without
possessing knowledge, love knowledge, there is no book but the
Bible. I speak even for those who do not regard the Bible as a
revelation. There are no other works--at least I know none--which
in so compressed and poetic a form contain all those sides of
human thought which the Bible unites in itself. All the questions
raised by natural phenomena are there dealt with. Of all the
primitive relations of men with one another: the family, the State,
and religion, we first become conscious through that book. The
generalisations of thought and wisdom, with the charm given by
their childlike simplicity of form, seize the pupil's mind for the
first time. Not only does the lyricism of David's psalms act on the
minds of the elder pupils; but more than that, from this book every
one becomes conscious for the first time of the whole beauty of
the epos in its incomparable simplicity and strength. Who has not
wept over the story of Joseph and his meeting with his brethren?
Who has not, with bated breath, told the story of the bound and
shorn Samson, revenging himself on his enemies and perishing under
the ruins of the palace he destroys, or received a hundred other
impressions on which we were reared as on our mothers' milk?

Let those who deny the educative value of the Bible and say it is
out of date, invent a book and stories explaining the phenomena of
Nature, either from general history or from the imagination, which
will be accepted as the Bible stories are; and then we will admit
that the Bible is obsolete....

Drawn though it may be from a one-sided experience, I repeat my
conviction. The development of a child or a man in our society
without the Bible, is as inconceivable as that of an ancient Greek
would have been without Homer. The Bible is the only book to begin
with, for a child's reading. The Bible, both in its form and in its
contents, should serve as a model for all children's primers and
all reading books. A translation of the Bible into the language of
the common folk, would be the best book for the people.

When pupils came from other schools where they had had to learn
Scripture by heart, or had been inoculated with the abbreviated
school-primer versions, Tolstoy found that the Bible had nothing like
as strong an effect as it had on boys who came fresh to it.

Such pupils do not experience what is felt by fresh pupils, who
listen to the Bible with beating heart, seizing every word,
thinking that now, now at last, all the wisdom of the world is
about to be revealed to them.

In reading the above passages, it should be borne in mind that in
Russian usage 'The Bible' means the Old Testament only.

Besides the Bible, the only books the people understand and like, says
Tolstoy, are those written not for the people but by the people; such
as folk-tales and collections of songs, legends, proverbs, verses,
and riddles. There was much in his experience which fits in with what
Mr. Cecil Sharp and Miss Neal of the Espérance Club, have lately been
demonstrating by their revivals of English Folk Songs and Dances:
namely, that there is an excellent literature and art which children
and common folk appreciate and assimilate as eagerly and excellently
as any one, and which it is the height of folly for cultured people
to despise; and his keen perception of the gap that separates the
art and literature accessible to the people from the art that by its
artificiality is beyond their reach, led him subsequently to undertake,
first a series of school primers, and then the re-telling of a number
of folk-tales and legends, which have reached more readers, and perhaps
benefited the world more, than anything else he has written.

With penmanship it happened at Yásno-Polyána school, as with reading:

The pupils wrote very badly, and a new master introduced writing
from copies (another exercise very sedate and easy for the
master). The pupils became dull, and we were obliged to abandon
calligraphy, and did not know how to devise any way of improving
their handwriting. The eldest class discovered the way for itself.
Having finished writing the Bible stories, the elder pupils began
to ask for their exercise-books to take home [probably to read to
their parents]. These were dirty, crumpled, and badly written. The
precise mathematician P. asked for some paper, and set to work
to rewrite his stories. This idea pleased the others. 'Give me,
too, some paper!'-- 'Give me an exercise-book!' and a fashion for
calligraphy set in, which still prevails in the upper class. They
took an exercise-book, put before them a written alphabet copy from
which they imitated each letter, boasting to one another of their
performance, and in two weeks' time they had made great progress.

Grammar turned out to be an unsatisfactory subject, and to have hardly
any connection with correct writing or speaking.

In our youngest--the third--class, they write what they like.
Besides that, the youngest write out in the evening, one at a
time, sentences they have composed all together. One writes, and
the others whisper among themselves, noting his mistakes, and only
waiting till he has finished, in order to denounce his misplaced
e or his wrongly detached prefix, or sometimes to perpetrate a
blunder of their own. To write correctly and to correct mistakes
made by others, gives them great pleasure. The elder boys seize
every letter they can get hold of, exercising themselves in
the correction of mistakes, and trying with all their might to
write correctly; but they cannot bear grammar or the analysis of
sentences, and in spite of a bias we had for analysis, they only
tolerate it to a very limited extent, falling asleep or evading the
classes.

History on the whole went badly, except such bits of Russian history
as, when told poetically, aroused patriotic feelings. On one memorable
occasion the whole class went wild with excitement and eager interest.
That was when Tolstoy, with a poet's licence, told of the defeat of
Napoleon's invasion of Russia in 1812.

Except in this legendary way, the teaching of history to children is,
in Tolstoy's opinion, useless. The historic sense develops later than
the artistic sense:

In my experience and practice the first germ of interest in
history arises out of contemporary events, sometimes as a result
of participation in them, through political interest, political
opinions, debates, and the reading of newspapers. Consequently the
idea of beginning the teaching of history from present times should
suggest itself to every intelligent teacher.

Of geography as a subject for the education of children, Tolstoy has an
even lower opinion:

In Von Vizin's comedy _The Minor_, when Mitrofánoushka was being
persuaded to learn geography, his mother said: 'Why teach him
all the countries? The coachman will drive him where he may have
to go to.' Nothing more to the point has ever been said against
geography, and all the learned men in the world put together cannot
rebut such an irrefragable argument. I am speaking quite seriously.
What need was there for me to know where the river and town of
Barcelona are situated, when for thirty-three years I have not once
had occasion to use the knowledge? Not even the most picturesque
description of Barcelona and its inhabitants could, I imagine,
conduce to the development of my mental faculties.

In fact, the sweeping conclusion at which Tolstoy arrives is that:

I not only see no use, but I see great harm, in teaching history or
geography before the University is reached.

And he leaves it an open question whether even the University should
concern itself with such subjects.

Drawing was a favourite lesson with the boys; but I must confine myself
to a single extract on that subject:

We drew figures from the blackboard in the following way: I first
drew a horizontal or a vertical line, dividing it into parts by
dots, and the pupils copied this line. Then I drew another or
several perpendicular or sloping lines, standing in a certain
relation to the first, and similarly divided up. Then we joined
the dots of these different lines by others (straight or curved),
and formed some symmetrical figure which, as it was gradually
evolved, was copied by the boys. It seemed to me that this was a
good plan: first, because the boy clearly saw the whole process of
the formation of the figure, and secondly, because his perception
of the co-relation of lines was developed by this drawing from the
board, much better than by copying drawings or designs....

It is nearly always useless to hang up a large complete picture
or figure, because a beginner is quite at a loss before it, as he
would be before an object from nature. But the growth of the figure
before his eyes has an important meaning. In this case the pupil
sees the backbone and skeleton of the drawing on which the body is
subsequently formed. The pupils were always called on to criticise
the lines and their relation, as I drew them. I often purposely
drew them wrong, to find out in how far their judgment of the
co-relation and incorrectness of the lines had been developed. Then
again, when I was drawing my figure I asked the boys where they
thought the next line should be added; and I even made one or other
of them invent the shape of the figure himself.

In this way I not only aroused a more lively interest, but got the
boys to participate freely in the formation and development of
the figures; and this prevented the question. Why? which boys so
naturally put when they are set to draw from copies.

The ease or difficulty with which it was understood, and the more
or less interest evoked, chiefly influenced the choice of the
method of instruction; and I often quite abandoned what I had
prepared for the lesson, merely because it was dull or foreign to
the boys.

In the singing class, Tolstoy very soon found that notes written on
the staff were not easily grasped by the pupils, and after using the
staff for some ten lessons, he once showed the boys the use of numbers
instead, and from that day forward they always asked him to use
numbers, and they themselves always used numbers in writing music.
This method is much more convenient, Tolstoy considers, for explaining
both the intervals and the changes of key. The pupils who were not
musical soon dropped out of the class, and the lessons with those
who were, sometimes went on for three or four hours at a stretch. He
tried to teach them musical time in the usual manner, but succeeded
so badly that he had to take that and melody separately. First he
took the sounds without reference to time, and then beat the time
without considering the sounds, and finally joined the two processes
together. After several lessons he found that the method he had drifted
into, combined the chief features (though not some of the minor
peculiarities) of Chevet's method, which, as already mentioned, he had
seen in successful operation in Paris. After a very few lessons, two of
the boys used to write down the melodies of the songs they knew, and
were almost able to read music at sight.

From the limited experience he had in teaching music, Tolstoy--to
quote his own words almost textually--became convinced that: (1) To
write sounds by means of figures is the most profitable method; (2) To
teach time separately from sound is the most profitable method; (3)
For the teaching of music to be willingly and fruitfully received, one
must from the start teach the _art_ and not aim merely at dexterity
in singing or playing. Spoilt young ladies may be taught to play
Burgmüller's exercises; but it is better not to teach the children of
the people at all, than to teach them mechanically; (4) Nothing so
harms musical instruction as what looks like a knowledge of music:
namely the performance of choirs, and performances at examinations,
speech-days, or in church; and (5) In teaching music to the people, the
thing to be aimed at is to impart our knowledge of the general laws of
music, but not the false taste we have developed among us.

In one of the most remarkable of his articles, Tolstoy tells how he
discovered that Fédka and Syómka possessed literary ability of the
highest order. Composition lessons had not gone well, until one day
Tolstoy proposed that the children should write a story of peasant
life to illustrate a popular proverb. Most of them felt this to be
beyond their powers, and went on with their other occupations. One
of them, however, bade Tolstoy write it himself in competition with
them, and he set to work to do so, till Fédka, climbing on the back of
his chair, interrupted him by reading over his shoulder. Tolstoy then
began reading out what he had composed, and explaining how he thought
of continuing the story. Several of the boys became interested, not
approving of Tolstoy's work, but criticising and amending it, offering
suggestions and supplying details. Syómka and Fédka particularly
distinguished themselves, and showed extraordinary imagination, and
such judgment, sense of proportion, restraint, and power of clothing
their thoughts in words, that Tolstoy was carried away by the interest
of the work and wrote as hard as he could to their dictation, having
constantly to ask them to wait and not forget the details they had
suggested. Fédka--of whom Tolstoy says that 'The chief quality in every
art, the sense of proportion, was in him extraordinarily developed:
he writhed at every superfluous detail suggested by any of the other
boys,'--gradually took control of the work, and ruled so despotically
and with such evident right, that the others dropped off and went home,
except Syómka, who along his own more matter-of-fact line continued to
co-operate.

We worked from seven in the evening till eleven. They felt neither
hunger nor weariness and were even angry with me when I stopped
writing; and they set to work to do it themselves turn and turn
about, but did not get on well and soon gave it up....

I left the lesson because I was too excited.

'What is the matter with you? Why are you so pale: are you ill?'
asked my colleague. Indeed, only two or three times in my life have
I experienced such strong emotion as during that evening....

Next day Tolstoy could hardly believe the experience of the night
before. It seemed incredible that a peasant boy, hardly able to read,
should suddenly display such marvellous command of artistic creative
power.

It seemed to me strange and offensive that I, the author of
_Childhood_, who had achieved a certain success and was recognised
by the educated Russian public as possessing artistic talent,
should in artistic matters not merely be unable to instruct or
help eleven-year-old Syómka and Fédka, but should hardly be able,
except at a happy moment of excitement, to keep up with them and
understand them.

Next day we set to work to continue the story. When I asked Fédka
if he had thought of a continuation, he only waved his hand and
remarked: 'I know, I know!... Who will do the writing?'... We
resumed the work, and again the boys showed the same enthusiasm,
and the same sense of artistic truth and proportion.

Half-way through the lesson I had to leave them. They wrote two
pages without me, as just in feeling and as true to life as the
preceding ones. These two pages were rather poorer in detail, some
of the details were not quite happily placed, and there were also a
couple of repetitions. All this had evidently occurred because the
actual writing was a difficulty for them. On the third day we had
similar success.... There could no longer be any doubt or thought
of its being a mere accident. We had obviously succeeded in finding
a more natural and inspiring method than any we had previously
tried.

This unfinished story was accidentally destroyed. Tolstoy was greatly
annoyed, and Fédka and Syómka, though they did not understand his
vexation, offered to stay the night at his house and reproduce it.
After eight o'clock, when school was over, they came, and (to
Tolstoy's great pleasure) locked themselves into his study, where at
first they were heard laughing but then became very quiet. On listening
at the door Tolstoy heard their subdued voices discussing the story,
and heard also the scratching of a pen. At midnight he knocked and
was admitted. Syómka was standing at the large table, writing busily;
his lines running crookedly across the paper and his pen constantly
seeking the inkstand. Fédka told Tolstoy to 'wait a bit,' and insisted
on Syómka's adding something more, to his dictation. At last Tolstoy
took the exercise-book; and the lads, after enjoying a merry supper of
potatoes and _kvás_, divested themselves of their sheepskin coats and
lay down to sleep under the writing table; their 'charming, healthy,
childish, peasant laughter' still ringing through the room.

The story just mentioned, and other stories written by the children,
were published in the magazine; and Tolstoy declares them to be, in
their way, superior to anything else in Russian literature. It was
largely on the model of these peasant children's stories that, years
later, he wrote his own famous stories for the people.

The rules for encouraging composition which he deduces from his
experience are these:

(1) To offer as large and varied a choice of themes as possible;
not inventing them specially for the children, but offering such as
most interest the teacher and seem to him most important.

(2) To give children stories written by children to read, and to
offer only children's compositions as models; because these are
juster, finer and more moral than those written by adults.

(3) (Specially important.) Never, when looking through the
compositions, make any remarks to the children about the neatness
of the exercise-books, the handwriting, or the spelling; nor, above
all, about the construction of the sentences, or about logic.

(4) Since the difficulty of composition lies not in size nor in
subject, nor in correctness of language, but in the mechanism of
the work, which consists: (_a_) in choosing one out of the large
number of thoughts and images that offer themselves; (_b_) in
choosing words wherewith to clothe it; (_c_) in remembering it
and finding a fitting place for it; (_d_) in remembering what
has already been written, so as not to repeat anything or omit
anything, and in finding a way of joining up what has preceded to
what succeeds; (_e_) and finally in so managing that while thinking
and writing at one and the same time, the one operation shall not
hamper the other,--I, having these things in view, proceeded as
follows.

At first I took upon myself some of these sides of the work,
transferring them gradually to the pupils. At first, out of the
thoughts and images suggested, I chose for them those which seemed
to me best, and I kept these in mind and indicated suitable places
to insert them, and I looked over what had been written to avoid
repetitions, and I did the writing myself, letting them merely
clothe the thoughts and images in words. Afterwards I let them
select, and then let them look over what had been written, and
finally they took on themselves the actual writing....

One of the profoundest convictions impressed on Tolstoy's mind by his
educational experiments was that the peasants and their children have a
large share of artistic capacity, and that art is immensely important
because of its humanising effect on them, and because it arouses and
trains their faculties. Unfortunately the works: literary, poetic,
dramatic, pictorial and plastic, now produced, are being produced
expressly for people possessed of leisure, wealth, and a special,
artificial training, and are therefore useless to the people. This
deflection of art from the service of the masses of whom there are
millions, to the delectation of the classes of whom there are but
thousands, appears to him to be a very great evil.

He says with reference to two realms of art which he had loved
passionately, and with which he was specially familiar: music and
poetry, that he noticed that the demands of the masses were more
legitimate than the demands of the classes.

Terrible to say, I came to the conviction that all that we have
done in those two departments has been done along a false and
exceptional path, which lacks importance, has no future, and is
insignificant in comparison with the demands upon, and even with
the samples of, those same arts which we find put forward by the
people. I became convinced that such lyrical compositions as,
for example, Poúshkin's 'I remember the marvellous moment,' and
such musical productions as Beethoven's Last Symphony, are not so
absolutely and universally good as the song of 'Willy the Steward'
or the melody of 'Floating down the river, Mother Vólga'; and that
Poúshkin and Beethoven please us, not because they are absolutely
beautiful, but because we are as spoiled as they, and because they
flatter our abnormal irritability and weakness. How common it is to
hear the empty and stale paradox, that to understand the beautiful,
a preparation is necessary! Who said so? Why? What proves it? It
is only a shift, a loophole, to escape from the hopeless position
to which the false direction of our art, produced for one class
alone, has led us. Why are the beauty of the sun and of the human
face, and the beauty of the sounds of a folk-song, and of deeds of
love and self-sacrifice, accessible to every one, and why do _they_
demand no preparation?

For years I vainly strove to make my pupils feel the poetic
beauties of Poúshkin and of our whole literature, and a similar
attempt is being made by innumerable teachers not in Russia alone;
and if these teachers notice the results of their efforts, and will
be frank about the matter, they will admit that the chief result of
this attempt to develop poetic feeling, is to kill it; and that it
is just those pupils whose natures are most poetic who show most
aversion to such commentaries....

I will try to sum up all that I have said above. In reply to the
question: Do people need the _beaux arts_? pedagogues usually grow
timid and confused (only Plato decided the matter boldly in the
negative). They say: 'Art is needed, but with certain limitations;
and to make it possible for all to become artists would be bad for
the social structure. Certain arts and certain degrees of art can
only exist in a certain class of society. The arts must have their
special servants, entirely devoted to them,' They say: 'It should
be possible for those who are greatly gifted to escape from among
the people and devote themselves completely to the service of art.'
That is the greatest concession pedagogy makes to the right of each
individual to become what he likes.

But I consider that to be all wrong. I think that a need to
enjoy art and to serve art, is inherent in every human being, to
whatever race or class he may belong; and that this need has its
right and should be satisfied. Taking that position as an axiom,
I say that if the enjoyment and production of art by every one,
presents inconveniences and inconsistencies, the reason lies in the
character and direction art has taken: about which we must be on
our guard, lest we foist anything false on the rising generation,
and lest we prevent it from producing something new, both as to
form and as to matter.

Tolstoy goes so far as to doubt whether, so long as no suitable
literature is produced for the people, it is even worth their while to
learn to read.

Looking closer at the results of the rudiments in the form in which
they are supplied to the masses, I think most people will decide
that the rudiments do more harm than good, taking into account
the prolonged compulsion, the disproportionate development of
memory, the false conception of the completeness of science, the
aversion to further education, the false vanity, and the habit of
meaningless reading acquired in these schools....

'Let us print good books for the people!'... How simple and easy
that seems--like all great thoughts! There is only one obstacle,
namely that there exist no good books for the people, either here
or in Europe. To print such books, they must first be produced; and
none of our philanthropists think of undertaking _that_ work!

Before closing this rapid summary of Tolstoy's educational writings,
let me quote a few more sentences which sum up his essential position:

In my articles on Education I have given my theoretic reasons for
considering that only freedom on the part of the pupils to select
what they will learn and how they will learn it, can furnish a
sound basis for any instruction. In practice I constantly applied
those rules to the schools under my guidance ...and the results
were always very good both for the teachers and the pupils, as well
as for the evolution of new methods; and this I assert boldly, for
hundreds of visitors came to the Yásno-Polyána school and know how
it worked.

For the masters, the result of such relations with the pupils was
that they did not consider any methods they happened to know,
to be the best, but they tried to discover new methods and made
acquaintance with other teachers whose ways they could learn. They
tested fresh methods, and above all, they themselves were always
learning. A master never allowed himself, in cases of failure, to
think that it was the pupils' fault: their laziness, naughtiness,
stupidity, deafness or stuttering; but he was convinced that the
fault was his own, and for every defect on the side of the pupil or
pupils, he tried to discover a remedy.

For the pupils the results were that they learnt eagerly, always
begged to have additional lessons on winter evenings, and were
quite free in class--which, in my conviction and experience, is the
chief condition of successful teaching. Between the teachers and
the pupils friendly and natural relations always arose, without
which it is not possible for a teacher to know his pupils fully....

With reference to the methods of instruction, the results were that
no method was adopted or rejected because it pleased or did not
please the teacher, but only because the pupil, without compulsion,
accepted or did not accept it. But besides the good results which
unfailingly followed the adoption of my method both by myself and
by all--more than twenty--other teachers (I say 'unfailingly'
because we never had a single pupil who did not master the
rudiments)--besides these results, the adoption of the principles
of which I have spoken produced this effect, that during fifteen
years all the different modifications to which my method has been
subjected, have not only not removed it from the demands of the
people, but have brought it closer and closer to them.... In my
school... every teacher, while bringing his pupils forward, himself
feels the need of learning; and this was constantly the case with
all the teachers I had.

Moreover, the very methods of instruction themselves--since they
are not fixed once for all but aim at finding the easiest and
simplest paths--change and improve according to what the teacher
learns from the pupils' relation to his teaching.

The children had not to pay anything for attending the school, and the
relations between them and Tolstoy are illustrated by the account a
visitor has given of seeing Tolstoy rush through a gate followed by a
crowd of merry youngsters who were snow-balling him. Tolstoy was intent
on making his escape, but on seeing the visitor he changed his mind,
acknowledged his defeat, and surrendered to his triumphant pursuers.

Tolstoy does not stand before the world to-day primarily as a
school-master, and even were I competent to deal with the subject,
it would exceed the limits of this biography to attempt a detailed
criticism of his precepts and practice; but he evidently possessed, as
he claims in one of his articles, 'a certain pedagogic tact'; and he
is clearly right in his belief that the rigid discipline of schools,
the lack of freedom and initiative, the continual demand for silence
and obedience, and the refusal to allow pupils to criticise the lessons
they receive, have a constantly stupefying effect.

All that he allowed at Yásnaya Polyána was denied to us when I was at
Christ's Hospital, in 1868-1874; and I look back on those six years
of mental stultification as the most wretched of my life. At the
preparatory school in Hertford, so stupefied were the little boys by
terror and discipline, that when the head-master (traditionally an
incarnation of all the virtues) became grossly harsh and unfair, they
could not see what was happening until his insanity was so pronounced
that the doctors had to take him in hand: an event that occurred soon
after I had left for the upper school in London.

There, one of the masters (who evidently did not believe that 'history
is experience teaching by example') in intervals between whacking
the boys on their backs or hands with a long cane, used, I remember,
emphatically to announce that 'dates and names are the most important
parts of history.' A Latin master, a barrister, who was usually busy
at some sort of law work when he should have been teaching us, used to
set us to learn by rote rules and illustrations which we did not in the
least understand. On one occasion the example given in the grammar was:

_Opes irritamenta malorum effodiuntur._

Riches the incentives of crime are dug out of the earth.

The top boy had learnt the rule and illustration by heart (which I
never could do); but, departing from his usual routine, the master
unexpectedly asked which Latin word corresponded to which English. Each
of the first twenty-four boys in the class in turn got caned and sent
to the bottom; so that by the time I, who had been last, had come to
the top, and it was my turn to reply, only one possible combination
remained untried, and I was able to announce that _effodiuntur_ meant
'are dug out of the earth.' Unluckily there was another rule that day,
and over this I, in turn, came to grief, and was caned and sent to the
bottom.

In the drawing class I remember doing the outline of a cube to the
master's satisfaction, and being promoted to the shading class. I had
no idea how to shade, and the attempt I made was certainly a very bad
one; but instead of receiving advice or assistance, my ears were boxed
so violently that I should be tempted to attribute to that assault the
slight deafness from which I have since suffered, were it not that such
treatment was so common at Christ's Hospital, that none of the victims
whose hearing may have been impaired, could be sure to which of the
masters they owed that part of their preparation for the battle of life.

I feel sure the stultifying effects of such cruel and senseless
treatment would have been even more serious, had not the school
authorities, by some strange oversight, allowed _one_ really readable
and interesting periodical to find a place among the Sunday magazines
and other sterilised literature obtainable in the School Library. This
one publication, which I read ardently during my school years, was
_Chambers's Journal_. It contained novels by James Payn, and other
matter suited to my powers of mental digestion. From smuggled copies of
Captain Marryat's novels I also got a good deal of culture: far more, I
am sure, than from any of the lessons we endured.

CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER VIII

Tolstoy's Educational articles, and N. V. Ouspensky, _Iz Proshlago_.

CHAPTER IX

MARRIAGE

The Behrs visit Yásnaya. Proposal by thought-reading. The Diary.
Marriage. Ministers on magazine. The school closed and the magazine
stopped. Family happiness. Health. Fet's visit. Sergius born. Children.
_The Cossacks_ and _Polikoúshka_. Bees. Plays. _Confession._ Saving the
hay. _Decembrists._ Samára. Preparations for _War and Peace_. Collected
edition. Translations. Dislocates arm. Tatiána born. Fears of famine.
Sergius (brother) and Tánya Behrs. Nikólsky. Visits Borodinó. Tolstoy
at home and with the children. Relations with servants. Masquerade.
Moscow. Drawing school. Sculpture. Ilyá born. Pleads at court-martial.
Dr. Zahárin. _Smoke._ Fet's Literary Evening. _War and Peace._
Schopenhauer. Pénza. Death of V. P. Bótkin. The Countess and the
children's education. English nurse. Tolstoy's habits. Visitors. Fet.
Tolstoy's ardour. Property. Untidiness. Respect for sleep. Newspapers.
Characteristics. Studies the drama.

TO one who admires Tolstoy's educational work, it is somewhat
disconcerting to see how scornfully he spoke of it sixteen years later
in his _Confession_. But that is always his way: the old is useless and
worthless and bad; only the new, the unachieved, the fresh ideal, is
admirable. For it, he decries all that the past has produced--including
himself and his former work. He makes his points broadly and
powerfully, but to understand, we must discriminate, and allow for an
artistic temperament tempting him to exaggerate. Let him however speak
for himself, that the reader may judge:

On returning from abroad I settled in the country, and happened to
occupy myself with peasant schools. This work was particularly to
my taste, because in it I had not to face the falsity which had
become obvious to me and stared me in the face when I tried to
teach people by literary means. Here, also, I acted in the name
of Progress, but I already regarded Progress itself critically.
I said to myself: 'In some of its developments Progress has
proceeded wrongly; and with primitive peasant children one must
deal in a spirit of perfect freedom, letting them choose what
path of Progress they please.' In reality I was ever revolving
round one and the same insoluble problem, which was: How to teach
without knowing what? In the higher spheres of literary activity
I had realised that one could not teach without knowing what;
for I saw that people all taught differently, and by quarrelling
among themselves succeeded only in hiding their ignorance from one
another. But here, with peasant children, I thought to evade this
difficulty by letting them learn what they liked. It amuses me now,
when I remember how I shuffled in trying to fulfil my desire to
teach, while in the depth of my soul I knew very well that I could
not teach anything needful, for I did not know what was needful.

After spending a year at school work, I went abroad a second time,
to discover how to teach others while myself knowing nothing.

And it seemed to me that I had learnt this abroad, and in the year
of the peasants' Emancipation I returned to Russia armed with
all this wisdom; and having become an Arbiter, I began to teach
both the uneducated peasants in schools, and the educated classes
through a magazine I published. Things appeared to be going well,
but I felt I was not quite sound mentally, and that matters could
not long continue in that way. And I should perhaps then have come
to the state of despair at which I arrived fifteen years later, had
there not been one side of life still unexplored by me, and which
promised me happiness: that was marriage.

For a year I busied myself with Arbitration work, the schools, and
the magazine; and I became so worn-out--as a result especially of
my mental confusion--and so hard was my struggle as Arbiter, so
obscure the results of my activity in the schools, so repulsive my
shuffling in the magazine (which always amounted to one and the
same thing: a desire to teach everybody, and to hide the fact that
I did not know what to teach) that I fell ill, mentally rather than
physically, and threw up everything, and went away to the Bashkírs
in the steppes, to breathe fresh air, drink _koumýs_, and live an
animal life.

1862

Tired of and dissatisfied with his work, and thinking he detected in
himself signs of the malady that had carried off two of his brothers,
he set off in May 1862 (accompanied by his servant Alexis and two of
his pupils) to undergo a koumýs (soured and fermented mares' milk) cure
in the Samára steppes east of the Vólga.

He went first to Moscow, and his friend Raévsky has told how Tolstoy
came up to him in the Club there, and mentioned with great indignation
and vexation that his brother was playing cards and had lost Rs.
7000 in a few hours. 'How can men do such things?' said Tolstoy.
Half-an-hour later Raévsky saw Leo Tolstoy himself playing Chinese
billiards (a game something like bagatelle, played on a board with
wire impediments) and learnt that he had lost Rs. 1000 to the stranger
with whom he was playing! This was, I believe, the last occasion on
which Tolstoy played any game for stakes he found it difficult to pay.
The occurrence led to the premature publication of his novel _The
Cossacks_, which he had had in hand for several years, but to which he
still intended to add a second part. Not having Rs. 1000 (then about
£150) available, he let Katkóf, the well-known publicist, editor of
the _Moscow Gazette_ and of the monthly _Russian Messenger_, have the
story for that sum paid in advance. This 'Tale of the Year 1852,' as
the sub-title runs, is based on Tolstoy's Caucasian experiences. The
circumstances which led to its premature publication made the work
repugnant to him, and he never completed it.

Among those to whom he mentioned the occurrence were the Behrs, of whom
Miss Sophie was already so interested in him that she wept at the news.
At their home he was always a welcome and intimate guest, and as time
went on he saw more and more of that family.

From Moscow he proceeded to Tvér by rail, and thence by steamer down
the Vólga to Samára.

At Kazán he stopped to visit his relation V. I. Úshkof: and from Samára
he wrote to Aunt Tatiána:

_27 May 1862._

To-day I shall start to drive ninety miles from Samára to
Karalýk....

I have had a beautiful journey; the country pleases me very much;
my health is better, _i.e._ I cough less. Alexis and the boys are
alive and well, as you may tell their relations. Please write
me about Sergéy, or let him do so. Greet all my dear comrades
[probably the masters in the schools] for me, and request them to
write me of what goes on, and of how they are getting on....

In another letter, dated 28th June 1862, he wrote:

It is now a month since I had any news of you or from home;
please write me about everybody: first, our family; secondly,
the (University) students [who acted as masters in the schools]
etc. Alexis and I have grown fatter, he especially, but we still
cough a little, and again he especially. We are living in a
Tartar tent; the weather is beautiful. I have found my friend
Stolýpin--now Atamán in Ourálsk--and have driven over to see him;
and have brought back from there a secretary; but I dictate and
write little. Idleness overcomes one when drinking koumýs. In
two weeks' time I intend to leave here, and I expect to be home
by St. Elijah's day [20 July, old style]. I am tormented in this
out-of-the-way place by not knowing what is going on, and also by
the thought that I am horribly behind-hand with the publication of
the magazine. I kiss your hand....

Just when Tolstoy was leaving Karalýk a most unexpected event was
occurring at Yásnaya, where his sister Mary was staying with Aunt
Tatiána. Owing to the denunciation of a police spy who, among other
lies, pretended to have discovered a secret door in Tolstoy's
house, the police authorities decided to search his estate; and
one morning--to the immense astonishment of the neighbouring
peasants--police, watchmen, officials, and gendarmes, under the
command of a Colonel, appeared upon the scene! In the school-house
a photographic apparatus was found: a thing sufficiently rare in a
Russian village in those days to evoke the suspicious inquiries of
the gendarme officer, to whom one of the student-teachers chaffingly
volunteered the information that it was kept to photograph Herzen (the
celebrated exile, then living in London); but nowhere were any secret
doors found.

The floors of the stables were broken up with crowbars to see if
anything was hidden there. The pond was dragged, but nothing more
incriminating than crayfish and carp was found. All the cupboards,
drawers, boxes and desks in the house were opened and searched, and the
ladies were frightened almost to death. A police-officer from Toúla
would not even allow Tolstoy's sister to leave the library till he had
finished reading aloud in her presence and in that of two gendarmes,
Tolstoy's Diary and letters, which contained the most intimate secrets
of his life and which he had kept private since he was sixteen years
old.

Finding nothing incriminating at Yásnaya, the representatives of
law and order next betook themselves to the other schools working
in conjunction with Tolstoy, and there also they turned tables and
cupboards upside down, seized exercise-books and primers, arrested the
teachers, and spread the wildest suspicions abroad among the peasants,
to whom school education was still a novelty held somewhat in suspicion.

On receiving news of this event Tolstoy at once wrote to his aunt, the
Countess A. A. Tolstoy, asking her to speak to those who knew him well
and had influence, and on whose aid he could rely. Said he:

I cannot and will not let this affair pass. All the activity in
which I found solace and happiness, has been spoilt. Aunty is so
ill from fright that she will probably not recover. The peasants
no longer regard me as an honest man--an opinion I had earned in
the course of years--but as a criminal, an incendiary, or a coiner,
whose cunning alone has enabled him to escape punishment.

'Eh, man, you've been found out! Don't talk to us any more about
honesty and justice--you've hardly escaped handcuffs yourself!'

From the landed proprietors I need not say what a cry of rapture
went up. Please write to me as soon as possible, after consulting
Peróvsky [Count V. A. P.] and Alexéy Tolstoy [Count A. T., the
dramatist and poet] and any one else you like, as to how I am to
write to the Emperor and how best to present my letter. It is too
late to prevent the injury the thing has done, or to extricate
myself, and there is no way out except by receiving satisfaction as
public as the insult has been; and this I have firmly resolved on.
I shall not join Herzen; he has his way, I have mine. Neither will
I hide.... But I will loudly announce that I am selling my estate
and mean to leave Russia, where one cannot know from moment to
moment what awaits one....

At the end of an eight-page letter he mentions that the Colonel
of gendarmes, on leaving, threatened to renew his search till he
discovered 'if anything is hidden'; and Tolstoy adds, 'I have loaded
pistols in my room, and am waiting to see how this matter will end.'

He also remarked: 'I often say to myself, How exceedingly fortunate
it was that I was not at home at the time! Had I been there, I should
certainly now be awaiting my trial for murder!'

Soon after this, Alexander II spent some time at Petróvsky Park, near
Moscow. There Tolstoy presented a letter claiming reparation, which an
aide-de-camp undertook to give to the Emperor; and some weeks later the
Governor of Toúla transmitted to Tolstoy the Emperor's expression of
regret for what had occurred.

It is easy to imagine the effect such an outrage as this police-search
would have on a man of Tolstoy's acute self-esteem, and how it would
intensify his hatred of Government.

After his return from Samára, he saw more of the Behrs than ever. Fet,
whom he introduced to them, thus records his impressions of the family:

I found the doctor to be an amiable old gentleman of polite
manners, and his wife a handsome, majestic brunette who evidently
ruled the house. I refrain from describing the three young ladies,
of whom the youngest had an admirable contralto voice. They all,
notwithstanding the watchful supervision of their mother and their
irreproachable modesty, possessed that attractive quality which the
French designate by the words _du chien_ [lively, full of go]. The
service and the dinner were admirable.

Madame Behrs was on very friendly terms with Tolstoy's sister, the
Countess Mary; and before he went abroad Tolstoy had frequently, at the
house of the latter, played with the children of both families. In 1862
he often visited the Behrs at Pokróvskoe-Glébovo, where they lived in a
_dátcha_ (country house) they occupied every summer. He nearly always
walked the eight miles from Moscow, and often took long rambles with
the family besides. The girls had been educated at home, but Sophia
Andréyevna, the second daughter, had passed a University examination
entitling her to the diploma qualifying to teach both in private and in
State schools.

We may judge of Tolstoy's state of mind at this time by an entry in
his Diary, dated 23rd August: 'I am afraid of myself. What if this be
only a _desire_ for love and not real love? I try to notice only her
weak points, but yet I love.' And again, 'I rose in good health, with
a particularly clear head, and wrote easily, though the matter was
feeble. Then I felt more sad than I have done for a long time. I have
no friends at all. I am alone. I had friends when I served Mammon, but
have none when I serve truth.'

On 26th August he notes that Sónya (Miss Sophia Behrs) gave him a story
to read, written by herself, and her description of the hero as a man
of 'unusually unattractive appearance, and changeable convictions' hit
him hard; but he was relieved to find that it was not meant for him.

On his thirty-fourth birthday, 28th August 1862 (old style) he jotted
down in his Diary the words: 'Ugly mug! Do not think of marriage; your
calling is of another kind.'

About this time the Behrs paid a two weeks' visit to Madame Behrs'
father's estate of Ívitsa, some thirty miles from Yásnaya, and _en
route_ they stopped a couple of days at Yásnaya to visit the Countess
Mary. The day after their arrival a picnic party was arranged with some
neighbours. It was haymaking time, and there was much haystack climbing
by the picknickers. The general impression was that Tolstoy was in love
with Lisa, the eldest Miss Behrs: this opinion being fostered by the
idea, then common in Russia, that an elder daughter should be disposed
of before a younger daughter may be courted.

A few days later Tolstoy followed the Behrs to Ívitsa; and here the
scene occurred which he has utilised in _Anna Karénina_ when describing
Lévin's proposal to Kitty--a scene in which something approaching
thought-reading takes place.

Sitting at a card-table with Miss Sophia Behrs, Tolstoy wrote the
initial letters of the sentence:

'In your family a false opinion exists about me and your sister Lisa;
you and Tánitchka should destroy it.'

Miss Sophia read the letters, understood what words they stood for, and
nodded her head.

Tolstoy then wrote the initial letters of another sentence:

'Your youth and need of happiness, to-day remind me too strongly of my
age and the impossibility of happiness.'

The nature of the Russian language (with its inflections instead
of particles, and the absence of articles) somewhat diminishes the
miracle; but the test was a very severe one, and again the girl guessed
the words aright. The two understood one another, and their fate was
practically sealed.

The Behrs returned to Pokróvskoe-Glébovo in September. Tolstoy
accompanied them on the carriage-journey back to Moscow and visited
them every day, bringing music for the young ladies, playing the piano
for them, and accompanying the youngest--whom he nicknamed 'Madame
Viardot' after the famous singer.

On the 17th of that month (the name's day of Sophia) Tolstoy handed
his future wife a letter containing a proposal of marriage, which she
gladly accepted. Her father, displeased that the second daughter should
be preferred to the eldest, at first refused his assent. But Tolstoy
was strenuously insistent--I have even heard that he threatened to
shoot himself--and the doctor soon yielded to the united persuasion of
daughter and suitor.

The bridegroom's sense of honour led him to hand his future wife the
Diary, in which, mingled with hopes, prayers, self-castigations and
self-denunciations, the sins and excesses of his bachelorhood were
recorded. To the girl, who had looked upon him as a personification
of the virtues, this revelation came as a great shock; but after a
sleepless night passed in weeping bitterly over it, she returned the
Diary and forgave the past.

To get married it was necessary first to confess and receive the
eucharist. Tolstoy's own experiences in this matter are narrated in
Chapter I of Part V of _Anna Karénina_, where they are attributed to
Lévin.

The marriage took place within a week of the proposal, namely on 23rd
September 1862, in the Court church of the Krémlin, the bridegroom
being thirty-four and the bride eighteen years of age. When the
ceremony was over the couple left Moscow in a _dormeuse_ (sleeping
carriage), and drove to Yásnaya Polyána, where Tolstoy's brother Sergéy
and Aunt Tatiána were awaiting them.

[Illustration: TOLSTOY IN 1862, THE YEAR OF HIS MARRIAGE.]

Fet records the letter in which Tolstoy informed him of his marriage:

FÉTOUSHKA [an endearing diminutive of Fet] UNCLE, or simply
DEAR FRIEND AFANÁSY AFANÁSYEVITCH!--I have been married two weeks
and am happy, and am a new, quite a new man. I want to visit
you, but cannot manage it. When shall I see you? Having come to
myself, I feel that I value you very, very much. We have so many
unforgettable things in common: Nikólenka, and much besides. Do
drive over and make my acquaintance. I kiss Márya Petróvna's hand.
Farewell, dear friend. I embrace you with all my heart.

In another letter belonging to the same period he writes:

I am writing from the country, and while I write, from upstairs
where she is talking to my brother, I hear the voice of my wife,
whom I love more than the whole world. I have lived to the age of
thirty-four without knowing that it was possible to love, and to be
so happy. When I am more tranquil I will write you a long letter.
I should not say 'more tranquil,' for I am now more tranquil
and clear than I have ever been, but I should say, 'when I am
accustomed to it.' At present I have a constant feeling of having
stolen an undeserved, illicit, and not-for-me-intended happiness.
There ... she is coming! I hear her, and it is so good!... And why
do such good people as you, and, most wonderful of all, such a
being as my wife, love me?

It did not much disturb his happiness, when, before Tolstoy had been
married a fortnight, an event occurred which might easily have led to
very disagreeable consequences. On 3rd October the Minister of the
Interior called the attention of the Minister of Education to the
harmful nature of the _Yásnaya Polyána_ magazine. This is what he wrote:

A careful perusal of the educational magazine, _Yásnaya Polyána_,
edited by Count Tolstoy, leads to the conviction that that
magazine ... frequently propagates ideas which apart from their
incorrectness are by their very tendency harmful.... I consider
it necessary to direct your Excellency's attention to the general
tendency and spirit of that magazine, which often infringes the
fundamental rules of religion and morality.... I have the honour
to inform you, Sir, of this, in the expectation that you may be
inclined to consider it desirable to direct the special attention
of the Censor to this publication.

Fortunately the decision of the matter did not lie with the Minister
of the Interior, but with the Minister of Education, who on receiving
this communication had the magazine in question carefully examined,
and, on 24th October, replied that he found nothing harmful or
contrary to religion in its tendency. It contained extreme opinions on
educational matters, no doubt, but these, he said, should be criticised
in educational periodicals rather than prohibited by the Censor. 'In
general,' added the Minister:

I must say that Count Tolstoy's educational activity deserves full
respect, and the Ministry of Education is bound to assist and
co-operate with him, though it cannot share all his views, some of
which after full consideration he will himself probably reject.

Other things besides the suspicion in which he was held by the Minister
of the Interior, tended to discourage Tolstoy. His magazine had few
subscribers and attracted but little attention. The year's issue was
causing him a loss of something like Rs. 3000 (say about £450)--a
larger sum than he could well afford to throw away. So he decided to
discontinue it after the twelfth number. The month after his marriage
he also closed the school, which was too great a tax on his time and
attention.

It has often been said that the obstacles placed in his way by the
Government turned him aside from educational work, but in speaking
to me about it Tolstoy remarked that really the main factor was his
marriage, and his preoccupation with family life.

Both he and his wife were absorbed by their personal happiness, though
from time to time small quarrels and misunderstandings arose between
them. So impulsive and strenuous a nature as Tolstoy's was sure to
have its fluctuations of feeling, but on the whole the ties binding
the couple together grew stronger and closer as the months passed into
years.

The Countess's parents used to say: 'We could not have wished for
greater happiness for our daughter.' The Countess not only loved
Tolstoy dearly as a husband, but had the deepest admiration for him as
a writer. He on his side often said that he found in family life the
completest happiness, and in Sophia Andréyevna not only a loving wife
and an excellent mother for his children, but an admirable assistant
in his literary work, in which, owing to his careless and unmethodical
habits, an intelligent and devoted amanuensis was invaluable. The
Countess acquired remarkable skill in deciphering his often extremely
illegible handwriting, and was sometimes able to guess in a quite
extraordinary way the meaning of his hasty jottings and incomplete
sentences.

One drawback to their almost complete happiness lay in the fact that
though active and possessed of great physical strength, Tolstoy
seldom enjoyed any long periods of uninterrupted good health. In his
correspondence we find frequent references to indisposition. In early
manhood, he seems to have distended his stomach, and, especially after
the hardships he endured during the war of 1854-5, he was subject to
digestive troubles for the rest of his days.

Town life did not attract him. He had never felt at ease in what is
called high society; nor were his means large enough to enable him to
support a wife and family in a good position in town. Still, towards
the close of the year of his marriage, he and the Countess spent some
weeks in Moscow.

1863

They were however soon back at Yásnaya. In February Fet visited them
there, and found them overflowing with life and happiness.

On 15th May, after the Tolstoys and Fet had by some chance just missed
meeting at the house of a neighbouring proprietor, Tolstoy wrote to his
friend:

We just missed seeing you, and how sorry I am that we did! How
much I want to talk over with you. Not a day passes without our
mentioning you several times. My wife is not at all 'playing with
dolls.' Don't you insult her. She is my serious helpmate, though
now bearing a burden from which she hopes to be free early in
July. What won't she do afterwards? We are _ufanizing_[48] little
by little. I have made an important discovery, which I hasten to
impart to you. Clerks and overseers are only a hindrance to the
management of an estate. Try the experiment of dismissing them all;
then sleep ten hours a day, and be assured that everything will
get along _not worse_. I have made the experiment and am quite
satisfied with its success.

[48] This word, when first invented by Nicholas Tolstoy, meant
ploughing, but it had by now come to mean farming in general.

How, oh how, are we to see one another? If you go to Moscow with
Márya Petróvna and do not come to visit us, it will be dreadful
offensive. (My wife, who was reading this letter, prompted that
sentence.) I wanted to write much, but time lacks. I embrace you
with all my heart; my wife bows profoundly to you, and I to your
wife.

_Business_: When you are in Orél, buy me 20 poods [720 lbs.] of
various kinds of twine, reins, and shaft-traces, if they cost less
than Rs. 2.30 per pood including carriage, and send them me by a
carter. The money shall be paid at once.

Fet soon availed himself of the invitation, and after driving past
the low towers which mark the entrance to the birch alley leading to
the house, he came upon Tolstoy eagerly directing the dragging of a
lake and taking all possible care that the carp should not escape.
The Countess, in a white dress, came running down the alley, with a
huge bundle of barn-door keys hanging at her waist. After cordially
greeting the visitor, she, notwithstanding her 'exceedingly interesting
condition,' leapt over the low railing between the alley and the pond.
It will however be better to quote Fet's own account of his visit:

'Sónya, tell Nestérka to fetch a sack from the barn, and let us
go back to the house,' said Tolstoy--who had already greeted me
warmly, without losing sight of the carp-capturing operations the
while.

The Countess immediately detached a huge key from her belt and
gave it to a boy, who started at a run to fulfil the order.

'There,' remarked the Count, 'you have an example of our method. We
keep the keys ourselves; and all the estate business is carried on
by boys.'

At the animated dinner table, the carp we had seen captured made
their appearance. We all seemed equally at ease and happy....

That evening was one truly 'filled with hope.' It was a sight to
see with what pride and bright hope Tatiána Alexándrovna, the
kindest of aunts, regarded the young people she so loved; and how,
turning to me, she said frankly, 'You see, with _mon cher Léon_ of
course things could not be otherwise.'

As to the Countess, life to one who in her condition leapt over
fences, could not but be lit up with the brightest of hopes. The
Count himself, who had passed his whole life in an ardent search
for novelties, evidently at this period entered a world till then
unknown, in the mighty future of which he believed with all the
enthusiasm of a young artist. I myself, during that evening, was
carried away by the general tone of careless happiness, and did not
feel the stone of Sisyphus oppressing me.

Soon after this visit, on 28th June 1863, a son, Sergius, was born.
During the first eleven years of marriage, the Countess bore her
husband eight children, and another five during the next fifteen years:
making in all, thirteen children in twenty-six years.

But we must turn back a few months to mention the stories by Tolstoy
which appeared during this year.

In the January number of the _Russian Messenger_, Katkóf had published
_The Cossacks_, which Tolstoy had kept back to revise, and had only
delivered in December.

In the February number of the same magazine appeared _Polikoúshka_, the
story of a serf who, having lost some money belonging to his mistress,
hangs himself.

These stories are referred to in the following letter from Tolstoy to
Fet, undated, but written in 1863:

Both your letters were equally important, significant, and
agreeable to me, dear Afanásy Afanásyevitch. I am living in a
world so remote from literature and its critics, that on receiving
such a letter as yours, my first feeling is one of astonishment.
Whoever was it wrote _The Cossacks_ and _Polikoúshka_? And what's
the use of talking about them? Paper endures anything, and editors
pay for and print anything. But that is merely a first impression;
afterwards one enters into the meaning of what you say, rummages
about in one's head, and finds in some corner of it, among old,
forgotten rubbish, something indefinite, labelled _Art_; and
pondering on what you say, agrees that you are right, and even
finds it pleasant to rummage about in that old rubbish, amid the
smell one once loved. One even feels a desire to write. Of course,
you are right. But then there are few readers of your sort.
_Polikoúshka_ is the chatter of a man who 'wields a pen,' on the
first theme that comes to hand; but _The Cossacks_ has some matter
in it, though poor. I am now writing the story of a pied gelding,
which I expect to print in autumn. [It did not appear till 1888!]
But how can one write now? Invisible efforts--and even visible
ones--are now going on; and, moreover, I am again up to my ears in
farming. So is Sónya. We have no steward; we have assistants for
field-work and building; but she, single-handed, attends to the
office and the cash. I have the bees, the sheep, a new orchard,
and the distillery. It all progresses, little by little, though of
course badly compared with our ideal.

What do you think of the Polish business? [the insurrection of
1863, then breaking out]. It looks bad! Shall we--you and I and
Borísof--not have to take our swords down from their rusty nails?...

The bees, which Tolstoy here places first among his out-door duties,
occupied much of his time, and he often spent hours studying the habits
of these interesting creatures.

Tourgénef, writing to Fet, commented on _The Cossacks_ as follows:

I read _The Cossacks_ and went into ecstasies over it; so did
Bótkin. Only the personality of Olénin spoils the generally
splendid impression. To contrast civilisation with fresh, primeval
Nature, there was no need again to produce that dull, unhealthy
fellow always preoccupied with himself. Why does Tolstoy not get
rid of that nightmare?

Several months later he wrote:

After you left, I read Tolstoy's _Polikoúshka_ and marvelled at the
strength of his huge talent. But he has used up too much material,
and it is a pity he drowned the son. It makes it too terrible. But
there are pages that are truly wonderful! It made a cold shudder
run down even my back, though you know my back has become thick and
coarse. He is a master, a master!

Tolstoy was now fairly launched on the life he was destined to lead for
sixteen years: a quiet, country life, occupied with family joys and
cares. These years followed one another with so little change that the
story of a decade and a half can almost be compressed into a sentence.
Children came in quick succession, two great novels and an _ABC_ Book
were produced, a large orchard was planted with apple-trees, the
Yásnaya Polyána property was improved, and new estates were purchased
east of the Vólga.

During the year 1863 Tolstoy wrote two plays, which have never been
published. One, a farcical comedy called _The Nihilist_, was privately
performed at home with great success. The second, also a comedy,
written on a topic of the day, was called _The Infected Family_. Hoping
to have it staged, Tolstoy took it to Moscow early in 1864; but the
theatrical season, which in Russia ends at the commencement of Lent,
was already too far advanced; and he never subsequently appears to have
troubled himself to have it either published or acted.

The Countess Tolstoy's brother, S. A. Behrs (who from 1866 when he
was a boy of eleven, till 1878, spent every summer with the Tolstoys)
in his book, _Recollections of Count Tolstoy_, gives much interesting
information about the life at Yásnaya. He mentions that it was a
proverb about the hard fate of penniless noblemen, that prompted
Tolstoy to take all possible care to provide for the future of his
children; and the passage in the letter quoted above, about the bees,
sheep, new orchard and distillery with which he was occupied, shows how
this care was applied.

In his _Confession_, Tolstoy says of the years now under review:

Returning from abroad I married. The new conditions of happy family
life completely diverted me from all search for the general meaning
of life. My whole life was centred at that time in my family, wife
and children, and in care to increase our means of livelihood. My
striving after self-perfection and progress, was now again replaced
by the effort simply to secure the best possible conditions for
myself and my family.

So another fifteen years passed.

In spite of the fact that I regarded authorship as of no
importance, I yet, during those fifteen years, continued to write.
I had already tasted the temptation of authorship: the temptation
of immense monetary rewards and applause for my insignificant work;
and I devoted myself to it as a means of improving my material
position, and of stifling in my soul all questions as to the
meaning of my own life, or of life in general.

Again, writing in 1903 of this middle period of his life, Tolstoy says:

Then came a third, an eighteen-year period which may be the least
interesting of all (from my marriage to my spiritual re-birth) and
which from a worldly point of view may be called moral: that is to
say, that during those eighteen years I lived a correct, honest,
family life, not indulging myself in any vices condemned by public
opinion, but with interests wholly limited to selfish cares for
my family, for the increase of our property, the acquisition of
literary success, and all kinds of pleasure.

(In the one place he speaks of 'fifteen years,' and in the other of
'eighteen years'; but that is his way, and chronological exactitude is
not the important matter here.)

After the Emancipation, in many parts of Russia the landlords had more
or less serious difficulty with the peasants, among whom stories were
rife to the effect that the Tsar intended to give them all the land,
but had been deceived by the officials into only giving half; and, for
a time, riots were not infrequent. There was no serious trouble of
this sort on Tolstoy's estate; but his sister (whom I met at Yásnaya
in 1902, long after her husband's death and when she, a nun, had been
allowed out of her convent to visit her brother, after his very serious
illness) told me that on one occasion the peasants refused to make the
hay; and to save it from being lost, Tolstoy, his wife, the members of
the family, and the masters from eleven neighbouring schools, all set
to work with a will, and by their own strenuous exertions saved the
crop before the weather changed.

On settling down to married life, Tolstoy formed the plan of writing a
great novel, and the epoch he at first intended to deal with was that
of the Constitutional conspiracy which came to a head on the accession
of Nicholas I to the throne in December 1825. That quite premature
military plot was quickly snuffed out. So little were things ripe for
it, that many even of the soldiers who shouted for a 'Constitution'
(_Konstitútsia_) thought they were demanding allegiance to Nicholas's
elder brother Constantine, who having married a Polish lady of the
Roman Catholic faith had renounced his right to the throne. While
considering the plan of his work, Tolstoy found himself carried back
to the scenes amid which his characters had grown up: to the time
of the Napoleonic wars and the invasion of Russia by the French in
1812. Here was a splendid background for a novel, and putting aside
_The Decembrists_ he commenced _War and Peace_, a work conceived on a
gigantic scale, and that resulted in a splendid success.

1864

His attention, as we have already seen, was however not wholly absorbed
by literature, but was divided between that and the management of his
property. He had during his stay among the Kirghiz in the Province
of Samára, noticed how extremely cheap and how fertile was the land
in those parts. He therefore wished to purchase an estate there, and
visited the district in the autumn of 1864, probably with that end in
view. How long he stayed there I do not know, but from a letter he
wrote to Fet on 7th October, saying, 'We start for home to-day and do
not know how we shall make our way to happy Yásnaya,' we know when
he returned. In November he again wrote to Fet, and mentioned the
laborious preparations he was at that time making for _War and Peace_:

I am in the dumps and am writing nothing, but work painfully. You
cannot imagine how hard I find the preliminary work of ploughing
deep the field in which I must sow. To consider and reconsider all
that may happen to all the future characters in the very large work
I am preparing, and to weigh millions of possible combinations
in order to select from among them a millionth part, is terribly
difficult. And that is what I am doing....

Late in that month he wrote again to Fet:

This autumn I have written a good deal of my novel. _Ars longa,
vita brevis_ comes to my mind every day. If one could but make time
to accomplish a hundredth part of what one understands--but only
a thousandth part gets done! Nevertheless the consciousness that
_I can_ is what brings happiness to men of our sort. You know that
feeling, and I experience it with particular force this year.

The year 1864 saw the publication of the first collected edition of
Tolstoy's works, and though they have been already mentioned, it may
be as well to give a complete list of those twenty 'trials of the pen'
which preceded the appearance of _War and Peace_, and had already
sufficed to place Tolstoy in the front rank of Russian writers. The
following are their titles, with the years in which they were first
published. They suffice to fill four very substantial volumes.

1852 _Childhood._

1853 _The Raid: A Volunteer's Story._

1854 _Boyhood._

1855 _Memoirs of a Billiard-Marker._

1855 *_Sevastopol in December._

" *_Sevastopol in May._

" *_The Wood-Felling._

1856 *_Sevastopol in August._

" _The Snow Storm._

" *_Two Hussars._

" *_Meeting a Moscow Acquaintance in the Detachment._

" _A Squire's Morning._

1857 _Youth._

" _Lucerne._

1858 _Albert._

1859 _Three Deaths._

" _Family Happiness._

1862 Educational articles in _Yásnaya Polyána_.

1863 _The Cossacks._

" _Polikoúshka._

As I am sometimes asked where satisfactory versions of these stories
can be found, I may say that I think the best version of _Childhood_,
_Boyhood_ and _Youth_[49] is Miss Isabel Hapgood's, and I make no
apology for quoting a letter Tolstoy wrote me on 23rd December 1901,
concerning the volume, _Sevastopol_,[50] translated by my wife and
myself, and containing the six stories marked * in the above list. I do
this with less hesitation, because his letter illustrates the cordial
way in which he encourages those who do any work he can approve of, in
connection with his own activity:

[49] Published by Walter Scott, Ltd., London, and by T. Y.
Crowell and Co., New York.

[50] Published by Messrs. A. Constable and Co., London, and
Funk and Wagnalls Co., New York.

I think I already wrote you how unusually the volume pleases me.
All in it is excellent: the edition and the footnotes, and chiefly
the translation, and yet more the conscientiousness with which
all this has been done. I happened to open it at _Two Hussars_ and
read on to the end just as if it were something new that had been
written in English.

One day in October Tolstoy went out for a ride on his favourite horse,
an English thoroughbred named Máshka. His borzoi dogs Lúbka and Krylát
accompanied him. After he had ridden some way, a hare suddenly started
up and the dogs rushed after it. Tolstoy had not come out with the
idea of hunting, but on seeing the dogs chasing the hare he could
not restrain himself, and galloped after them, uttering the hunting
cry, 'Atoú!' The weather was bad, the ground slippery, and the horse
stumbled at a narrow ravine and fell, dislocating and breaking its
rider's arm. The horse ran away, and Tolstoy, who was quite alone and
several miles from home, fainted. When he came to, he managed to drag
himself a distance of more than half a mile to the highroad, where he
lay in great pain. Some peasant carts passed by, but at first he could
not attract any one's attention. When at last he was noticed, in order
not to alarm his wife, he asked to be taken to the hut of an old wife,
Akoulína, famed as a bone-setter. In spite of all that she and her son
Iván could do--soaping, pulling, twisting and bandaging the arm--they
could not set it, and Tolstoy continued to suffer the greatest pain.

The Countess, who had meanwhile heard of the accident, reached the hut
late at night. She at once arranged to have her husband taken home, and
sent to Toúla for a doctor. The latter arrived about 3 A.M., and after
administering chloroform, succeeded, with the aid of two labourers who
were called in to assist, in setting the arm. On coming to, Tolstoy's
profound disbelief in the efficiency of doctors, prompted him to send
for another surgeon. After a consultation the two physicians decided
that everything had been done properly, and that Tolstoy must lie up
for six weeks to allow the arm to recover. When that time was up,
Tolstoy asked for his gun and fired it off to test his arm. No sooner
had he done so than he again felt great pain. He thereupon wrote to his
father-in-law, Dr. Behrs, and on his advice went to Moscow to consult
the specialists. These differed among themselves, but after a week's
hesitation a fresh operation was decided upon, and was carried out by
two competent surgeons. This time it was quite successful, and in due
course the patient completely recovered the use of his arm.

Meanwhile the Countess (now nursing her second child, a daughter named
Tatiána, who had been born on 4th October) remained at Yásnaya, where
her eldest child, Sergius, was taken dangerously ill with smallpox and
diarrhoea. This was the first occasion on which Tolstoy and his wife
had been separated.

While in Moscow he concluded an arrangement with Katkóf by which he
received Rs. 500 (£75) per printed sheet of sixteen pages for the
serial rights in _War and Peace_, which appeared in the _Russian
Messenger_. This was just ten times the amount which, when he wrote his
first stories, Nekrásof had mentioned as the highest rate paid to any
one for the magazine rights in a story.

1865

On 23rd January 1865, when Tolstoy had got over his accident, he wrote
Fet another of those jocular letters which sometimes contain more of
the real truth than will bear saying seriously:

Shall I tell you something surprising about myself? When the horse
threw me and broke my arm, and when I came to after fainting,
I said to myself: 'I am an author.' And I am an author, but a
solitary, on-the-quiet kind of author.... In a few days the first
part of 'The Year 1805' [so the first part of _War and Peace_ was
originally called] will appear. Please write me your opinion of it
in detail. I value your opinion and that of a man whom I dislike
the more, the more I grow up--Tourgénef. He will understand. All
I have printed hitherto I consider but a trial of my pen; what I
am now printing, though it pleases me better than my former work,
still seems weak--as an Introduction must be. But what follows
will be--tremendous!!!... Write what is said about it in the
different places you know, and especially how it goes with the
general public. No doubt it will pass unnoticed. I expect and wish
it to do so; if only they don't abuse me, for abuse upsets one....

I am glad you like my wife; though I love her less than my novel,
still, you know, she is my wife. Be sure you come to visit us; for
if you and Márya Petróvna do not stay here on your return from
Moscow it will really, without a joke, be too stupid!

In May 1865 one sees by a letter of Tolstoy's to Fet that one of the
children had been ill and he himself had been in bed for three days and
barely escaped a fever. His wife's younger sister, Tánya, she of the
contralto voice who (with some admixture of his wife) served Tolstoy
as model for Natásha in _War and Peace_, was spending the summer at
Yásnaya, as she had done each year since her sister's marriage. The
Countess Mary and her children were also there. The children, he says,
were well, and out all day in the open air. He adds:

I continue to write little by little, and am content with my work.
The woodcock still attract me, and every evening I shoot _at them_,
that is, generally, past them. My farming goes on well, that is to
say, it does not disturb me much--which is all I demand of it....

In reply to a suggestion from Fet, he goes on to say that he will
not write more about the Yásno-Polyána school, but hopes some day to
express the conclusions to which his three years' ardent passion for
that work had brought him. Then comes a reference to the state of
agricultural affairs after the Emancipation, and a passing allusion to
the question of famine--a subject destined to make great demands on
Tolstoy's attention in later years:

Our affairs as agriculturists are now like those of a share-holder
whose shares have lost value and are unsaleable on 'Change. The
case is a bad one. Personally I only ask that it should not
demand of me so much attention and participation as to deprive me
of my tranquillity. Latterly I have been content with my private
affairs; but the general trend--with the impending misery of
famine--torments me more and more every day. It is so strange, and
even good and terrible. We have rosy radishes on our table, and
yellow butter, and well-baked, soft bread on a clean tablecloth;
the garden is green, and our young ladies in muslin dresses are
glad it is hot and shady; while _there_ that evil hunger-devil is
already at work, covering the fields with goose-weed, chafing the
hard heels of the peasants and their wives, and cracking the hoofs
of the cattle. Our weather, the corn, and the meadows, are really
terrible. How are they with you?

The letter closes with advice to Fet to transfer his chief attention
from the land to literature, and a statement that Tolstoy himself has
done so, and is finding life less difficult.

When Tolstoy went out hunting hares and foxes with borzoi dogs, Miss
Tatiána Behrs (the Tánya alluded to above) used often to accompany him.

Between this lady and Count Sergius Tolstoy (Leo's elder brother) an
attachment had grown up which caused great distress to them both, for,
besides being twenty-two years older than the lady, Sergius was living
with, and had a family by, the gipsy mentioned in a previous chapter,
though he was not legally married. His affection for his family
prevented his yielding completely to his love for Tánya and asking her
to be his wife. The Behrs were quite willing that he should do so, and
the young lady would have accepted him, and was much pained by the
vacillation that resulted from the battle between his love for her and
his affection for his family. Ultimately he resolved to be faithful to
the union he had formed, and, in order to legitimise his children, went
through the form of marriage with their mother in 1867. Almost at the
same time, Tánya, having recovered from her disappointment, married a
Mr. Kouzmínsky.

Here again one gets a slight glimpse of the experience of life which
has led Tolstoy, contrary to the opinion general among the Russian
'intelligents,' to advocate faithfulness at all costs to the woman with
whom one has once formed a union.

A knowledge of Tánya's story adds to the interest with which, in
Tolstoy's great novel, one reads of Natásha Róstof's troubles and
ultimate happiness.

Towards the end of May, Tolstoy visited the estate of Nikólsky (which
after the death of his brother Nicholas had become his), and had the
house there repaired. In June the whole family moved to Nikólsky,
where they lived very quietly; Tolstoy continuing to write _War and
Peace_. His friend D. A. Dyákof's estate was only ten miles away, and
Tolstoy saw much of him at this time, besides having him at other
times as a frequent visitor at Yásnaya. Dyákof was his chief adviser
in agricultural matters, as well as in his efforts to improve the
stock of his cattle, pigs and poultry. Almost the only other visitors
at Nikólsky were the Fets; and the poet records meeting there the
Countess's 'charming sister,' Tánya, and experiencing violent antipathy
for the sour koumýs, about which Tolstoy was enthusiastic, and a large
tub of which stood near the front door.

While living at Nikólsky Tolstoy was invited for a fortnight by a
neighbouring landlord, Kiréyevsky, to a grand hunt, in which the
huntsmen wore special costumes, and luxurious dinners were served in
the woods. What interested Tolstoy most in all this was not the hunt,
but the opportunity it afforded him of studying types of the old and
new aristocracy.

At this period of his life one hears of his playing the guitar and
singing passionate love-songs.

During the autumn of 1865 Tolstoy, accompanied by his eleven-year-old
brother-in-law, visited the battlefield of Borodinó. They left Moscow
in Dr. Behrs' carriage, with post-horses. When the time came for them
to have something to eat, they found that the lunch basket had been
left behind, and they had only a small basket of grapes. Thereupon
Tolstoy remarked to his companion, 'I am sorry, not that we have left
the basket of food behind, but because your father will be upset
and will be angry with his man.' The journey took only one day, and
they stayed at the monastery erected in memory of those who fell in
the great fight. For two days Tolstoy investigated the scene of the
conflict which he was about to describe in his novel, and he then drew
the plan of the fight which appears in that work. Even in 1865 there
were but few survivors of the campaign of 1812 to be found in the
neighbourhood.

Tolstoy used at this time to spend whole days in the Roumyántsef Museum
in Moscow, studying books and manuscripts relating to the times of
Alexander I, and especially to the reformatory and Masonic movements
which then sprang up in Russia, but were subsequently suppressed on
political grounds.

S. A. Behrs tells us that Tolstoy

was always fond of children, and liked to have them about him. He
easily won their confidence, and seemed to have found the key to
their hearts. He appeared to have no difficulty in suiting himself
to a strange child, and with a single question set it completely at
ease, so that it began at once to chat away with perfect freedom.
Independently of this, he could divine a child's thought with
the skill of a trained educationalist. I remember his children
sometimes running up to him, and telling him they had a great
secret; and when they persisted in refusing to divulge it, he would
quietly whisper in their ears what it was. 'Ah, what a papa ours
is! How did he find it out?' they would cry, in astonishment.

He also says:

Gifted by nature with rare tact and delicacy, he is extremely
gentle in his bearing and conduct to others. I never heard him
scold a servant. Yet they all had the greatest respect for him,
were fond of him, and seemed even to fear him. Nor, with all his
zeal for sport, have I ever seen him whip a dog or beat his horse.

A servant who lived with him more than twenty years has said: 'Living
in the Count's house from my childhood, I loved Leo Nikoláyevitch as
though he were my father'; and in another place he remarks:

The Count had a stern appearance, but treated the servants
excellently, and made things easy for all strangers whom he met. He
has a very good heart, and when he was cross with me for anything,
I, knowing his character, used at once to leave the room, and when
next he called me, it was as though nothing unpleasant had happened.

Speaking of Tolstoy's later years the same servant says:

Leo Nikoláyevitch has now become quite a different man. From 1865
to 1870 he was active in managing the estate, and was fond of cows,
bred sheep, looked after the property, and, in a word, attended
to everything. At that time he was hot-tempered and impulsive. He
would order the trap to be brought when he wanted to go hunting.
His man, Alexis, would bring him his hunting-boots, and the Count
would shout at him, 'Why have you not dried them? You are not
worth your salt!' Alexis, knowing the Count's character, would
take the boots away, and bring them back almost directly. 'There!
now they're all right,' the Count would say, and would brighten up
instantly.

His love of the country and his dislike of towns sprang partly from his
keen appreciation of the charm and loveliness of Nature. He saw fresh
beauty every day, and often exclaimed: 'What wealth God has! He gives
each day something to distinguish it from all the rest.'

Sportsman and agriculturist himself, he maintains that sportsmen and
agriculturists alone know Nature. To quote Behrs again:

No bad weather was allowed to interfere with his daily walk. He
could put up with loss of appetite, from which he occasionally
suffered, but he could never go a day without a sharp walk in the
open air. In general, he was fond of active movement, riding,
gymnastics, but particularly walking. If his literary work chanced
to go badly, or if he wished to throw off the effects of any
unpleasantness, a long walk was his sovereign remedy. He could
walk the whole day without fatigue; and we have frequently ridden
together for ten or twelve hours. In his study he kept a pair of
dumb-bells, and sometimes had gymnastic apparatus erected there.

All luxury was distasteful to him; and much that ordinary people regard
as common comforts, seemed to him harmful indulgences, bad for the
souls and bodies of men. Nothing could well be more simple than the
arrangement of his house at Yásnaya, substantial and solidly built as
it was, with its double windows, and the Dutch stoves so necessary to
warm a Russian house.

He was not at all particular about what he ate, but objected to a
soft bed or spring mattress, and at one time he used to sleep on a
leather-covered sofa.

He dressed very simply, and when at home never wore starched shirts or
tailor-made clothes, but adapted to his own requirements the ordinary
Russian blouse, having it made of woollen stuff for winter, and of
linen for summer. His out-door winter dress was also an adaptation of
the sheepskin _shoúba_ and peasants' _caftán_, made of the plainest
material; and these afforded such good protection from the weather that
they were often borrowed by members of the household as well as by
visitors.

During the writing of _War and Peace_ Tolstoy generally enjoyed good
spirits, and on days when his work had gone well, he would gleefully
announce that he had left 'a bit of my life in the inkstand.' One of
his chief recreations was to go out hare-hunting with borzoi dogs, and
this he often did in company with a neighbouring landed proprietor,
Bíbikof.

From October 1865 he ceased to keep his Diary, and did not renew it
during the period covered by this volume.

1866

On Twelfth Night a grand masquerade was held at Yásnaya, and the
festivities were kept up till past two in the morning, and were
followed by a troika drive next day.

That same January the family moved to Moscow, where they hired a
six-roomed apartment for Rs. 155 a month (say about £23); and there
they remained for six weeks while the second part of _War and Peace_
was being printed for the _Russian Messenger_.

Among the friends Tolstoy saw most of at this time were Aksákof and
Prince Obolénsky. He also attended the Moscow drawing school, and he
tried his hand at sculpture--modelling a bust of his wife. It does not
appear, however, that he continued this occupation long.

In May 1866 a second son, Ilyá, was born, and an English nurse
introduced into the family.

During this summer an infantry regiment was stationed near Yásnaya,
in which a young Sub-Lieutenant named Kolokóltsef was serving, whom
the Countess Tolstoy had known in Moscow. He visited the Tolstoys,
and introduced to them his Colonel Únosha, and his fellow-officer
Ensign Stasulévitch (brother of the Liberal editor of the monthly
magazine, _The Messenger of Europe_), who had been degraded to the
ranks because, while he was on prison-duty, a prisoner had escaped.
Ensign Stasulévitch was middle-aged, but he had only recently regained
his rank as officer and joined the regiment commanded by his former
comrade, Colonel Únosha.

One day Stasulévitch and Kolokóltsef called on Tolstoy and told him
that a soldier, serving as secretary in one of the companies of the
regiment, had struck his Company Commander, and was to be tried by
court-martial. They asked Tolstoy to undertake the man's defence, and
he, having always regarded capital punishment with abhorrence, readily
agreed to do so.

The circumstances of the case were these. The soldier, Shiboúnin, was
a man of very limited intelligence, whose chief occupation was writing
out reports. When he had any money he spent it on solitary drinking.
The Captain in command of his company, a Pole, apparently disliked him,
and frequently found fault with his reports and made him rewrite them.
This treatment Shiboúnin bitterly resented; and one day, when he had
been drinking, on being told to rewrite a document he had prepared,
he insulted and struck the Captain. By law the penalty for a private
who strikes his officer is death. Tolstoy nevertheless hoped to save
the man's life, and obtained permission to plead on his behalf. The
trial took place on 6th June, and the members of the court-martial were
Colonel Únosha, Stasulévitch, and Kolokóltsef; the latter being merely
a light-headed youngster.

Tolstoy, when telling me of the incident, remarked that of the four
occasions on which he has spoken in public, this was the time that
he did so with most assurance and satisfaction to himself. He had
written out his speech; the main point of which was that Shiboúnin was
not responsible for his actions, being abnormal, and having from the
combined effect of intemperance and the monotony of his occupation,
become idiotic and obsessed by an idea that his Company Commander did
not understand report writing, and unfairly rejected work faultlessly
done. The law decrees a mitigation of sentence for crimes committed by
those who are not in the full possession of their senses; and as this
contradicts the paragraph allotting death as the sole punishment for a
soldier who strikes his officer, Tolstoy argued that mercy should be
extended to the prisoner.

The Court adjourned to consider its verdict, and (as Tolstoy
subsequently learnt) Stasulévitch was in favour of mercy. The Colonel,
who was more of a military machine than a human being, demanded the
death sentence, and the decision therefore rested with the boyish
Sub-Lieutenant, who (submitting to his Colonel) voted for death.

Tolstoy wished to appeal (through his aunt, the Countess A. A. Tolstoy)
to Alexander II for a pardon; but with characteristic disregard of
details, he omitted to mention the name of the regiment in which the
affair had occurred, and this enabled the Minister of War, Milútin,
to delay the presentation of the petition until Shiboúnin had been
shot; which occurred on 9th August. Tolstoy's appeal never, therefore,
reached the Emperor.

In contrast with the action of the Colonel and the Minister, was
that of the peasants of the district, who flocked in crowds to see
the prisoner; bringing him milk, eggs, home-made linen and all the
gifts their poverty could afford. When the day of execution arrived,
Shiboúnin went quite impassively to his death; to all appearance
incapable of understanding what was happening. The people thronged
around the post to which he was to be tied--the women weeping and
some of them fainting. They fetched a priest to perform Masses at
his grave, and paid for the service to be repeated all day. At night
contributions of copper money, linen, and candles such as are burnt in
Russian churches, were laid upon his grave. Next day the Masses were
recommenced, and were continued until the local police forbade any more
religious services, and levelled the grave that the people might not
continue to visit it.

The knowledge of such a difference between the spirit of the governors
and the governed, helps us once again to understand Tolstoy's
ultimate conviction that Government and the administration of law are
essentially evil things, always tending to make the world worse and not
better. In later life we may be sure he would not have been content to
base his plea for mercy on merely legal grounds.

From time to time he continued to be troubled with ill-health; for
instance, in July 1866 he writes that he is confined to the house with
pains in the stomach which make it impossible for him to turn quickly.

In November--contrary to what he had often said in the past and was to
return to in later life--he expresses his sense of the importance of
authorship. Fet, criticising something in _War and Peace_, had quoted
the words, _irritabilis poetarum gens_, and Tolstoy, replying 'Not I,'
welcomes the criticism, begs for more, and goes on to say:

What have you been doing? Not on the Zémstvo [County Council]
or in farming (all that is compulsory activity such as we do
elementally and with as little will of our own as the ants who make
an ant-hill; in that sphere there is nothing good or bad), but
what are you doing in thought, with the mainspring of your being,
which alone has been, and is, and will endure in the world? Is that
spring still alive? Does it wish to manifest itself? How does it
express its wish? Or has it forgotten how to express itself? That
is the chief thing.

By the autumn of this year the railway southwards from Moscow to Koursk
had been constructed as far as Toúla, making it easier to get from
Yásnaya to Moscow, and to the rest of Europe. Yet Tolstoy comparatively
seldom felt tempted to leave his much-loved, tranquil, busy, country
life, in which alone he found himself able to work with the maximum of
efficiency.

About this time he undertook the planting of a birch wood, which has
since grown up and become valuable.

1867

During the summer of 1867 Tolstoy, despite the dislike and distrust
of doctors--which he shares with Rousseau, and which he has again and
again expressed in his works--was induced by the state of his health
and by his wife's persuasion, to consult the most famous Moscow doctor
of the time, Professor Zahárin, on whose advice he drank mineral water
during several weeks.

Writing to Fet he says:

If I wrote to you, dear friend, every time I think of you, you
would receive two letters a day from me. But one cannot get
everything said, and sometimes one is lazy and sometimes too busy,
as is the case at present. I have recently returned from Moscow
and have begun a strict cure under the direction of Zahárin; and
most important of all, I am printing my novel at Ris's, and have
to prepare and send off MSS. and proofs every day under threat of
a fine and of delayed publication. That is both pleasant and also
hard, as you know.

He goes on to criticise Tourgénef's novel, _Dym_ (_Smoke_), which had
appeared that year:

About _Smoke_ I meant to write long ago, and, of course, just what
you have now written. That is why we love one another--because we
think alike with the 'wisdom of the heart' as you call it. (Thank
you very much for that letter also: 'the wisdom of the heart' and
'the wisdom of the mind' explain much to me.) About _Smoke_, I
think that the strength of poetry lies in love; and the direction
of that strength depends on character. Without strength of love
there is no poetry; but strength falsely directed--the result of
the poet's having an unpleasant, weak character--creates dislike.
In _Smoke_ there is hardly any love of anything, and very little
poetry. There is only love of light and playful adultery, and
therefore the poetry of that novel is repulsive. That, as you
see, is just what you write about it. Only I fear to express
this opinion because I cannot look soberly at the author, whose
personality I do not like; but I fancy my impression is the general
one. One more writer played out!

In November 1867 we find the whole family again established for a while
in a lodging in Moscow, where they seem to have remained for a large
part of the winter.

Here Fet visited Tolstoy and announced to him that he had decided to
arrange a Literary Evening for the benefit of the famine-stricken
peasants of Mtsensk, the district in which Fet's estate lay. Tolstoy
met the suggestion with irony, maintaining that Fet had invented the
famine; and in reply to a request that he would ensure the success of
the evening by reading something, flatly refused to do so, declaring
that he never had and never could do such a thing as read in public.
Still, he lent Fet the chapter of _War and Peace_ containing the
wonderful description of the retreat of the Russian army from Smolénsk
in fearful drought. This as yet existed only in proof, not having been
published. (It forms Chapter V of Part X of Volume II in Mrs. Constance
Garnett's version: the best English rendering of that novel.) Read
by Prince Kougoúshef, the poet and dramatist, it evoked thunders of
applause.

1868

On 12th April 1868 Tourgénef, writing to Fet, said:

I have just finished the fourth volume of _War and Peace_.
There are things in it that are unbearable, and things that are
wonderful; and the wonderful things (they predominate) are so
magnificently good that we have never had anything better written
by anybody; and it is doubtful whether anything as good has been
written.

About the same time V. P. Bótkin wrote from Petersburg: 'Tolstoy's
novel is having a really remarkable success; every one here is reading
it, and they not merely read it but become enthusiastic about it.'

1869

The Epilogue was not completed till late in 1869. On 30th August
Tolstoy writes: 'Part VI [_i.e._ Part II of the Epilogue] which I
expected to have finished a month ago, is not ready'; and then in the
next sentence, he goes into ecstasies over Schopenhauer:

Do you know what this summer has been for me? An unceasing ecstasy
over Schopenhauer, and a series of mental enjoyments such as I
never experienced before. I have bought all his works, and have
read and am reading them (as well as Kant's). And assuredly no
student in his course has learnt so much and discovered so much
as I have during this summer. I do not know whether I shall ever
change my opinion, but at present I am confident that Schopenhauer
is the greatest genius among men. You said he had written something
or other on philosophic subjects. What do you mean by 'something
or other'? It is the whole world in an extraordinarily vivid and
beautiful reflection. I have begun translating him. Won't you
take up that work? We would publish it together. After reading
him I cannot conceive how his name can remain unknown. The only
explanation is the one he so often repeats, that except idiots
there is scarcely any one else in the world....

He goes on to say that he was starting next day for the Government of
Pénza to look at an estate he meant to buy 'in those out-of-the-way
parts.' The servant who accompanied Tolstoy has told how they travelled
third class from Moscow to Nízhni, and how Tolstoy chatted with his
fellow-travellers, so that many of them took him 'for a common man.'
The idea of buying the estate in Pénza was ultimately abandoned.

He had by then completed the last part of _War and Peace_, which was
to appear complete in book form in November. Two volumes had been
published in 1866, three more in 1868, and the sixth was not ready till
this year, 1869. (In subsequent editions the book was rearranged, first
into five and then into four volumes.)

Though he had so completely conquered the laziness of which he accused
himself in early manhood as to have become a regular, indefatigable and
extremely hard worker, yet after the completion of so gigantic a task
he felt the need of recuperation and in summer wrote to Fet: 'It is now
my deadest time: I neither write nor think, but feel happily stupid,'
and he adds that he goes out shooting woodcock and has killed eight at
an outing.

That at this time he already felt something of the strong repugnance
he so strenuously expressed in later years for luxury and profuse
expenditure, is indicated by his comment on the death of his
acquaintance, the author V. P. Bótkin, which took place in 1869. The
latter, a member of a wealthy family of tea-merchants, having lived
with economy till he knew his death was approaching, then hired a
splendid lodging in Petersburg, fitted it up with all possible comfort
and luxury, engaged a _chef_ from the kitchen of the Tsarévitch, paid
daily attention to the dinner _menu_, and engaged famous musicians to
perform quartets at his lodgings. To the magnificent feasts he gave
every day (at which, owing to the state of his health, he himself
participated chiefly as a spectator) he gathered a select circle of
those friends whose conversation interested him. He told his brother
that these arrangements for the close of his life gave him the keenest
pleasure, and that 'birds of Paradise are singing in my soul.' On 4th
October a quartet and a banquet had been arranged as usual, and many
guests were expected--but V. P. Bótkin lay dead in his bed.

Tolstoy, hearing of this, wrote to Fet:

I was terribly shocked by the character of V. P. Bótkin's death. If
what is told of it is true, it is terrible. How is it that among
his friends not one was found to give to that supreme moment of
life the character suitable to it?

Before _War and Peace_ was finished, the Countess had borne four
children, the fourth being a boy, born on 20th May 1869, and christened
Leo--nursing them all herself, as she did her subsequent children,
with two exceptions mentioned later on. Her willingness to do her duty
in this respect was exceptional among women of her class, for the
employment of wet-nurses was extremely common in Russia.

Up to the age of ten, the children were taught Russian and music by
the Countess, and she even found time to make their clothes herself
till they reached that age. Besides managing the household, her brother
tells us that during the composition of _War and Peace_ she found time
to copy it out no less than seven times, a statement not to be taken
literally: for greatly as Tolstoy believes in the proverb that 'Gold
is got by sifting,' and indefatigably as he revises his work, not all
the chapters of _War and Peace_ will have been altered that number of
times. With Tolstoy the children learnt arithmetic; and they learnt to
read French out of illustrated volumes of Jules Verne.

In all that concerned the education of the children, his wife at this
time willingly constituted herself the executant of her husband's
decisions, which were based largely on J. J. Rousseau's _Émile_, and
were relaxed only in so far as the Countess was unable to carry them
out, and as Tolstoy found himself too much occupied with other affairs
to attempt to do so. Later on there was less accord between the parents.

With the first child they tried to do without a nurse, but the attempt
was unsuccessful, and subsequently Russian nurses and foreign _bonnes_
were employed.

Toys were not allowed in the nursery, but much liberty was given to
the children. No violent or severe punishments were inflicted on them,
and none but their parents might award the punishments that were
administered. They aimed at gaining their children's confidence by
timely petting and kindly treatment.

If one of the children told a falsehood, this was treated as a serious
matter, and the punishment usually consisted in the parents treating
the child coldly. As soon, however, as it showed that it was really
sorry, the punishment ceased; but a child was never persuaded to say it
was sorry or to promise not to repeat its fault.

All the grown-up people in the house were expected to remember that
children are apt to copy and imitate all that they see and hear; and
the children were not kept away from the adults, except at lesson time.
Consequently when eight o'clock came and the children went to bed,
Tolstoy would often remark: 'Now, we are freer!'

Partly that they might learn English, partly because Tolstoy believed
that education was freer in England than elsewhere, young English
governesses were engaged to take charge of his children from the age
of three to nine. He was extremely fortunate in his first choice, for
the young lady remained with the Tolstoys for six years, and after her
marriage continued in most friendly relations with the whole family.

He aimed at acquainting the children with Nature, and developing their
love of it, of animals, and of insects. He liked to let them realise
their impotence and their complete dependence on their elders, but he
always did this with kindly consideration.

The children were not allowed to order the servants about, but had to
_ask_ them for anything they wanted; and that a good example might be
set, every one in the house was expected to do the same. This was the
more important, because the peasant servants in Russia, even after the
Emancipation, were scarcely regarded as belonging to the same race
of human beings as their masters, and a famous Russian author could
say without any exaggeration, 'The balcony was rotten. Only servants
went there; the family did not go there.' But, to avoid giving a wrong
impression, I must here make a reservation. Just because there was no
idea of the two classes overlapping, and because so wide a gap existed
between them that they dressed quite differently (the peasants having
their own costume and style of garments) very cordial and sincere good
feeling often grew up between master and man, or between proprietress
and servant, and real human interest, such as is shown in Tolstoy's
descriptions of the servants in _Childhood_, and in his other stories.
It was, and is, not at all unusual for Russian servants to intervene
in the conversation of the family or visitors; and the whole relation
between employers and employed was quite different to what it is in
England, where on Sundays the maid might be mistaken for her mistress,
except that she often looks more attractive than the latter.

The plan adopted in the Yásno-Polyána school, where no child was
obliged to learn anything it did not care to learn, had to be abandoned
in the family; but some scope was allowed to the children to reject
what they had no capacity for, and they were never punished for
neglecting to prepare lessons, though they were rewarded when they
learnt well.

To illustrate Tolstoy's way of developing the minds of those about him,
Behrs tells of his own case when, as a youth, he stayed at Yásnaya:

Regardless of my youth at the time, I remember that Tolstoy
discussed quite seriously with me all the scientific and
philosophic questions it came into my head to put to him. He always
answered simply and clearly, and never hesitated to admit the fact
if he himself did not understand this or that matter. Often my talk
with him took the form of a dispute, on which I embarked in spite
of my consciousness of his immense superiority.

The children were always eager to go for walks with their father, to
answer his call to practise Swedish gymnastics, and to be on his side
in any game he taught them. In winter they skated a good deal; but
clearing the snow off the pond under his leadership was an even greater
pleasure than the skating itself.

Before breakfast he would go for a walk with his brother-in-law, or
they would ride down to bathe in the river that flows by one side of
the estate. At morning coffee the whole family assembled, and it was
generally a very merry meal, Tolstoy being up to all sorts of jokes,
till he rose with the words, 'One must get to work,' and went off
to his study, taking with him a tumbler full of tea. While at work
in his room not even his wife was allowed to disturb him; though at
one time his second child and eldest daughter, Tatiána, while still
quite a little girl, was privileged to break this rule. The rare
days (generally in summer) when he relaxed, were very welcome to the
children, for their father's presence always brought life and animation
with it. Generally after dinner, before resuming work, he would read a
book not directly connected with the task he had in hand. It was often
an English novel; and we hear of his reading Anthony Trollope with
approval, Mrs. Henry Wood, who, he says, made a great impression on
him, and Miss Braddon. His dislike of George Sand remained unshaken,
and he considered _Consuelo_ to be a mixture of the pretentious and the
spurious. Goethe (especially _Faust_) he admired; while Molière's plays
and Hugo's _Les Misérables_ appealed to him very strongly indeed. In
the evening he was fond of playing duets with his sister. He used to
find it hard to keep up with her in playing long pieces with which he
was not quite familiar, and when in difficulties he would say something
to make her laugh, and cause her to play slower. If he did not succeed
by means of this ruse, he would sometimes stop and solemnly take off
one of his boots, as though that must infallibly help him out of the
difficulty; and he would then recommence, with the remark, 'Now, it
will go all right!'

During the early years of his married life few visitors came to
Yásnaya, except the numerous members of the Tolstoy-Behrs families,
who stayed there chiefly in summer. The poet A. A. Fet, D. A. Dyákof,
whom he had known from boyhood and had described in _Youth_, N. N.
Stráhof, the philosopher and critic, for whose judgment he had great
respect and whom he frequently consulted throughout his literary
career, and Prince L. D. Ouroúsof, a cousin of the Prince Ouroúsof he
had known during the siege of Sevastopol, seem to have been almost the
only friends who visited him in the years first following his marriage;
and this suited Tolstoy very well, for to entertain many visitors
would have seriously interrupted the absorbing work in which he was
continually engaged.

Fet has so often been mentioned in this volume that it is time to
devote a few lines to describing a man who has come in for much abuse
on account of the anti-Emancipationist sympathies expressed in some of
his writings. Like Tolstoy, he had grown up with no idea that it is
incumbent on men of education and capacity to organise the society of
which they are members, or by political action to remedy such abuses
as inevitably arise among human beings who do not keep the task of
systematic social organisation constantly in view. Of the impression
Fet's political opinions made on the Liberals, one may judge by a
remark Tourgénef addressed to him in a letter written in 1874: 'Twenty
years ago, at the height of Nicholas I's _régime_, you dumbfounded me
by announcing your opinion that the mind of man could devise nothing
superior to the position of the Russian aristocracy of that day, nor
anything nobler or more admirable.' The Liberals saw in Fet a political
reactionary--and so he was; but any one who reads his _Recollections_
may also see how large a measure of personal worth can be combined with
political indifferentism--a quality many Russians of his generation
were brought up to regard as a virtue. In private life he was a really
worthy man, and Tolstoy once very truly remarked to him:

There are some people whose talk is far above their actual
morality; but there are also some whose talk is below that
level. You are one who is so afraid of his sermon being above
his practice, that you intentionally talk far below your actual
practice.

While still a young cavalry officer Fet began to write poetry, for
which he had real talent; and after leaving the army he continued
his literary career as an Art-for-Art's-sake-ist, producing verse
translations of Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Juvenal, Catullus, Tibullus,
Propertius, and Persius, besides original works of his own in prose and
verse, and (after Tolstoy's suggestion, already recorded) translations
from the German of Schopenhauer's _The World as Will and Idea_, and
Goethe's _Faust_.

In his dislike, or perhaps one should say ignorance, of politics,
commerce, and that great industrial revolution of the Western world
that has been the most conspicuous achievement of the last one hundred
and fifty years, as well as in his love of pure art, chiefly literary,
he had much in common with Tolstoy. They could talk with profound
sympathy of all that related to art, and they were alike in their love
of country life and in their relation to agriculture, as well as in the
fact that the great problems of life centred for them round their own
personality rather than around the community to which they belonged.
Patriotic by instinct, it was no part of their philosophy to be so;
at least they never dreamed of that newer patriotism which seeks to
manage the production and distribution of the national wealth so that
every member of the community may have an opportunity to live in decent
conditions. They had therefore at this period much in common; and
one sees by Tolstoy's letters how greatly they enjoyed each other's
society, though a time was coming when their friendship would wane.

Tolstoy had a strong dislike of leaving home even for a few days. When
it was absolutely necessary for him to go to Moscow he would grumble
at his hard fate, and Behrs, when he accompanied him, noticed how town
life depressed Tolstoy, making him fidgety and even irritable. When
returning from a journey, or a hunting expedition, he would express his
anxiety by exclaiming, 'If only all's well at home!' After he had been
away from Yásnaya, Tolstoy never failed to give the home party full and
amusing accounts of what he had seen and heard.

A distinguishing feature of Tolstoy, already remarked upon, but so
strongly marked that it can hardly be insisted on too much, was the
ardent and whole-hearted way in which he threw himself into whatever
occupation he took up. On this point Prince D. D. Obolénsky says:
'I have seen Count L. N. Tolstoy in all phases of his creative
activity.... Whatever his occupation, he did it with conviction, firmly
believing in the value of what he was doing, and always fully absorbed
by it. I remember him as a man of the world, and have met him at balls,
and I remember a remark he once made, "See what poetry there is in
women's ball-dresses, what elegance, how much thought, how much charm
even in the flowers pinned to the dresses!" I remember him as an ardent
sportsman, as a beekeeper, as a gardener; I remember his enthusiasm for
farming, for tree planting, fruit culture, horse breeding, and much
else.'

A housekeeper who was with him for nine years, said of him:

The Count himself looked after everything, and demanded extreme
cleanliness in the cowhouse and in the pig-styes and in the
sheep-cot. In particular he delighted in his pigs, of which he had
as many as 300, paired off in separate styes.... There the Count
would not allow the least dirt. Every day I and my assistants had
to wash them all, and wipe the floor and walls of the styes; then
the Count, on passing through the piggery of a morning, would be
very pleased, and would remark aloud: 'What management!... What
good management!' But God have mercy on us if he noticed the
least dirt! That at once made him shout out angrily.... The Count
was very hasty, and a doctor who used to come to Yásnaya said to
him more than once in my presence: 'You must not get so angry,
Count, it is very bad for your health....' 'I can't help it,' he
would reply. 'I want to restrain myself, but can't do it. That,
it seems, is the way I am made!'... His farming gave the Count a
good revenue in those days. Besides the pigs and their litters, he
had 80 cows, 500 good sheep, and very many fowls. We used to make
excellent butter, which we sold in Moscow at 60 copecks [about 19
pence] a lb.

His management of property was characteristically personal. He never
took shares in any joint-stock company, but he bought land, bred cattle
and horses of good quality, planted a large apple-orchard, as well
as a quantity of other trees, and in general he acquired property he
could manage himself, or (for he entrusted the management of his Samára
estates to stewards) over which he had full control. He has always
been more alive to the dangers and evils of commercial companies and
large engineering and industrial undertakings, than to the good they
have achieved by irrigating arid lands, uniting distant realms, and
lightening man's toil by making iron bear some of his burdens for him.

Tolstoy furnishes an example of the well-known fact that men of
artistic temperament are often untidy. Though he acknowledges the
advantages of neatness in general, he often remarked that it is a
quality most frequently found in shallow natures. He himself simply
could not, and therefore did not try to, keep his things in order. When
he undressed he let his clothes or boots drop where he stood; and if he
happened to be moving from place to place, his garments remained strewn
about the room, and sometimes on the floor. Behrs remarks.

I noticed that to pack his things for a journey cost him great
effort, and when I accompanied him I used very willingly to do
it for him, and thereby pleased him very much. I remember that
once, for some reason, I did not at all wish to pack for him. He
noticed this, and with characteristic delicacy did not ask me to,
but put his things into his portmanteau himself; and I can assert
positively that no one else, were they to try, could have got them
into such fearful disorder as they were in, in that portmanteau.

It was a peculiarity of Tolstoy's that he not only liked to have his
own sleep out without being disturbed, but that he never could or would
wake any one from sleep, and in cases of absolute necessity would ask
some one else to relieve him of that disagreeable task.

Behrs recounts that when they sat up late, the man-servant sometimes
fell asleep in his chair and omitted to serve up the cold supper.
Tolstoy would never allow him to be disturbed on these occasions, but
would himself go to the pantry to fetch the supper, and would do this
stealthily, and with the greatest caution, so that it became a kind
of amusing game. He would get quite cross with Behrs if the latter
accidentally let the plates clatter or made any other noise.

Many years later, alluding in my presence to this peculiarity of his,
Tolstoy remarked, 'While a man is asleep he is at any rate not sinning.'

1870

On 4th February 1870 Tolstoy wrote to Fet:

I received your letter, dear Afanásy Afanásyevitch, on 1st
February, but even had I received it somewhat sooner I could not
have come. You write, 'I am _alone, alone_!' And when I read it
I thought, What a lucky fellow--_alone_! I have a wife, three
children, and a fourth at the breast, two old aunts, a nurse,
and two housemaids. And they are all ill together: fever, high
temperature, weakness, headaches, and coughs. In that state your
letter found me. They are now beginning to get better, but out of
ten people, I and my old aunt alone turn up at the dinner table.
And since yesterday I myself am ill with my chest and side. There
is much, very much, I want to tell you about. I have been reading a
lot of Shakespear, Goethe, Poúshkin, Gógol, and Molière, and about
all of them there is much I want to say to you. I do not take in
a single magazine or newspaper this year, and I consider it very
useful not to.

S. A. Behrs tells us that Tolstoy 'never read newspapers, and
considered them useless, and when they contain false news, even
harmful. In his humorous way he would sometimes parody a newspaper
style when speaking of domestic affairs.' His attitude towards
journalists and critics (except his friend Stráhof) was rather
scornful, and he was indignant when any one classed them even
with third-rate authors. He considered that it is a misuse of the
printing-press to publish so much that is unnecessary, uninteresting,
and worst of all, inartistic. He seldom read criticisms of his own
work. 'His feeling towards periodicals in general had its source in his
intense dislike of the exploitation of works of art. He would smile
contemptuously at hearing it suggested that a real artist produces his
works for the sake of money.'

Having said this much about his characteristics and peculiarities,
let us note the extent to which his life and mode of thought at this
time approximated to his later teaching. His humane relations towards
the peasants, his condemnation of many of the manifestations of
modern civilisation, his simplicity in household matters and dress,
his exemplary family life, humane educational ideals, deep love of
sincerity and of industry (including physical labour), his ardent
search for truth and for self-improvement, his gradually increasing
accessibility to and regard for others, his undoubted love of family
and his hatred of violence--indicate that the ideals of his later
life were not very far from him, even before the commencement of the
conversion told of in his _Confession_.

On 17th February Tolstoy writes to Fet:

I hoped to visit you the night of the 14th, but could not do so.
As I wrote you, we were all ill,--I last. I went out yesterday for
the first time. What stopped me was pain in the eyes, which is
increased by wind and sleeplessness. I now, to my great regret,
have to postpone my visit to you till Lent. I must go to Moscow to
take my aunt to my sister's, and to see an oculist about my eyes.

It is a pity that one can only get to your place after passing
a sleepless, cigarette-smoky, stuffy, railway-carriage,
conversational night. You want to read me a story of cavalry
life.... And I don't want to read you anything, because I am not
writing anything; but I very much want to talk about Shakespear and
Goethe and the drama in general. This whole winter I am occupied
only with the drama; and it happens to me, as it usually happens
to people who till they are forty have not thought of a certain
subject or formed any conception of it, and then suddenly with
forty-year-old clearness turn their attention to this new untasted
subject--it seems to them that they discern in it much that is new.
All winter I have enjoyed myself lying down, drowsing, playing
bézique, going on snowshoes, skating, and most of all lying in bed
(ill) while characters from a drama or comedy have performed for
me. And they perform very well. It is about that I want to talk to
you. In that, as in everything, you are a classic, and understand
the essence of the matter very deeply. I should like also to read
Sophocles and Euripides.

There we see Tolstoy, as always, ardently devoting his attention to
some great subject--which happens, this time, to be dramatic art. So
keen is he, that his mind is full of it whatever else he may be doing;
and so vivid is his imagination that the characters of the plays
perform for him whether he is standing up or lying down. How real a
grip he obtained of the subject with very little theatre-going, was
shown seventeen years later, when he wrote one of the most powerful
dramas ever produced, and followed it up by an excellent comedy: both
pieces being so good that they are constantly revived in Russian
theatres, besides having achieved success in other countries.

At the point we have reached there was no break in the manner of
Tolstoy's life. He continued to live quietly at Yásnaya, and to concern
himself chiefly with literature, and also with the management of his
estates and the welfare of his family. Children continued to be born
in rapid succession, and with the increasing family his means also
increased. But we have come to the middle of that tranquil period
of sixteen years which succeeded his marriage, and here, while--as
one would say of another man--he was indefatigably studying the
drama; or while--as one is inclined to say of him--he was resting and
recuperating before undertaking his next great work, it is convenient
to close this chapter.

CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER IX

Birukof.

Fet.

Behrs.

Bitovt.

_Yasnaya Polyana_, P. A. Sergeyenko: _Niva_, No. 34, 1908.

_L. N. Tolstoy_; _Monografiya Andreevitcha_: Petersburg, 1905.

For much information in this chapter as well as elsewhere I am indebted
to Tolstoy himself, to the Countess S. A. Tolstoy, to his sister, and
particularly to his daughter, Mary Lvovna, Princess Obolensky.

Information concerning the execution of the soldier is given in _Pravo_
for 1903.

Prince D. D. Obolensky's _Vospominaniya_ appeared in _Roussky Arhiv_,
1896.

See also, _Graf L. N. Tolstoy_, _Vospominaniya S. P. Arbouzova_:
Moscow, 1908.

Arbouzof was in Tolstoy's service twenty-two years. He gives his master
an excellent character; and though very inaccurate, his naive chatter
is readable, and throws light on Tolstoy's character.

CHAPTER X

NEARING THE CRISIS

Fet's poem. Franco-Prussian war. Studies Greek. Effect on health.
Railways. Koumýs cure in Samára. Mouhamet-Dzhan. An expedition.
'Milk-loving Scythians.' Buys estate. Molokáns. Tourgénef's interest.
_ABC_ Book. House enlarged. On future life. Re-starts school.
Preparation of _ABC_ Book. Astronomy. _A Prisoner in the Caucasus._
_God Sees the Truth._ Ceremonial rites. Stráhof and the _ABC_ Book.
Samára. Bull kills keeper. Teachers' Congress at Yásnaya. A letter in
verse. Peter the Great. A suicide. _Anna Karénina._ Mouhamed Shah.
Samára famine. Kramskóy's portrait. Death of son, Peter. Addresses
Moscow Society of Literacy. A practical demonstration. Test schools.
_The Fatherland Journal: On the Education of the People._ Mihaylóvsky.
'A University in bark shoes.' Toúla Zémstvo Education Committee.
Tourgénef translates Tolstoy. Birth of a son. Death of Aunt Tatiána.
_ABC_ Book approved. Wife's health. _Anna Karénina._ Death of a son.
Tourgénef on Tolstoy's writings. Samára. Primitive agriculture. Fête
and horse races. Bashkír life. Education of his children. Exercises
and playfulness. Croquet. 'Numidian cavalry.' Birth and death of a
daughter. Aunt P. I. Úshkof dies. Letters to Fet. Nirvana and Sansara.
_Anna Karénina._ 'Summer condition.' Horse-breeding. Loss of Gouneba.
Music. P. I. Tschaikóvsky. At the Conservatoire. Folk-songs. Beethoven.
Tolstoy on art. Approach of war. Rupture with Katkóf. The Evangelicals.
An epitaph. Professor Boutleróf. The Deity. Óptin Monastery. A
folk-story teller. Turkish prisoners. Son, Andrew, born. Ill-health.
_The Decembrists._ 'Martha is troubled.' Reconciliation with Tourgénef.
Samára. Tourgénef at Yásnaya. Their relations still not cordial.
Pilgrims. N. Tchaykóvsky. Mihaylóvsky's forecast. V. I. Alexéyef.

1870

As he grew older Tolstoy's love of outdoor exercise tended more towards
activity serving a useful productive purpose, and one finds a hint of
this in the following letter to Fet, dated 11th May 1870:

I received your letter, dear friend, when returning perspiring home
from work, with axe and spade, and when therefore I was a thousand
miles from things artistic in general, and from our business in
particular. On opening the letter I first read the poem and felt a
sensation in my nose. On coming home to my wife I tried to read it
to her, but could not do so for tears of emotion. The poem is one
of those rare ones in which not a word could be added or subtracted
or altered: it is a live thing, and admirable....

I have just served for a week as juryman, and found it very
interesting and instructive.

The next letter refers to the fact that Tolstoy did his best literary
work in winter, when he often spent almost the whole day, and sometimes
part of the night, at it; that was the time when his 'sap flowed':

_2 Oct. 1870._

It is long since we met, and in my winter condition, which I am now
entering, I am specially glad to see you. I have been shooting; but
the sap is beginning to flow, and I am collecting it as it drips.
Whether it be good or bad sap, it is pleasant to let it flow in
these long wonderful autumn evenings.... A grief has befallen me;
the mare is ill. The veterinary says her wind has been broken, but
I cannot have broken it.

The Franco-Prussian war, which commenced at this time, interested
Tolstoy keenly. He had come into contact with the French, in the
Crimea, before the Napoleonic autocracy had long held sway; and
he had visited France in 1857 and 1860, before the effect of that
putrescent influence had become fully apparent. Neither the idea of
German national unity, nor Bismarck's and Moltke's ideal of efficient
organisation and discipline, were things that much appealed to Tolstoy.
So it happened that not only were all his sympathies on the side of
the French, but he also felt assured of their triumph. His friend
Prince Ouroúsof used to write letters to Katkóf's _Moscow Gazette_
demonstrating by analogies with games of chess, that the French were
continually drawing the German armies into more and more desperate
positions in which they must soon be quite destroyed. When, on the
contrary, the French were utterly defeated, it came to him as a
complete surprise; which all tends to illustrate the fact that men of
great intellectual power, living isolated on their country estates, may
at times go very considerably wrong in their estimate of the trend of
some of the forces that influence the world.

On 12 February 1871 a daughter was born, who was christened Mary. In
later life she, of all his children, was the one most deeply influenced
by her father's teaching. The Countess, who, as already mentioned,
made a point of nursing her own children, owing to the neglect of an
attendant, became unable to do so in this instance before the child was
many weeks old, and a wet-nurse was engaged; but as soon as the mother
saw her child at a stranger's breast she burst into a flood of jealous
tears, dismissed the nurse on the spot, and ordered the child to be fed
with a bottle. Tolstoy, when he heard what had happened, declared that
his wife had only shown the jealous affection natural to a true mother.

1870-71

During that winter Tolstoy devoted himself strenuously to the study
of Greek. On hearing of this, Fet felt so sure that Tolstoy would not
succeed, that he announced his readiness to devote his own skin for
parchment for Tolstoy's diploma of proficiency when the latter should
have qualified himself to receive it. Accordingly, in December, Tolstoy
wrote him as follows:

I received your letter a week ago, but have not answered because
from morning to night I am learning Greek. I am writing nothing,
only learning; and to judge by information reaching me through
Borísof, your skin (to be used as parchment for my diploma in
Greek) is in some danger. Improbable and astounding as it may seem,
I have read Xenophon, and can now read him at sight. For Homer,
a dictionary and some effort is still necessary. I eagerly await
a chance of showing this new trick to some one. But how glad I
am that God sent this folly upon me! In the first place I enjoy
it; and secondly, I have become convinced that of all that human
language has produced truly beautiful and simply beautiful, I knew
nothing (like all the others who know but do not understand); and
thirdly, because I have ceased to write, and never more will write,
wordy rubbish. I am guilty of having done so; but by God I won't
do it any more! Explain to me, for Heaven's sake, why no one knows
Esop's fables, or even delightful Xenophon, not to mention Plato
and Homer, whom I still have before me? In so far as I can as yet
judge, our translations, made on German models, only spoil Homer.
To use a banal but involuntary comparison: they are like boiled
and distilled water, while he is like water fresh from the spring,
striking the teeth with its sun-lit sparkle: even its specks only
making it seem still clearer and fresher.... You may triumph:
without a knowledge of Greek, there is no education. But what kind
of knowledge? How is it to be got? What is the use of it? To this I
have replies clear as daylight.

1871

S. A. Behrs tells us, 'I know for a fact that he learnt the language
and read Herodotus in three months.' While in Moscow that winter, he
visited Leóntief, then Professor of Greek at the Katkóf Lyceum, to
talk about Greek literature. Leóntief did not wish to believe in the
possibility of his having learnt Greek so rapidly, and proposed that
they should read something at sight. It happened that they differed as
to the meaning of three passages; but after a little discussion the
Professor admitted that the Count's interpretations were right.

Tolstoy felt the charm of the literary art of the ancient world, and
so keen was his power of entering into the minds of those of whom he
read, and so different to his own was the Greek outlook upon life, that
the contradiction produced in him a feeling of melancholy and apathy
profound enough to affect his health.

What clash of ideals it was that produced this result we may guess
when we consider how from his earliest years he had been attracted by
the Christian ideal of meekness, humility, and self-sacrifice, and how
little this accords with the outlook on life of the ancient Greeks. In
a book written nearly forty years later, Tolstoy tells us that 'If, as
was the case among the Greeks, religion places the meaning of life in
earthly happiness, in beauty and in strength, then art successfully
transmitting the joy and energy of life, would be considered good
art' [good, that is, in its subject-matter of feeling conveyed] but
art transmitting the opposite feelings would be bad art.[51] Again in
the same work he says that the esthetic theory he is combating, seeks
to make it appear 'that the very best that can be done by the art of
nations after 1900 years of Christian teaching, is to choose as the
ideal of life the ideal held by a small, semi-savage, slave-holding
people who lived 2000 years ago, imitated the nude human body extremely
well, and erected buildings pleasant to look at.'[52]

[51] _What is Art?_ p. 54: Constable, London, and Funk and
Wagnalls Co., New York.

[52] _Ibid._, p. 65.

To wean him from his absorption in Greek literature, his wife at first
urged him to take up some fresh literary work; and finally, becoming
seriously alarmed for his health, induced him to go eastward for a
koumýs cure. He wrote to Fet at this time:

_10 June 1871._

DEAR FRIEND,--I have long not written to you, nor been to see you,
because I was, and still am, ill. I don't myself know what is the
matter with me, but it seems like something bad or good, according
to the name we give to our exit. Loss of strength, and a feeling
that one needs nothing and wants nothing but quiet, which one has
not got. My wife is sending me to Samára or Sarátof for two months
for a koumýs cure. I leave for Moscow to-day, and shall there learn
where I am to go to.

In Moscow it was decided that he should go to the part of Samára he had
visited before.

Railways have always been an affliction to Tolstoy. Civilisation
has forced them on him without his wish, and, as he argued in his
educational articles, to the detriment of the peasant population.
Personally, he complained of disagreeable sensations he experienced
when travelling by rail, and compared these discomforts with the
pleasure of riding on horseback. He objected both to the officious
politeness of the conductors and to the way in which the passengers
suspiciously shun one another. (This latter complaint is not one a
Westerner would bring against Russians, for they appear to us the most
friendly and sociable of fellow-travellers.) He used to insist on his
wife always travelling first class. He himself went either first or
third, but seldom second. To travel third is a more serious matter in
Russia than in England; and he used purposely to choose a car in which
there were peasants, and talked to all whom he met.

On this outward journey he went third class, by rail to Nízhni
Nóvgorod and by steamer down the Vólga to the town of Samára. On the
boat he took the opportunity to study the manners and customs of his
fellow-passengers, natives of the Vólga district, and displayed his
remarkable gift of making friends with people of all kinds. Before he
had been two days on the boat he was on the friendliest terms with
everybody, including the sailors, among whom he slept each night in the
fore part of the vessel. Even when he met reserved or surly characters,
it was not long before he drew them out of their shells, and set them
chatting at their ease. One secret of this success was the unaffected
interest he took in learning about other people's lives and affairs.

From Samára Tolstoy went eastward for eighty miles on horseback,
following the banks of the river Karalýk till he reached the village
of that name. He had lived there in 1862, and was welcomed as an
old acquaintance and friend by the Bashkírs, who always spoke of
him as 'The Count.' The reader will remember that at the University
Tolstoy had studied oriental languages. His knowledge of Tartar no
doubt increased his popularity with the Bashkírs. He had with him a
man-servant, and his brother-in-law, Stepán Andréyevitch Behrs, then a
lad of about sixteen, who subsequently in his _Recollections_ gave many
particulars about this outing. They lived, not in the 'winter village'
of Karalýk, but about one-and-a-half miles away, in a _kotchévka_ on
the open steppe. A _kotchévka_ is a conical tent, made of a collapsible
wooden frame covered with large sheets of felt. It has a small painted
door, and is usually carpeted with soft feather grass. The one in
which Tolstoy's party lived, was a very large one which he hired from
the Mullah (priest). It had formerly been used as a mosque, but had
the practical disadvantage of not being rain-proof. There were four
_kotchévki_ in the neighbourhood, one of which was occupied by the
Mullah.

On first arriving at Karalýk, Tolstoy for some days felt very depressed
and unwell. He complained that he lacked capacity to feel either mental
or physical pleasure, and looked at everything 'as though he were a
corpse': a characteristic usually most foreign to him, and which in
other people always evoked his dislike. It was, however, not long
before he recovered his spirits and energy.

There were other visitors at Karalýk, who had also come to benefit
by a koumýs cure. They neither associated with the Bashkír nomads,
nor adopted their customs; but Tolstoy was extremely fond of the
Bashkírs, associated much with them, and strictly followed their diet:
avoiding all vegetable foods and restricting himself to meat and animal
products. Dinner every day consisted chiefly of mutton eaten with the
fingers out of wooden bowls.

Some of the Russian visitors lived in one of the _kotchévki_, but
most of them lodged in the 'winter village.' Tolstoy soon made friends
with them all, and thanks to his genial influence the whole place grew
gay and lively. A professor of Greek from a Seminary for the education
of priests might be seen trying a skipping-rope match with him; a
procureur's assistant discussed legal and other questions, and there
was a young Samára farmer who became his devoted follower.

Among those who specially interested Tolstoy was Mouhamet-Dzhan, the
Bashkír Elder, whom the Russian peasants called Michael Ivánovitch.
This man was very nimble and active, full of humour, fond of a joke,
and a very strong player at draughts.

Accompanied by Behrs and two of their new acquaintances, and taking
a supply of guns and presents, Tolstoy went for a four days' drive
through the neighbouring villages. The party had splendid duck-shooting
by the lakes they passed; and they were entertained and treated to
koumýs by the Bashkírs at the _kotchévkas_ in which they rested. As
opportunity presented itself, they made suitable acknowledgment for
their entertainment by giving presents to their hosts. One serious
drawback to the hospitality they enjoyed was the fact that their
hosts insisted on feeding them with mutton and fat with their own
hands, without the intermediacy of fork or spoon, and it was out of
the question to insult them by refusing such well-meant though quite
undesired attentions.

On one occasion Tolstoy happened to admire a horse that had separated
from its herd, and remarked to Behrs, 'See what a beautiful specimen
of milking mare that is.' When, an hour later, they were taking leave,
their host tied this animal to their conveyance, thus presenting it to
his visitor. Of course, on the return journey, Tolstoy had to make an
equivalent present in return.

Another incident of this stay in the Government of Samára, was a visit
to the Petróvsky Fair, which is held once a year at Bouzouloúk, a
small town some fifty miles from Karalýk. Here Russians, Bashkírs,
Oural Cossacks, and Kirghiz mingled with one another; and Tolstoy was
soon on a friendly footing with them all. He would chat and laugh with
them even when they were drunk; but when one in that condition took
it into his head to embrace the Count, Tolstoy's look was so stern
and impressive that the fellow drew back his hands and let them fall,
saying, 'No, never mind, it's all right!'

The following letter of 18th July 1871, to Fet, relates to Tolstoy's
experience of the nomadic Bashkírs:

Thank you for your letter, dear friend! It seems that my wife
gave a false alarm when she packed me off for a koumýs cure and
persuaded me that I was ill. At any rate now, after four weeks, I
seem to have quite recovered. And as is proper when one is taking
a koumýs cure, I am drunk and sweat from morn to night, and find
pleasure in it. It is very good here, and were it not for family
home-sickness, I should be quite happy. Were I to begin describing,
I should fill a hundred pages with this country and my own
occupations. I am reading Herodotus, who describes in detail and
with great accuracy these same galactophagous [gluttonous-for-milk]
Scythians among whom I am living.

I began this letter yesterday, and wrote that I was well. To-day my
side aches again. I do not myself know in how far I am ill, but it
is bad that I am obliged to think--and cannot help thinking--about
my side and my chest. This is the third day that the heat has been
terrible. In the _kibítka_ [tent] it is as hot as on the shelf of a
Russian bath, but I like it. The country here is beautiful--in its
age just emerging from virginity, in its richness, its health, and
especially in its simplicity and its unperverted population. Here
as everywhere I am looking round for an estate to buy. This affords
me an occupation, and is the best excuse for getting to know the
real condition of the district.

After a six weeks' stay Tolstoy returned to Yásnaya, travelling first
class on the return journey.

His search for an estate had been successful, and after persuading his
wife that the investment was a sound one, he purchased two thousand
acres on his return to Moscow.

The change of scene, or some other influence, weakened Tolstoy's
absorption in Greek literature; and a huge dictionary he had taken with
him, was used by his brother-in-law to press a collection of local
wildflowers.

During his wanderings on the steppe, Tolstoy met many Molokáns, members
of a kind of Bible-Christian peasant sect. They base their faith on the
Bible, reject the Greek Church with its traditions, priesthood, dogmas,
ritual, sacraments, and icons. The name Molokán, or Milk-Drinker,
probably arose from the fact that, not observing the Russian fasts,
these people do not scruple to drink milk in Lent. They are said to be
distinguished by an honesty and industry not found among their Orthodox
neighbours; and they abstain from all intoxicants.

It interested Tolstoy to mix with these people, and he liked to discuss
their beliefs, especially with a venerable leader of theirs, named
Aggéy. It so happened that in the neighbouring village of Pátrovka
there was a very worthy young Russian priest, who was eager to convert
the Molokáns, and occasionally arranged debates with them on religious
subjects. Tolstoy sometimes attended these debates: his object being
not so much to convert the Molokáns, as to understand the points on
which they differed from the Russo-Greek Church. He also took an
interest in the Mohammedan faith of his Bashkír friends, and on his
return to Yásnaya read through a French translation of the Koran.

A few years later Tolstoy associated much with the representatives of
various sects and faiths, being then profoundly interested in their
beliefs; but at this time, his interest in such matters was only
beginning to make itself felt.

A letter of Tourgénef's written at this period, indicates how little he
allowed his quarrel with Tolstoy the man, to warp his appreciation of
Tolstoy the artist. Writing to Fet on 2nd July 1871, he says:

Your letter again grieves me--I refer to what you write about
L. Tolstoy. I have great fears on his account, for two of his
brothers died of consumption, and I am very glad he is taking a
koumýs cure, in the reality and efficacy of which I have faith. L.
Tolstoy is the only hope of our orphaned literature; he cannot and
must not vanish from the face of the earth as prematurely as his
predecessors: Poúshkin, Lérmontof and Gógol.

Again in November, writing from Paris, he says:

I am very glad that Tolstoy's health is now satisfactory and that
he is at work. Whatever he does will be good, if only he does not
himself mutilate his own handiwork. Philosophy, which he hates, has
revenged herself on him in a strange way: she has infected him,
and the enemy of rationalising has plunged head over ears into
rationalisation! But perhaps all _that_ has fallen away from him by
now, and left only the pure and powerful artist.

On returning home from Samára improved in health, Tolstoy turned his
thoughts once more to matters educational: especially to the crying
want of good primers for those beginning to read. We have seen how
strongly, in 1862, he had felt the need of well-written books simple
enough for beginners and peasant readers, and how he resented the
monopolisation of knowledge by the cultured classes entrenched behind
barriers of pedantry. We have seen, too, how under the influence of
Homer he swore he would no more write 'wordy rubbish'; and the time had
now come for this feeling to bear fruit. The task to which he devoted
his powers at their zenith, was the production of an _ABC_ Book for
beginners, which was to be as simple, sincere and perfect in form and
in subject-matter as possible.

We know from the writings of the American Consul, Mr. Eugene Schuyler,
who visited Tolstoy in 1868, and at his request obtained for him a
collection of American school primers, that Tolstoy was even then
meditating a work of the kind to which he now devoted himself ardently
for a whole year. By September he was hard at work, the Countess as
usual acting as his amanuensis.

Of her we hear that in an impulsive, kind-hearted way, she often
rendered assistance to the poor, not merely among the Yásnaya Polyána
peasants, but to others from a distance as well; and that the
neighbouring peasants thought well of her.

The increase in the Tolstoy family was met this year by a considerable
enlargement of their domicile. By way of a house-warming to celebrate
the completion of the building, a masquerade was arranged at Christmas,
at which Tolstoy evoked great enthusiasm by appearing as a goat.

About this time, at the age of sixteen, Behrs and a school friend of
his became sorely troubled as to the state of their souls, and thought
of entering a monastery. This is what he tells us of Tolstoy's relation
to the matter:

His attitude towards my inclination was a most cautious one. I
often went to him with my doubts and questions, but he always
managed to avoid expressing his opinion, knowing how very great
an influence it would have with me. He left it to me to work out
my own convictions. Once, however, he spoke out with sufficient
plainness. We were riding past the village church where his parents
lie buried. Two horses were grazing in the churchyard. We had been
talking over the only subject that then interested me.

'How can a man live in peace,' I asked, 'so long as he has not
solved the question of a future life?'

'You see those two horses grazing there,' he answered; 'are they
not laying up for a future life?'

'But I am speaking of our spiritual, not our earthly life.'

'Indeed? Well, about that, I neither know nor can know anything.'

1872

Immediately after New Year he re-started his school; and the children
(who often numbered thirty to thirty-five) met, not as formerly in
another building, but in the hall of the Tolstoys' enlarged house. In
the mornings the Countess taught her own children, and in the afternoon
she, her husband, and even seven-year-old Tánya and eight-year-old
Sergius, taught the peasant children, who came only then, but yet made
satisfactory progress, being stimulated by the personal interest the
Tolstoys took in them, by the pedagogic genius of the Count, and by a
perception that education is a rare and valuable luxury, which seldom
comes within the reach of Russian peasants.

In the _ABC_ Book Tolstoy gives several autobiographical stories of how
he learned to ride, and of his dogs Milton and Boúlka. Easy as these
are, they are admirably written, and combine brevity and simplicity
with sincerity; though their sincerity lies not in telling the facts
just as they occurred, but in the truth of the feeling conveyed to the
reader. Besides these and other stories, popular historical sketches,
and a number of translations and adaptations from _Esop's Fables_ and
from Indian, Hebrew and Arabic sources, the work contains some popular
ballads or folk-stories in verse. To get these poems as perfect as
possible, he studied and collated all the versions of them he could
collect.

The section on Arithmetic gave him an immense amount of work, for he
would not content himself with the usual explanations of the various
operations, but devised explanations of his own.

The book contains some elementary natural science, and for the
preparation of this, Tolstoy, besides examining all sorts of
text-books, consulted specialists on the various subjects, and himself
carefully performed most of the experiments he described.

To select the readings in the Church-Slavonic language, he perused the
monkish chronicles and the Lives of the Saints.

Intending to include some readings on astronomy, he took up that study
himself, and became so interested in it that he sometimes sat up all
night examining the stars.

When the news spread that Tolstoy was writing stories for his _ABC_
Book, the magazine editors besieged him with demands, and the first
bits of the book to see the light were _A Prisoner in the Caucasus_,
which appeared in one of the monthlies in February, and _God Sees the
Truth_, which came out in another monthly in March.

Owing to some mismanagement, Tolstoy received nothing for the
periodical rights of either of these stories, which in _What is Art?_
he names as the best of all his works. They (as well as _The Bear
Hunt_, also from the _ABC_ Book) are given in English in _Twenty-three
Tales_, previously referred to. In rendering them, I did my best to
retain the brief simplicity of the originals; but where Russian customs
were alluded to, some of that simplicity was inevitably lost.

With what pleasure Tolstoy looks back to this part of his life's work,
was indicated by a remark he made to me in 1902. Speaking of the
popularity of _A Prisoner in the Caucasus_ for public readings to the
peasants, he added with evident satisfaction, that when _A Prisoner in
the Caucasus_ is now mentioned, it is always taken for granted that it
is his little story, and not Poúshkin's famous poem of the same name,
that is referred to.

Since their first appearance, these two stories have sold by hundreds
of thousands in separate editions at three to ten copecks (about a
penny or twopence) each, besides appearing in the _Readers_ and among
Tolstoy's collected works.

In the following letter to Fet we get a vivid glimpse of the thoughts
on life's deepest problems, which were before long to fill Tolstoy's
mind completely.

_30 Jan. 1872._

It is some days since I received your kind but sad letter, and not
till to-day do I settle down to answer it.

It is a sad letter, for you write that Tútchef is dying, and that
there is a rumour that Tourgénef is dead; and about yourself you
say the machine is wearing out and you want quietly to think of
Nirvana. Please let me know quickly whether this is a false alarm.
I hope it is, and that, in the absence of Márya Petróvna, you have
taken slight symptoms for a return of your terrible illness.

In Nirvana there is nothing to laugh at; still less is there
cause for anger. We all (I, at least) feel that it is much more
interesting than life; but I agree that however much I may
think about it, I can think of nothing else than that Nirvana
is nothingness. I only stand up for one thing: religious
reverence--awe of that Nirvana.

There is, at any rate, nothing more important than it.

What do I mean by religious reverence? I mean this: I lately
went to see my brother, and a child of his had died and was
being buried. The priests were there, and a small pink coffin,
and everything as it should be. My brother and I involuntarily
confessed to one another that we felt something like repulsion
towards ceremonial rites. But afterwards I thought, 'Well, but what
should my brother do to remove the putrefying body of the child
from the house? How is one to finish the matter decently?' There is
no better way (at least, I could devise none) than to do it with
a requiem and incense. How is it to be when we grow weak and die?
Is nature to take her course, are we to ... and nothing else? That
would not be well. One wishes fully to express the gravity and
importance, the solemnity and religious awe of that occurrence, the
most important in every man's life. And I also can devise nothing
more seemly for people of all ages and all degrees of development,
than a religious observance. For me at least those Slavonic words
evoke quite the same metaphysical ecstasy as one experiences when
one thinks of Nirvana. Religion is wonderful, in that she has for
so many ages rendered to so many millions of people these same
services--the greatest anything human can render in this matter.
With such a task, how can she be logical? Yes--there is something
in her. Only to you do I allow myself to write such letters; but
I wished to write, and I feel sad, especially after your letter.
Please write soon about your health.--Your

LEO TOLSTOY.

I am terribly dispirited. The work I have begun is fearfully hard,
there is no end to the preparatory study necessary. The plan of the
work is ever increasing, and my strength, I feel, grows less and
less. One day I am well, and three days I am ill.

The work here referred to as 'fearfully hard' was a study of the reign
of Peter the Great, in preparation for a novel treating of that period.

On 20th February he again wrote to Fet:

I may not correspond with my friends for years at a time, but when
my friend is in trouble, it is terribly shameful and painful not
to know of it.... Now, being in Moscow, I wished to call on the
Bótkins to hear about you, but I fell ill myself, took to my bed,
and it was all I could do to get home. Now I am better. At home all
is well; but you will not recognise our house: we have been using
the new extension all winter. Another novelty is that I have again
started a school. My wife and children and I all teach and are all
contented. I have finished my _ABC_ Book and am printing it....

The next letter shows that his hope that he had finished the _ABC_ Book
was premature:

_16 March 1872._

How I wish to see you; but I cannot come, I am still ill.... My
_ABC_ Book gives me no peace for any other occupation. The printing
advances on the feet of a tortoise, and the deuce knows when it
will be finished, and I am still adding and omitting and altering.
What will come of it I know not; but I have put my whole soul into
it.

In May 1872 the Countess gave birth to another boy, who was christened
Peter.

The Moscow firm who were printing the book for Tolstoy were not able to
give him satisfaction. Not only was the printing a matter of difficulty
owing to the variety of type required for a school-book of this kind,
but Tolstoy, in accord with his invariable practice, revised the work
time after time while it was going through the press. At last, in May,
he wrote to his trusty friend and admirer, N. Stráhof, saying that
after four months' labour the printing was 'not only not finished, but
had not even begun,' and begging Stráhof to have the book printed in
Petersburg, and to take on himself for ample payment the whole task of
revising the proofs. After some correspondence matters were arranged,
though Stráhof declined to accept any payment for the help he rendered.

Tolstoy explained to his friend that he wanted to make a profit on the
book if possible. As a rule, all Tolstoy's later teaching seems to grow
out of his experience of life; but it would be hard for any one to work
more conscientiously than Tolstoy laboured over this book, and yet in
later life he speaks as though any admixture of mercenary motives is
sure to be fatal to good literary work. We here seem, therefore, to
come upon an exception to that rule.

Stráhof's assistance enabled Tolstoy (though he continued to give
most careful instructions with regard to the treatment of the various
sections of the book) to get a much needed change; and after having
as usual worked during the winter and spring up to the very limit of
his strength, he went for a short visit to his Samára estate, where
he arranged about building, and about breaking up the virgin soil. A
peasant from Yásnaya village was appointed steward of the new estate,
and was instructed to see to the building of the house there. Being
far away from home Tolstoy was anxious about his _ABC_ Book; so he
cut short his stay, and returned to Yásnaya before the end of July.
There he learned that a fine young bull of his had gored its keeper
to death. The unpleasantness of such an occurrence and of the legal
investigation consequent on the man's death, was greatly increased by
the fact that the Investigating Magistrate, an incompetent and arrogant
young official, wrongly held Tolstoy responsible for 'careless holding
of cattle,' and, besides commencing criminal proceedings against
him, obliged him to give a written undertaking not to leave Yásnaya.
Prince D. D. Obolénsky tells how Tolstoy arrived one day at a meet at
the Prince's estate of Schahovskóy (some thirty miles from Yásnaya)
late and much upset, and told of an examination he had that morning
undergone at the hands of the Investigating Magistrate, whose duties
included those of Coroner. 'Being an excitable man,' says Obolénsky,
'Tolstoy was extremely indignant at the Magistrate's conduct, and
told how the latter had kept a Yásno-Polyána peasant in prison for
a year-and-a-half on suspicion of having stolen a cow, which then
turned out to have been stolen by some one else. "He will confine
me for a year," added Tolstoy. "It is absurd, and shows how utterly
arbitrary these gentlemen are. I shall sell all I have in Russia and
go to England, where every man's person is respected. Here every
police-officer, if one does not grovel at his feet, can play one the
dirtiest tricks!"'

P. F. Samárin, who had also come to the hunt, opposed Tolstoy with
animation, arguing that the death or even the mutilation of a man,
was so serious a matter that it could not be left without judicial
investigation. After long argument Samárin more or less convinced
Tolstoy, and the latter before retiring to rest remarked to Obolénsky,
'What a wonderful power of calming people Samárin has!'

The judicial proceedings dragged on for more than a month, and it
was not till late in September that Tolstoy was again free to take a
journey to Moscow. The proceedings, first against him and then against
his steward, were abandoned; but not before the newspapers had taken
the matter up and made a fuss about it.

At last, in November, the _ABC_ Book was published. It sold slowly,
and was attacked by some of the papers. Tolstoy however was not
discouraged, but held to his belief that (as he expressed it to
Stráhof) he had 'erected a monument'--a conviction amply justified by
the ultimate success of the work. He had indeed produced a reading-book
far superior to anything that had previously existed in Russia, and
that is probably unmatched in any language. With certain modifications
to be mentioned later on, it continues to circulate throughout Russia
to the present day.

In connection with his other efforts to popularise his system of
instruction, Tolstoy, in October 1872, invited a dozen teachers from
neighbouring schools to visit him for a week at Yásnaya. They were
accommodated in his second house (called, as is customary in Russian
when speaking of a subsidiary residence, 'the wing'); and a number
of illiterate boys were collected from villages within reach, to be
taught on Tolstoy's lines. He also formed a project of establishing a
'University in bark shoes' [the country peasants wear bark shoes] or in
other words, a training college in which peasants could become teachers
without ceasing to be peasants. This plan occupied his attention, off
and on, for some years; but (owing to causes which will be related
later) never came to fruition.

In December Tourgénef writes from Paris, to Fet:

I got a copy of L. Tolstoy's ABC, but except the beautiful story,
_A Prisoner in the Caucasus_, I did not find anything interesting
in it. And the price is absurdly dear for a work of that kind.

The price of the first edition of 3000 copies of the _ABC_ was Rs. 2
(about 5s. 6d.). Tourgénef probably had no idea of the immense labour,
or of the typographical difficulties, involved in its production. The
subsequent editions were much cheaper.

About this time Fet sent Tolstoy a letter in rhyme, to which the latter
replied as follows:

_12 November 1872._

The causeless shame felt by the onion
Before the sweetly-scented rose,
My dearest Fet, I should be feeling,
Were I to answer you in prose.

And yet in maiden verse replying,
By sad misgivings I'm beset:
The when and where, yourself please settle--
But come and visit us, dear Fet.

Tho' drought may parch the rye and barley.
Yet still I shall not feel upset
If I but spend a day enjoying
Your conversation, dearest Fet!

Too apt we often are to worry;
O'er future ills let us not fret:
Sufficient for the day, its evil--
It's best to think so, dearest Fet!

Joking apart, write quickly and let me know when to send horses to
the station to meet you. I want to see you terribly.

Having at last got his _ABC_ off his hands, Tolstoy resumed his
preliminary labours for a large novel, which was to deal with the
period of Peter the Great. On 19th November 1872 the Countess wrote to
her brother:

Our life just now is very, very serious. All day we are occupied.
Leo sits surrounded by a pile of portraits, pictures and books,
engrossed in reading, marking passages and taking notes. In the
evening, when the children have gone to bed, he tells me his plans,
and what he means to write. At times he is quite discouraged, falls
into despair, and thinks nothing will ever come of it. At other
times he is on the point of setting ardently to work; but as yet I
cannot say he has actually written anything, he is still preparing.

A month later she wrote:

As usual we are all of us very busy. The winter is the working time
for us proprietors, just as much as summer is for the peasants. Leo
is still reading historical books of the time of Peter the Great,
and is much interested in them. He notes down the characters of
various people, their traits, as well as the way of life of the
boyars and the peasants, and Peter's activity. He does not yet know
what will come of it all, but it seems to me we shall have another
prose poem like _War and Peace_; but of the time of Peter the Great.

1873

A few months later he definitely abandoned the project. His opinion of
Peter the Great ran directly counter to the popular one, and he felt
out of sympathy with the whole epoch. He declared there was nothing
great about the personality or activity of Peter, whose qualities were
all bad. His so-called reforms, far from aiming at the welfare of
the people, aimed simply at his own personal advantage. He founded
Petersburg because the boyars, who were influential and consequently
dangerous to him, disapproved of the changes he made, and because he
wished to be free to follow an immoral mode of life. The changes and
reforms he introduced were borrowed from Saxony, where the laws were
most cruel, and the morals most dissolute--all of which particularly
pleased him. This, Tolstoy holds, explains Peter's friendship with the
Elector of Saxony, who was among the most immoral of rulers. He also
considers that Peter's intimacy with the pieman Ménshikof and with the
Swiss deserter Lefort, is explained by the contempt in which Peter
was held by all the boyars, among whom he could not find men willing
to share his dissolute life. Most of all, Tolstoy was revolted by the
murder of Peter's son Alexis, in which crime Tolstoy's own ancestor had
played a very prominent part.

Almost simultaneously with the abandonment of the project to which he
had devoted so much time and attention, Tolstoy, without any special
preparation, began to write his second great novel, _Anna Karénina_.

The year before, a lady named Anna who lived with Bíbikof, a
neighbouring squire mentioned on a previous page, had committed suicide
by throwing herself under a train, out of jealousy of Bíbikof's
attentions to their governess. Tolstoy knew all the details of the
affair, and had been present at the post-mortem. This supplied him
with a theme; but it was not till March 1873, and then as it were by
accident, that he actually began to write the book. One day a volume of
Poúshkin happened to be lying open at the commencement of _A Fragment_,
which begins with the words, 'The guests had arrived at the country
house.' Tolstoy, noticing this, remarked to those present that these
words, plunging at once into the midst of things, are a model of how
a story should begin. Some one then laughingly suggested that he
should begin a novel in that way; and Tolstoy at once started on _Anna
Karénina_, the second sentence, and first narrative sentence, of which
is, 'All was in confusion in the Oblónskys' house.'

In May Tolstoy and his whole family went for a three months' visit to
Samára, where he had recently purchased some more land.

This summer he hired a Bashkír named Mouhamed Shah, who owned and
brought with him a herd of milking mares. This Mouhamed Shah, or
Románovitch as he was called in Russian, was polite, punctual, and
dignified. He had a workman to drive the herd, and a wife (who retired
behind a curtain in his _kotchévka_ when visitors came to see him) to
wait upon him. In subsequent years this worthy man repeatedly resumed
his engagement with the Tolstoys.

This was the first year the whole estate had been ploughed up and sown.
It was fortunate for the district that some one who had the ear of the
public, happened to be there; for the crops in the whole neighbourhood
failed utterly, and a famine ensued. So out-of-the-world were the
people and so cut off from civilisation, that they might have suffered
and died without the rest of Russia hearing anything about it, had not
Tolstoy been at hand to make their plight known in good time by an
appeal for help, which the Countess prompted him to draw up, and which
appeared on 17th August, in Katkóf's paper, the _Moscow Gazette_.

In this article on the Samára Famine, Tolstoy describes how the
complete failure of the harvest, following as it did on two previous
poor harvests, had brought nearly nine-tenths of the population to
destitution and hunger.

To ascertain the real state of things Tolstoy took an inventory at
every tenth house in the village of Gavrílovka--the one nearest his
estate; and of the twenty-three families so examined, all but one
were found to be in debt, and none of them knew how they were to get
through the winter. Most of the men had left home to look for work, but
the harvest being bad everywhere, and so many people being in search
of work, the price of labour had fallen to one-eighth of what it had
previously been.

Tolstoy visited several villages and found a similar state of things
everywhere. Together with his article, he sent Rs. 100 (then equal to
about £14) as a first subscription to a Famine Fund. This was only a
small part of what he spent in relief of the impoverished peasants, for
when Prougávin (well known for his valuable descriptions of Russian
sects) visited the district in 1881, many of the inhabitants spoke to
him of Tolstoy's personal kindness to the afflicted, and of his gifts
of corn and money during the famine.

The subscription proved a success. Tolstoy's aunt, the Countess A.
A. Tolstoy (who had charge of the education of Marie Alexándrovna,
subsequently Duchess of Edinburgh), mentioned the matter to the
Empress, who was one of the first to contribute. Her example was
largely followed, and altogether, in money and in kind, something
like Rs. 2,000,000, or about £270,000, was contributed during 1873-4.
Within a year or two, good harvests again completely changed the whole
appearance of the district.

This was the first, but neither the last nor the worst, of the famines
in which Tolstoy rendered help.

Before the end of August 1873 he was back at Yásnaya, and wrote to Fet:

On the 22nd we arrived safely from Samára.... In spite of the
drought, the losses and the inconvenience, we all, even my wife,
are satisfied with our visit, and yet more satisfied to be back in
the old frame of our life; and we are now taking up our respective
labours....

A month later he writes again, referring to Kramskóy's portrait of
himself, a photogravure of which forms the frontispiece of this volume,
and shows the blouse which even in those days, before his Conversion,
he wore when at home, instead of a tailor-made coat:

_25 September 1873._

I am beginning to write.... The children are learning; my wife is
busy and teaches. Every day for a week Kramskóy has been painting
my portrait for Tretyakóf's Gallery, and I sit and chat with him,
and try to convert him from the Petersburg faith to the faith of
the baptized. I agreed to this, because Kramskóy came personally,
and offered to paint a second portrait for us very cheaply, and
because my wife persuaded me.

Up to this time Tolstoy, sensitive about his personal appearance, and
instinctively disliking any personal advertisement, had always had
an objection to having his portrait painted; and if he ever allowed
himself to be photographed, was careful to have the negative destroyed
that copies might not be multiplied. This prejudice he abandoned in
later life; and after Kramskóy had broken the ice, portraits and
photographs of Tolstoy became more and more common.

Kramskóy's acquaintance with the Tolstoys came about in this way. He
was commissioned to paint a portrait of the great novelist, for the
collection of famous Russians in Tretyakóf's picture gallery in Moscow;
but sought in vain in that town for his photograph, and was too modest
to ask Tolstoy (who, he knew, was living a secluded life at Yásnaya) to
give him sittings. He therefore hired a _dátcha_, some three miles from
Yásnaya, with the intention of painting Tolstoy, who often rode past
on horseback. His intention, however, became known, and the Tolstoys
at once sent him a friendly invitation to visit them. Of the two very
similar portraits of Tolstoy which Kramskóy painted, one has remained
at Yásnaya.

Before Tolstoy's next letter to Fet, the angel of death had crossed the
threshold of his house for the first time in his married life. On 11th
November he wrote:

We are in trouble: Peter, our youngest, fell ill with croup and
died in two days. It is the first death in our family in eleven
years, and my wife feels it very deeply. One may console oneself
by saying that if one had to choose one of our eight, this loss is
lighter than any other would have been; but the heart, especially
the mother's heart--that wonderful and highest manifestation of
Divinity on earth--does not reason, and my wife grieves.

1874

During the whole of 1874 Tolstoy made strenuous efforts to get his
system of education more generally adopted. On 15th January, overcoming
his dislike of speaking in public, he addressed the Moscow Society of
Literacy on the subject of the best way to teach children to read. The
details of his argument need not here detain us, as it will fall to the
lot of few of my readers to teach Russian children to read Russian;
but briefly, the German _Lautiermethode_ had been adopted by Russian
pedagogues in a way that Tolstoy considered arbitrary and pedantic,
and his appeal, which in the main has not carried conviction to the
educationalists, was against that method.

The large hall in which the meeting took place was crowded. The
President of the Society, Mr. Shatílof, invited Tolstoy to open
the debate, but Tolstoy preferred to reply to what questions and
remarks the other speakers might put. In the course of the animated
proceedings, in which several men well known in the Russian educational
world took part, the discussion widened out till it covered the
question of the whole direction of elementary education; and Tolstoy,
from the standpoint of his belief that it is harmful to force upon
the people a culture they do not demand and are not prepared for--and
much of which, though considered by us to be science, may yet turn
out to be no better than the alchemy and astrology of the Middle
Ages--denounced the education forced upon the children in elementary
schools, and declared that this should be confined in the first place
to teaching the Russian language and arithmetic, leaving natural
science and history alone. To prove the advantage of his way of
teaching reading, Tolstoy offered to give a practical demonstration in
one of the schools attached to some of the Moscow mills. Accordingly
it was arranged that this should take place the next day and the day
after, at the mills owned by Mr. Ganéshin, on the Devítche Pólye just
outside Moscow. On the morrow Tolstoy was unwell, and did not appear;
but he gave his demonstration on the evening of the following day,
with the result that, on the suggestion of Mr. Shatílof, the Society
of Literacy decided to start two temporary schools for the express
purpose of testing the rival methods during a period of seven weeks.
The one school was taught by Mr. M. E. Protopópof, an expert in the
_Lautiermethode_, while in the other school Tolstoy's method was taught
by Mr. P. V. Morózof. After seven weeks the children were examined by
a Committee, which had to report to the Society at a meeting held on
13th April. The members of the Committee however could not agree, and
handed in separate and contradictory reports. At the meeting of the
Society there was again a great divergence of opinion; and Tolstoy,
who considered that the test had not been made under proper conditions
(most of the pupils being too young, and the continual presence of
visitors preventing the teacher from holding the children's attention),
but that nevertheless his method had shown its superiority, decided to
appeal to a wider public, and did so in the form of a letter addressed
to Mr. Shatílof.

A full account of what happened from the time the dispute passed
into the press, has been given by that powerful and popular critic
and essayest, N. K. Mihaylóvsky, who was at this time a colleague
of Nekrásof. In 1866 the _Contemporary_ had been prohibited, as a
punishment for its too Liberal tendencies. In 1868 Nekrásof and
Saltykóf (Stchedrín) had taken over the management of the _Fatherland
Journal_. Tolstoy, who had long dropped out of touch with Nekrásof, now
addressed to him a request that the _Fatherland Journal_ should take a
hand in his fight with the pedagogic specialists, and should interest a
wider public in his educational reforms. As an inducement, he held out
a prospect (never fulfilled) that he would contribute some of his works
of fiction to their magazine. The outcome of his correspondence with
Nekrásof was, that though the whole question of elementary education
was somewhat foreign to a literary magazine such as the _Fatherland
Journal_, a long article by Tolstoy (his letter to Shatílof) appeared
in the September number, under the title of _On the Education of the
People_.

Tolstoy's educational articles in 1862, when he issued them in his own
magazine, had fallen quite flat and attracted no attention, but this
article, by the author of _War and Peace_, in a leading Petersburg
magazine, though expressing very similar views, received very much
attention, and was criticised, favourably or adversely, in a large
number of other publications. Though his views were only adopted to
a small extent, yet the severe shock which he administered to the
professional pedagogues who looked on school-children as 'a flock
existing for the sake of its shepherds,' had a most healthy influence,
and that it did not pass without some immediate practical effect is
indicated by the rejection from the Moscow Teachers' Seminary of one of
the text-books Tolstoy attacked most fiercely.

Following on the storm raised in the press by Tolstoy's article,
Mihaylóvsky, in the _Fatherland Journal_ for January 1875, published a
long article entitled _An Outsider's Notes_, in which he took Tolstoy's
part against the pedagogues, and said: 'Though I am one of the profane
in philosophy and pedagogics, and am writing simply a _feuilleton_, I
nevertheless advise my readers to peruse this _feuilleton_ with great
attention, not for my sake, but for Tolstoy's, and for the sake of
those fine shades of thought on which I do but comment.'

Before this, however, Tolstoy had made another attempt to improve the
state of elementary education, by promoting the establishment of that
'University in bark shoes' to which I have already alluded.

He had found some of the boys in the Yásno-Polyána school anxious
to continue their studies after finishing the school course; and an
experiment in teaching these lads algebra had been highly successful.

In his last article on Education, Tolstoy had pointed out that a great
obstacle to the spread of efficient elementary instruction lay in the
fact that the peasants could not afford the salaries (extremely modest
as these sound to Western ears) demanded by Russian teachers of the
non-peasant classes. It was therefore quite natural that he should
now devise a scheme for preparing teachers from among the peasants
themselves; and he drew up a project for a training college to be
established at Yásnaya, under his own direction and control.

In the summer of this year Tolstoy paid a brief visit to his Samára
estate to look after its management; and he took his son Sergius with
him.

On 20th November 1874 the Countess wrote to her brother:

Our usual serious winter work is now in full swing. Leo is quite
taken up with popular education, schools, and colleges for
teachers, where teachers for the peasants' schools are to be
trained. All this keeps him busy from morning till night. I have my
doubts about all this. I am sorry his strength should be spent on
these things instead of on writing a novel; and I don't know in how
far it will be of use, since all this activity will extend only to
one small corner of Russia.

P. F. Samárin, the Marshal of the Nobility of Toúla Government, backed
Tolstoy cordially, and pointed out that the Zémstvo (County Council)
had a sum of Rs. 30,000 available for educational purposes, and that
this might be devoted to starting a teachers' Training College. To
attain this end Tolstoy, who heretofore had always refused to stand for
election, consented to enter the Zémstvo, and after being returned to
that body, was unanimously chosen to serve on its Education Committee.

He presented a report in the sense indicated above, which was at first
favourably discussed; but unfortunately one of the oldest members
rose, and alluding to the fact that a collection was being made all
over Russia for a monument to Catherine the Great, and that it was the
centenary of the decree by which she had created the Government of
Toúla, proposed that the money should be devoted to the monument of
their Benefactress. This loyal sentiment met with approval, and though
Tolstoy did not at once abandon his plan, the means to carry it out
were never forthcoming, and we do not hear much more of it.

If one did not know how stupidly reactionary the governing classes
of Russia were at this period, it would seem extraordinary that the
central and the local authorities alike should have so constantly
balked and hindered Tolstoy's disinterested projects: forbidding the
publication of his newspaper for soldiers, mutilating his stories,
sending gendarmes to search his schools, looking askance at his school
magazine, and defeating his project for a Training College. Can it be
wondered at, that he came more and more to identify Government with
all that is most opposed to enlightenment? We know that similar causes
were, at that very time, driving men and women of a younger generation
to undertake dangerous propaganda work, in more or less definite
opposition to the existing order of society, among factory workmen and
country peasants.

His devotion to educational matters did not entirely supersede, though
no doubt it delayed, his activity as a novelist. In the spring of 1874
he had taken the commencement of _Anna Karénina_ to Moscow, but for
some reason none of it appeared that year.

Tourgénef, in collaboration with Madame Viardot, was at this time
translating some of Tolstoy's best stories into French. Writing to Fet
in March 1874, he says:

The season is now almost over, but all the same I will try to place
his [Tolstoy's] _Three Deaths_ in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ or
in the _Temps_, and in autumn I will without fail get out _The
Cossacks_. The more often I read that story, the more convinced I
am that it is the _chef d'oeuvre_ of Tolstoy and of all Russian
narrative literature.

Meanwhile life and death pursued their course. In April a son was born
and christened Nicholas; and before long, death, having a few months
previously taken the youngest, returned to claim the oldest members
of the household. The first of them to go was his dearly-loved Aunty
Tatiána Alexándrovna, to whose good influence through life he owed so
much. She died on 20th June, and next year his other aunt followed her.

Tolstoy never refers to his aunt Tatiána without letting us see how he
cherishes her memory. Here for instance are one or two of his notes
relating to her:

When already beginning to grow feeble, having waited her
opportunity, one day when I was in her room she said to us, turning
away (I saw that she was ready to cry), 'Look here, _mes chers
amis_, my room is a good one and you will want it. If I die in
it,' and her voice trembled, 'the recollection will be unpleasant
to you; so move me somewhere else, that I may not die here.' Such
she always was, from my earliest childhood, before I was able to
understand her goodness.

Again referring to her death, and to the love for his father which had
played so large a part in her life, he adds:

She died peacefully, gradually falling asleep; and died as she
desired, not in the room that had been hers, lest it should be
spoilt for us.

She died recognising hardly any one. But me she always recognised,
smiling and brightening up as an electric lamp does when one
touches the knob, and sometimes she moved her lips trying to
pronounce the name Nicholas: thus in death completely and
inseparably uniting me with him she had loved all her life.

The opinion the peasants had of her, was shown by the fact that when
her coffin was carried through the village, there was not one hut out
of the sixty in Yásnaya Polyána, from which the people did not come out
asking to have the procession stopped and a requiem sung for her soul.
'She was a kind lady and did nobody any harm,' said they. Tolstoy adds:

On that account they loved her, and loved her very much. Lao-Tsze
says things are valuable for what is not in them. So it is with a
life. It is most valuable if there is nothing bad in it; and in the
life of Tatiána Alexándrovna there was nothing bad.

Except in the case of his brother Nicholas, Tolstoy has usually not
been greatly upset even by the deaths of those near and dear to him.
The following letter to Fet shows how he took Tatiána's death:

_24 June 1874._

Two days ago we buried Aunt Tatiána Alexándrovna. She died slowly
and gradually, and I had grown accustomed to the process; yet her
death was, as the death of a near and dear one always is, a quite
new, isolated and unexpectedly-stirring event. The others are
well, and our house is full. The delightful heat, the bathing and
the fruit have brought me to the state of mental laziness I love,
with only enough mental life remaining to enable me to remember my
friends and think of them.

The next letter, dated the 22nd October, tells its own tale:

DEAR AFANÁSY AFANÁSYEVITCH,--I have planned to buy, and must buy,
some land at Nikólsky, and for that purpose must borrow Rs. 10,000
for one year on mortgage. It may be that you have money you want to
place. If so, write to Iván Ivánovitch Orlóf, Nikólsky village, and
he will arrange the affair with you independently of our relations
to one another.... How gladly would I come to see you, were I not
so overwhelmed with the school, family and estate business, that I
have not even time to go out shooting.... I hope to be free when
winter comes.

1875

A small second edition of Tolstoy's _ABC_ Book, in twelve paper-bound
parts, was printed this year; but he did not yet feel quite satisfied
with that work, and towards the close of the year he revised it,
abbreviating, omitting the arithmetic, and introducing graduated
reading exercises. As soon as the pupil has mastered a few of the
most necessary letters and can put these together, Tolstoy contrives
out of the very simplest syllables to construct sentences that have
a meaning and an interest. The _New ABC_ Book, apart from the more
advanced _Readers_, and consisting of ninety-two pages of elementary
matter, was issued in 1875, at the low price of 14 copecks (about 4d.).
Since Tolstoy's efforts have seldom been favoured by the Government,
it is worth noting that this edition was 'Approved and recommended by
the Scholarly Committee of the Ministry of Popular Education.' Between
one and two million copies of it have since been sold. The reading
matter from his first _ABC_ Book was subsequently graded into four
cheap _Readers_ costing 3d. to 4d. each, and though not honoured by
the Ministry of Education, they have from that time to this circulated
in increasing quantities, being printed of late years in edition after
edition of 50,000 at a time.

The Countess has in general enjoyed good health and worn her years and
the cares of her large family very lightly; but during the winter of
1874-5 her condition gave her husband much concern. In January he was
able to write to Fet: 'I have ceased to fear for my wife's health'; but
in fact for some time longer she continued to be ailing.

The commencement of _Anna Karénina_, appeared in the first four monthly
numbers of the _Russian Messenger_ for 1875.

By far the best English version of that novel (as also of _War
and Peace_) is Mrs. Constance Garnett's, though I do not like her
alteration of the title of the book to _Anna Karénin_, nor am I quite
satisfied with her treatment of some of the conversations in it; but
unquestionably we have much to thank her for.

In February the baby, Nicholas, died of inflammation of the brain, and
on 4th March 1875[53] Tolstoy wrote to Fet:

[53] This letter evidently relates to the year 1875, though in
Fet's _Vospominániya_ it is given as belonging to 1874.

We have one grief after another; you and Márya Petróvna will
certainly be sorry for us, especially for Sónya. Our youngest son,
ten months old, fell ill three weeks ago with the dreadful illness
called 'water on the brain,' and after three weeks' terrible
torture died three days ago, and we have buried him to-day. I feel
it hard through my wife; but for her, who was nursing him herself,
it is very hard.

In the same letter he mentions _Anna Karénina_, and immediately
afterwards he makes an allusion to the first idea of his _Confession_,
which was not actually written till 1879:

It pleases me very much that you praise _Karénina_ and I hear that
she gets praised; but assuredly never was writer so indifferent to
his success as I am!

On the one hand what preoccupies me are the school affairs, and on
the other, strange to say, the subject of a new work, which took
possession of me just at the worst time of the boy's illness,--and
that illness itself and death....

From Tourgénef I have received the translation, printed in the
_Temps_, of my _Two Hussars_, and a letter written in the third
person asking to be informed that I have received it, and saying
that other stories are being translated by Madame Viardot and
Tourgénef,--both of which were unnecessary. [Tolstoy means that
they need neither have sent him the translation, nor informed him
of what they were doing.]

The commencement of _Anna Karénina_ did not find favour with Tourgénef,
who on 14th March wrote from Paris to A. S. Souvórin, the novelist and
proprietor of the _Nóvoye Vrémya_ (_New Times_):

His [Tolstoy's] talent is quite extraordinary, but in _Anna
Karénina_ he, as one says here, _a fait fausse route_; one feels
the influence of Moscow, Slavophil nobility, Orthodox old maids,
his own isolation, and the absence of real artistic freedom. Part
II is simply dull and shallow--that's what's the matter.

And writing in similar strains to Polónsky the poet, Tourgénef said:

_Anna Karénina_ does not please me, though there are some truly
splendid pages (the steeplechase, the mowing, and the hunt). But
it is all sour: smells of Moscow, holy oil, old maidishness,
Slavophilism, and the aristocracy, etc.

The cordiality of Tourgénef's appreciation of Tolstoy's writings in
general, is sufficient guarantee that it was no personal prejudice
that led him to speak in this way of a book which is one of Tolstoy's
three most important novels, and which many people hold to be the best
of them all. What really caused his harsh judgment, is a matter I will
deal with later on.

This summer the whole Tolstoy family went to the Samára estates, which
had already been considerably increased by the last purchase, and which
ultimately exceeded 16,000 acres. Mouhamed Shah with his herd of mares
and his _kotchévka_--which Tolstoy called 'our saloon'--again appeared
on the scene. A second _kotchévka_ was set up for the use of the
Tolstoys themselves, and was so much in favour that all the members of
the family were eager to occupy it.

The novelty and the peculiarities of steppe farming interested Tolstoy,
and he, as well as other members of his household, took an active part
in harvesting and winnowing. How primitive were the Samára methods of
agriculture may be shown by mentioning their manner of threshing. A
ring of horses was formed, tied head to tail. In the centre of the ring
stood a driver with a long lash, and the horses were set trotting round
a corresponding circle of sheaves, out of which they trod the grain.

The virgin soil was ploughed up by five or even six pair of oxen,
wearing round their necks deep-toned bells, sounding in a minor key.
These things, together with the pipes of the boys who watched the
herds, the sultry days, and the marvellously clear moonlit nights, had
a wonderful charm for the whole party, and this charm was increased
by Tolstoy's capacity to notice and direct attention to whatever was
interesting or beautiful.

The whole family became interested, Behrs tells us, in their new
farming, and some of them went with Tolstoy as far afield as Orenbourg
to purchase cattle and horses.

He bought about a hundred Bashkír mares and crossed them with an
English trotter and with horses of other breeds, hoping to obtain a
good new type.

One evening his whole herd, and Mouhamed Shah's as well, were very
nearly driven off by some Kirghiz nomads who were passing. The invaders
were, however, pursued and driven off by two mounted Bashkír labourers.

Tolstoy declared farming in Samára to be a game of chance. It cost
nearly three times as much to plough up the land, sow it, and gather
in a harvest, as it did to purchase the freehold of the estate; and
if during May and June there was not at least one good fall of rain,
everything perished; whereas if it rained several times, the harvest
yielded thirty to forty-fold.

One day, at harvest time, a poor wandering Tartar, drawing two little
children in a tiny cart, came up to the balcony on which the Tolstoys
were sitting, and asked to be hired as a labourer. He was allowed to
set up his wigwam in a field close by, and the Tolstoy children used to
go there every day to feed the little Tartars.

In the neighbouring village lived several well-to-do Russian peasants
with whom Tolstoy was on very good terms. Either because they were
economically independent and lived in a province where serfdom had
not prevailed, or as a result of Tolstoy's tact and ability to set
people at their ease, these peasants always behaved with dignity and
self-respect. They shook hands when they said 'How do you do?' and
seemed quite at home with the Count.

He used to notice with pleasure the good relations and complete
religious toleration that existed in those parts between the Orthodox
peasants and their Mohammedan neighbours; and he was also delighted
that the priest at Pátrovka was on friendly terms with the Molokáns he
was trying to convert.

One rainy night, after staying late at this priest's house, Tolstoy
and his brother-in-law completely lost their way. It was so dark
that they could not see their horses' heads. Behrs was riding an old
working horse, which kept pulling to the left. Tolstoy, on hearing
this, told him to let the horse follow its bent. Behrs therefore tied
his reins so that they hung loose, and wrapping himself in his cloak
from the drenching rain, allowed the horse to go where it liked.
Carefully avoiding the ploughed land, it soon brought them out on to
the road, and, curiously enough, to just the one part of it which was
distinguishable from the extraordinary sameness of the rest, so that
the riders knew just where they were.

The most striking event of this year's stay in Samára was a horse race,
arranged by Tolstoy. Mouhamed Shah was authorised to announce to the
peasants and neighbours that races would be held on the Count's estate;
and invitations were sent to all likely to take part. Bashkírs and
Kirghiz assembled, bringing with them tents, portable copper boilers,
plenty of koumýs, and even sheep. Oural Cossacks and Russian peasants
also came from the whole surrounding neighbourhood. In preparation for
the race, says Behrs:

We ourselves chose a level place, measured out a huge circle three
miles in circumference, marked it by running a plough round, and
set up posts. Sheep and even one horse were prepared with which
to regale visitors. By the appointed day some thousands of people
had collected. On the wild steppe, covered with feather grass,
a row of tents appeared, and soon a motley crowd enlivened it.
On the conical hillocks (locally called 'cones') felt and other
carpets were spread, on which the Bashkírs sat in circles, their
legs tucked under them. In the centre of the circle, out of a large
_toursouk_ [a leather bottle made of an animal's leg] a young
Bashkír poured koumýs, handing the cup to each of the company in
turn. Their songs, and the tunes played on their pipes and reeds,
sounded somewhat dreary to a European ear. Wrestling, at which the
Bashkírs are particularly skilful, could be seen here and there.
Thirty trained horses were entered for the chief race. The riders
were boys of about ten years, who rode without saddles.

This race was for thirty-three miles, and it took exactly an hour and
forty minutes; consequently it was run at the rate of three minutes
a mile. Of the thirty horses, ten ran the whole distance, the others
giving up. The principal prizes were a horse, an ox, a gun, a clock,
and a dressing-gown. The festival lasted two days, and passed off in
perfect order and very gaily. To Tolstoy's delight no police were
present. The guests all politely thanked their host and departed highly
satisfied. 'Even in the crowd,' says Behrs, 'it seemed to me that Leo
Nikoláyevitch knew how to evoke _entrain_ combined with respect for
good order.'

Tolstoy visited the Petróvsky Fair, as was his yearly custom, and
stayed at the Bouzouloúk Monastery, where a hermit resided who was
'saving his soul' by a solitary and ascetic life. This man lived in an
underground catacomb. When he came out he walked about the garden and
showed his visitors an apple-tree he had planted forty years before,
under which it was his custom to sit when receiving pilgrims. He spoke
to Tolstoy about the Scriptures, and showed him his catacomb-home, the
coffin in which he slept, and the large crucifix before which he prayed.

Tolstoy considered that the respect paid to this man by pilgrims and
other visitors, was the outcome of genuine religious feeling, and
proved that the hermit, by giving the example of a pure, unworldly
life, supplied a real want.

Readers of Tolstoy's short stories will be aware of the use to which he
subsequently put his knowledge of the Bashkírs and of the hermit.

On 26th August, after reaching Yásnaya, he wrote to Fet:

Two days ago we arrived home safely....

We have had an average harvest, but the price of labour has been
enormous, so that finally ends only just meet. For two months I
have not soiled my hands with ink nor my heart with thoughts. Now I
am settling down again to dull, common-place _Anna Karénina_ with
the sole desire to clear a space quickly, and obtain leisure for
other occupations--only not for the educational work I love but
wish to abandon. It takes too much time.

His Samára experiences confirmed in him the feeling that not the
civilisation and progress and political struggles of the Western
world and of the small Westernised section of Russians, were really
important, but the great primitive struggle of plain people to obtain
a subsistence in healthy natural conditions; and he adds in the same
letter:

Why fate took me there [to Samára] I do not know; but I know
that I have listened to speeches in the English Parliament,
which is considered very important, and it seemed to me dull and
insignificant; but there, are flies, dirt, and Bashkír peasants,
and I, watching them with intense respect and anxiety, became
absorbed in listening to them and watching them, and felt it all to
be very important.

One must live as we lived, in a healthy out-of-the-way part of
Samára, and see the struggle going on before one's eyes of the
nomadic life (of millions of people on an immense territory) with
the primitive agricultural life, in order to realise all the
importance of that struggle.

After their return from the Government of Samára, all the children got
hooping-cough. The Countess caught it from them, and, being in the
sixth month of pregnancy, was very ill. This resulted in the premature
birth of a girl, Varvára, who lived less than two hours.

Tolstoy's eldest son, Sergius, had now reached the age of twelve.
Besides their English governess and a Swiss lady, the children had
at different times a Swiss, a Frenchman, and a German as tutors for
modern languages. Tutors and students who acted as tutors, also lodged
at Yásnaya and taught other subjects. A music master came over from
Toúla. The eldest boy had considerable musical talent, and the family
as a whole were musical. As soon as they had mastered their finger
exercises, the Count insisted on their at once being allowed to learn
serious pieces.

Every effort was made to awaken and foster the talent for drawing
and painting which some of the children, and especially the eldest
daughter, Tatiána, possessed; but lessons in these subjects were only
given to those who showed real capacity for them.

Much as Tolstoy disliked the curriculum of the Grammar Schools
('Gymnasiums,' as they are called in Russia), he did, not wish to make
it impossible for his sons to enter the University, and they followed
the usual classical course. Sergius passed his examinations each year
in Toúla Gymnasium, being carefully coached at home.

In his _Recollections_ Behrs tells us of Tolstoy's enlivening influence
in the family:

I cannot sufficiently describe the joyous and happy frame of mind
that usually reigned at Yásnaya Polyána. Its source was always Leo
Nikoláyevitch. In conversation about abstract questions, about
the education of children, about outside matters--his opinion was
always most interesting. When playing croquet, or during our walks,
he enlivened us all by his humour and his participation, taking a
real part in the game or the walk.

With me, he liked to mow, or use the rake; to do gymnastics, to
race, and occasionally to play leap-frog or _gorodkí_ [a game in
which a stick is thrown at some other shorter sticks placed in
a pattern], etc. Though far inferior to him in strength, for he
could lift 180 lbs. with one hand, I could easily match him in a
race, but seldom passed him, for I was always laughing. That mood
accompanied all our exercises. Whenever we happened to pass where
mowers were at work, he would go up to them and borrow a scythe
from the one who seemed most tired. I of course imitated his
example. He would then ask me, Why we, with well-developed muscles,
cannot mow six days on end, though a peasant does it on rye-bread,
and sleeping on damp earth? 'You just try to do it under such
conditions,' he would add in conclusion. When leaving the meadow,
he would take a handful of hay from the haycock and sniff it,
keenly enjoying its smell.

Children and grown-ups alike played croquet at Yásnaya. The game
generally began after dinner in the evening, and only finished by
candlelight. Behrs says that, having played it with Tolstoy, he
considers croquet to be a game of chance. Tolstoy's commendation of a
good shot always pleased the player and aroused the emulation of his
opponents. The kindly irony of his comments on a miss, also acted as
a spur. A simple word from him, uttered just at the right moment and
in the right tone, produced that _entrain_ which makes any occupation
interesting and infects all who come under its influence.

The sincerity of Tolstoy's nature showed itself in the frank expression
of his passing mood. If, when driving to the station, he saw that they
had missed the train, he would exclaim, 'Ach! we've missed it!' with
such intensity that every one within earshot would first feel as though
a calamity had occurred, and would then join in the hearty laughter
which his own vehement exclamation evoked in Tolstoy. It was the same
when he made a bad miss at croquet; and also if, when sitting at home,
he suddenly remembered some engagement he had forgotten to keep. If,
as sometimes happened, his exclamation alarmed his wife, he would
half-jokingly add, like a scolded child, 'I'll never do it again!'

His laughter, which began on a high note, had something wonderfully
infectious about it. His head would hang over on one side, and his
whole body would shake.

His good-natured irony constantly acted as a stimulant to those about
him. If, for instance, some one was in the dumps about the weather,
Tolstoy would say: 'Is your weather behaving badly?' Or when Behrs was
sitting comfortably listening to a conversation, he would say to him:
'As you are on the move, you might please bring me so-and-so.'

When he felt it wise to reject an extra cigar or a second helping of
some favourite dish, he would remark to those present: 'Wait till I am
grown up, and then I will have two helpings,' or 'two cigars,' as the
case might be.

If, says Behrs, 'he noticed any of the children making a wry or
affected face, he generally called out, "Now then, no grimacing; you'll
only spoil your phiz."'

Behrs also tells us that.

What he called 'the Numidian cavalry' evoked our noisiest applause.
He would unexpectedly spring up from his place and, raising one
arm in the air with its hand hanging quite loose from the wrist,
he would run lightly through the rooms. All the children, and
sometimes the grown-ups also, would follow his example with the
same suddenness.

Tolstoy read aloud very well, and would often read to the family or to
visitors.

His contempt for doctors and medicine is plainly indicated both in
_War and Peace_ and _Anna Karénina_. Like Rousseau he considered
that the practice of medicine should be general and not confined
to one profession; and this opinion inclined him to approve of the
folk-remedies used by the peasants. But he did not go the length of
refusing to call in a doctor when one of the family was seriously ill.

Before the year closed, Tolstoy's aunt, Pelagéya Ilýnishna Úshkof, with
whom he had lived in his young days in Kazán, also passed away. She
had been separated from her husband before his death in 1869, and had
long not even seen him, though they remained quite friendly towards
one another. She was very religious in an Orthodox Church way, and
after her husband's death retired to the Óptin nunnery. Subsequently
she moved to the Toúla nunnery, but arranged to spend much of her time
at Yásnaya; where in her eightieth year she fell ill and died. She was
in general a good-tempered though not clever woman, and all her life
long strictly observed the ceremonies of the Church and thought that
she firmly believed its teaching about redemption and resurrection;
yet she was so afraid of death that on her death-bed she was reluctant
to receive the eucharist, because it brought home to her mind the fact
that she was dying; and as a consequence of the sufferings caused by
the fear of death, she became irritable with all about her.

A servant who lived in the house at the time, tells that while at
Yásnaya she used, on the first of each month, to send for a priest.
As soon as he arrived, and began the usual ceremony of blessing
with holy water, Tolstoy would escape and hide himself. Not till
the gardener, Semyón--whom he used to send into the conservatory to
reconnoitre--brought him word that the priest had gone, would Tolstoy
reappear in the house.

About that time, however, his attitude towards Church ceremonies
altered. His man-servant Sergéy Arboúzof (who saw only the external
signs of the complex inner struggle going on in Tolstoy) tells us:

Suddenly a wonderful change came over him, of which I was a
witness. In 1875 a priest, Vasíly Ivánovitch, from the Toúla
Seminary, used to come to teach theology to Tolstoy's children. At
first, Leo Nikoláyevitch hardly ever talked to him, but it once
happened that a snow-storm obliged Vasíly Ivánovitch to stop the
night at our house. The Count began a conversation with him, and
they did not go to bed till daylight. They talked the whole night.

From that day Leo Nikoláyevitch became very thoughtful, and always
talked with Vasíly Ivánovitch. When Lent came round, the Count
got up one morning and said, 'I am going to do my devotions,
and prepare to receive communion. You can go back to bed, but
first tell the coachman not to get up. I will saddle Kalmýk (his
favourite horse at that time) myself. Forgive me, Sergéy, if I have
ever offended you!' and he went off to church.

From that day for a couple of years he always went to church,
seldom missing a Sunday. The whole village was surprised, and
asked, 'What has the priest told the Count, that has suddenly made
him so fond of church-going?'

It used to happen that the Count would come into my hut when I was
teaching my little boy religion.

'What are you teaching him?' he would ask.

And I used to say, 'To pray.'

'Ah!' said he, 'that is right. A man who does not pray to God is
not a real man.'

1876

The publication of _Anna Karénina_ was renewed in the first four
numbers of the _Russian Messenger_ for 1876.

On 1st March Tolstoy writes to Fet:

Things are still not all right with us. My wife does not get over
her last illness, coughs, gets thin, and has first fever and then
headaches. And therefore the house lacks well-being, and I lack
mental tranquillity, which I now particularly need for my work. The
end of winter and beginning of spring is always my chief time for
work, and I must finish my novel, which now wearies me.... I always
hope a tooth will come loose in your jaw, or in your thrashing
machine, and cause you to go to Moscow. Then I shall spin a cobweb
at Kozlóvka [the nearest station to Yásnaya] and catch you.

In April Fet wrote to Tolstoy to say that he had been seriously
ill, had thought he was dying, and 'wished to call you to see how I
departed.' On 29th April Tolstoy replies in a letter notable because
it gives us a glimpse of the progress he had made in the fierce
five-year inner struggle with doubt which preceded the production of
his _Confession_:

I am grateful to you for thinking of calling me to see your
departure, when you supposed it was near. I will do the same when
I get ready to go _thither_, if I am able to think. No one will
be so necessary to me at that moment as you and my brother. When
death draws near, intercourse with people who in this life look
beyond its bounds, is precious and cheering; and you and those
rare _real_ people I have met in life, always stand on the very
verge and see clearly, just because they look now at Nirvana--the
illimitable, the unknown--and now at Sansara; and that glance at
Nirvana strengthens their sight. But worldly people, however much
they may talk about God, are unpleasant to you and me, and must
be a torment when one is dying, for they do not see what we see,
namely the God who 'is more indefinite and distant, but loftier and
more indubitable,' as was said in that article.

You are ill and think of death, and I am alive and do not cease
thinking of and preparing for the same thing.... Much that I have
thought, I have tried to express in the last chapter of the April
number of the _Russian Messenger_ [_Anna Karénina_, Part I, Chap.
XX].

The passage referred to, telling of the death of Lévin's brother, is
evidently based on the death of Tolstoy's own brother Demetrius; and
it may here be mentioned that many characters in _Anna Karénina_ are
drawn more or less closely from life. For instance, Agáfya Miháylovna,
the servant, was a real person, and that was her real name. She died at
Yásnaya only a few years ago. Yásnaya Polyána itself, in many of its
details, is also described in the novel.

On 12th May Tolstoy again writes to Fet:

It is already five days since I received the horse, and every day
I prepare but never make time to write to you. Here the spring
and summer life has begun, and our house is full of guests and of
bustle. This summer life seems to me like a dream: it contains some
slight remains of my real, winter life, but consists chiefly of
visions, now pleasant and now unpleasant, from some absurd world
not ruled by sane sense. Among these visions came your beautiful
stallion. I am very much obliged to you for it. Where am I to send
the money to?...

An event which occupies me very much at present is Sergey's
examinations, which begin on the 27th.... What a terrible summer!
Here it is dreadful and mournful to look at the wood, especially at
the young trees. They have all perished.

On 18th May he wrote again:

I have been slow in answering your long and cordial letter because
I have been unwell and dispirited, as I still am, but I will
write at least a few lines. Our house is full of people: my niece
Nagórnaya with two children, the Kouzmínskys with four children;
and Sónya [the Countess] is still poorly, and I dejected and
dull-minded. Our one hope was for good weather, and that we have
not got. As you and I resemble one another, you must know the
condition in which one feels oneself to be, now a God from whom
nothing is hid, and now stupider than a horse. In that state I am
at present. So do not be exacting. Till next letter, yours,

L. TOLSTOY.

The Kouzmínskys referred to above were Tánya, her husband, and their
family. They spent every summer at Yásnaya, in the 'wing' house. When
discussing any excursion or other undertaking with Mr. Kouzmínsky,
Tolstoy would often say, 'But we must hear what the Authorities have
to say about it,' the Authorities being their wives.

Passing into his 'summer condition,' Tolstoy's attention to
_Anna Karénina_ slackened; but before the end of the year he set
energetically to work to finish it. The interest aroused by the book
was extreme, and the story goes that Moscow ladies used to send to the
establishment where the novel was being printed, to try to find out
what the continuation would be.

On 21st July Tolstoy writes inviting Fet's brother, Peter
Afánasyevitch, a great lover of horses, to accompany him to Samára; and
in the same letter he makes an allusion to the troubles of the Slavs in
Turkey, where fighting had already been going on for a twelvemonth with
the Herzegovinians. Peter Afanásyevitch had gone as a volunteer, and
had returned after the failure of the insurrection.

_21 July 1876._

I am very much to blame, dear Afanásy Afanásyevitch, for having
been so slow in writing to you. I prepare to write every day, but
cannot find time because I am doing nothing.... Stráhof was here a
week ago, and we philosophised to the point of weariness....

I press the hand of Peter Afanásyevitch. I should like to hear
his stories about Herzegovina, in the existence of which I do not
believe!

I am arranging to go to Samára in September. If Peter Afanásyevitch
has no plans for September, will not he go with me to see the
Kirghiz and their horses? How jolly it would be!

Mention has already been made of the fact that Tolstoy, who understood
horses very well, was at this time interested in horse-breeding as
a source of revenue. To buy them he visited Orenbourg, where he met
General Kryzhanóvsky, a friend who had been one of his superior
officers in Sevastopol and was now Governor-General of this northern
Province. They spent the time together very pleasantly recalling their
past experiences.

To his wife, who had found it hard to consent to his absence, he wrote
in September:

I know that it is hard for you, and that you are afraid; but I saw
the effort you made to control yourself and not to hinder me and,
were it possible, I loved you yet more on that account. If only God
grants you to spend the time well, healthily, energetically and
usefully!... Lord have mercy on me and on thee!

In a letter of 13th November Tolstoy writes to Fet:

Pity me for two things: (1) a good-for-nothing coachman took the
stallions to Samára and, wishing to take a short cut, drowned
Gouneba in a bog within ten miles of the estate; (2) I sleep and
cannot write; I despise myself for laziness and do not allow myself
to take up any other work.

Twenty-eight years after the loss of Gouneba, the Countess, in speaking
to me of her husband's qualities as a man of affairs, remarked that
his schemes were very good, but that he generally spoilt them by
lack of care in details. 'For instance,' she remarked, 'it was quite
a good idea of his to send a very fine stallion which cost Rs. 2000
[about £260] to our estate in Samára. There were no such horses in the
district; but he must needs entrust it to a drunken Tartar who made
away with it and said he had lost it.'

On 7th December 1876 Tolstoy wrote to Fet acknowledging a poem, 'Among
the Stars,' which the latter had sent him:

That poem is not only worthy of you, but is specially, specially
good, with that philosophic-poetic character which I expect from
you. It is excellent that it is said by the stars.... It is also
good, as my wife remarked, that on the same sheet on which the poem
is written, you pour out your grief that the price of kerosene has
risen to 12 copecks. That is an indirect but sure sign of a poet.

The reader is by this time well aware of Tolstoy's devotion to music.
Though it was at times crowded out of his life by other interests, he
always returned to it with ardour when opportunity offered. Behrs tells
us that Tolstoy generally, when playing, chose serious music.

He often sat down to the piano before beginning to work.... He
always accompanied my youngest sister [Tánya] and enjoyed her
singing very much. I noticed that the sensation music evoked in
him expressed itself by a slight pallor and a scarcely perceptible
grimace, suggestive of something like terror. Hardly a day passed
in summer without my sister singing and without the piano being
played. Occasionally we all sang together, and he always played the
accompaniments.

As Tolstoy's spiritual crisis approached, the attraction of music
for him seemed to increase, and it was about this period, that is to
say in December 1876, that he made acquaintance with the composer
P. I. Tschaikóvsky, who had held the post of Director of the Moscow
Conservatoire, the first seeds of which Tolstoy had helped to plant
nearly twenty years before.

Tschaikóvsky had from his youth up been a devoted admirer of Tolstoy,
whose skill in reading the human heart appeared to him almost
superhuman. He was therefore highly gratified when Tolstoy of his own
accord sought his acquaintance. At first their personal intercourse did
not appear to lessen the composer's reverence for the author, for on
23rd December 1876 he wrote to a friend:

Count L. N. Tolstoy spent some time here recently. He visited
me several times and spent two whole evenings with me. I am
tremendously flattered, and proud of the interest I have inspired
in him, and for my part am completely enchanted by his ideal
personality.

Tschaikóvsky induced Nicholas Rubinstein, then Director of the Moscow
Conservatoire, to arrange a musical evening solely for Tolstoy, and
at this concert, Rubinstein, Fitzenhagen, and Adolph Bródsky, who is
now Principal of the Manchester College of Music, were among the chief
performers.

One of the pieces performed by a quartet was Tschaikóvsky's 'Andante
in D Major,' which so affected Tolstoy that he wept. 'Never, perhaps,
in my life,' says Tschaikóvsky, 'was I so flattered, or my vanity as a
composer so touched, as when Leo Nikoláyevitch, sitting next to me and
listening to the quartet performing my Andante, burst into tears.'

After Tolstoy had returned to Yásnaya he wrote to Tschaikóvsky, sending
him a collection of folk-songs, and saying:

I send you the songs, dear Peter Ilyítch. I have again looked them
through. They will be a wonderful treasure in your hands. But for
God's sake work them up and use them in a Mozart-Haydn style, and
not in a Beethoven-Schumann-Berlioz, artificial way, seeking the
unexpected. How much I left unsaid to you. I really said nothing
of what I wanted to say. There was no time. I was enjoying myself.
This last stay of mine in Moscow will remain one of the best of my
reminiscences. Never have I received so precious a reward for my
literary labours as on that wonderful evening.

Tschaikóvsky replied:

Count, I am sincerely grateful to you for sending the songs. I must
tell you candidly that they have been taken down by an unskilful
hand, and bear only traces of their pristine beauty. The chief
defect is that they have been artificially squeezed and forced into
a regular, measured form. Only Russian dance music has a rhythm and
a regular and equally accentuated beat; but folk-ballads have of
course nothing in common with dance songs. Moreover, most of these
songs are, arbitrarily it seems, written in a solemn D Major, which
again does not suit a real Russian song, which almost always has an
indefinite tonality approximating nearest of all to ancient Church
music. In general, the songs you have sent me cannot be worked up
in a regular and systematic way: that is to say, one cannot make a
collection of them, because for that they would have to be taken
down as nearly as possible in the way in which the people perform
them. That is an extremely difficult matter, demanding fine musical
feeling and great historico-musical erudition. Except Balakíref,
and to some extent Prokoúnin, I do not know any one competent for
the task. But as material for symphonic treatment, your songs can
be of use, and are even very good material, which I certainly will
avail myself of in one way or other.

It is rather disappointing to find that the intercourse between these
two men, each so great in his own way, and each such an admirer of the
other's genius, was not continued.

Tschaikóvsky's expectations had been pitched too high, and he felt a
certain disappointment that his 'demigod' was, after all, but human. He
had dreaded to meet the novelist lest the latter should penetrate the
secret recesses of his soul; but, says Tschaikóvsky:

He who in his writings was the deepest of heart-seers, proved in
personal contact to be a man of simple, whole, and frank nature,
showing very little of the omniscience I had feared.... It was
plain he did not at all regard me as a subject for his observation,
but simply wanted to chat about music, in which he was then
interested. He took a pleasure in denying Beethoven, and plainly
expressed doubts of his genius. This was a trait not at all worthy
of a great man. To pull down a universally acknowledged genius to
the level of one's own intelligence, is characteristic of small
people.

Feeling thus, Tschaikóvsky purposely avoided meeting Tolstoy again, and
even took a temporary aversion to _Anna Karénina_, though eventually he
returned to his former admiration of Tolstoy's novels.

Tschaikóvsky was not aware of the reasons Tolstoy had for the
unorthodox position he held on art generally and music in particular:
reasons which it will be more in place to deal with later on, and which
I have in fact already treated of at some length in a previous work,
_Tolstoy and his Problems_. Here let it suffice to say that there
is plenty of evidence to show that Tolstoy can enjoy Beethoven, and
enjoy even the works of Beethoven's last period, which are the ones he
criticises. There is, for instance, the episode with Mlle. Oberlender,
which will be recounted later on, and we have his own statement in
_What is Art?_:

I should mention that whatever other people understand of the
productions of Beethoven's later period, I, being very susceptible
to music, equally understand. For a long time I used to attune
myself so as to delight in those shapeless improvisations which
form the subject-matter of the works of Beethoven's later period;
but I had only to consider the question of art seriously, and to
compare the impression I received from Beethoven's later works with
those pleasant, clear, and strong musical impressions which are
transmitted, for instance, by the melodies of Bach (his arias),
Haydn, Mozart, Chopin (when his melodies are not overloaded with
complications and ornamentation), and of Beethoven himself in his
earlier period, and above all, with the impressions produced by
folk-songs,--Italian, Norwegian, or Russian,--by the Hungarian
_tzardas_, and other such simple, clear, and powerful music, and
the obscure, almost unhealthy excitement from Beethoven's later
pieces that I had artificially evoked in myself was destroyed.

His work among peasant children has convinced him that the normal human
being possesses capacities for the enjoyment of art; and that in most
unexpected places the capacity to produce admirable art is now lying
latent. That is why he sets up Brevity, Simplicity, and Sincerity
as the criterions of art, and why he believes that folk-tales and
folk-songs and folk-dances, the Gospel parables, such Old Testament
stories as the history of Joseph, the Arabian Nights and the Christmas
Carol; and music such as the _tzardas_, the _Swanee River_, the _Old
Hundredth_, and Bach's arias, are infinitely more important to the life
and well-being of humanity than _King Lear_ or the _Ninth Symphony_.

Tolstoy--who had boasted of not reading newspapers, and who had lived
so detached from politics and the events of contemporary history--began
at this time to feel keenly interested in a question closely connected
with Russia's foreign policy.

Following the insurrection in Herzegovina, another had broken
out in Bulgaria in May 1876, but had been quickly suppressed by
the Turks, who burnt some sixty-five villages; the Bashi-Bazouks
committing unspeakable atrocities on the defenceless inhabitants. At
the commencement of July, Servia and Montenegro declared war against
Turkey; but, in spite of help rendered by numerous Russian volunteers,
they were soon crushed by the Turks, and would have been completely
at their mercy had not Russia, on 31st October, issued an ultimatum
demanding an armistice, which Turkey conceded. On 10th November
Alexander II made a speech in the Moscow Krémlin, in which he declared
that he would act independently of the other powers unless satisfactory
guarantees of reform were obtained forthwith from the Sultan. These
events gradually led to the war which broke out between Russia and
Turkey in April 1877.

Before this, however, in the letter of 13th November 1876, already
quoted, Tolstoy wrote to Fet:

I went to Moscow to hear about the war. This whole affair agitates
me greatly. It is well for those to whom it is clear; but I am
frightened when I begin to reflect on all the complexity of the
conditions amid which history is made, and how some Madame A.--with
her vanity--becomes an indispensable cog in the whole machine!

The Russo-Turkish imbroglio led, early in 1877, to a split between
Tolstoy and Katkóf. Tolstoy, at bottom and in his own original way,
was certainly a reformer; and his alliance with Katkóf, who was quite
reactionary, had always been rather like the yoking of an ox with an
ass. At this time Katkóf was ardent for the liberation of the Slavs
from Turkish tyranny, laudatory of those who volunteered for the war,
and eager for the aggrandisement of Russia. Tolstoy, with his knowledge
of the realities of war and his insight into the motives that actuate
the men who fight, had his doubts about the heroic and self-sacrificing
character of the volunteers and the purity of the patriotism of the
press; and he expressed these doubts very plainly in some of the
concluding chapters of _Anna Karénina_: as, for instance, where he
makes Lévin say of 'the unanimity of the press':

'That's been explained to me: as soon as there's a war their
incomes are doubled. So how can they help believing in the
destinies of the people and the Slavonic races ... and all the rest
of it?'

The result was that when the final chapters of the novel were appearing
in the _Russian Messenger_ during the first months of 1877, Katkóf
returned some of the MS. to Tolstoy with numerous corrections and a
letter saying that he could not print it unless his corrections were
accepted.

Tolstoy was furious that a journalist should dare to alter a single
word in his book, and in reply sent a sharp letter to Katkóf, which
resulted in a rupture. Tolstoy issued the last part of _Anna Karénina_
separately in book form and not in the magazine, besides, of course,
issuing the whole work in book form, as usual; and, in the May number
of his _Russian Messenger_, Katkóf had to wind up the story as best he
could, by giving a brief summary of the concluding part.

These events throw light on the following letter to Fet:

_23 March 1877._

You can't imagine how glad I am to have your approval of my
writings, dear Afanásy Afanásyevitch, and in general to receive
your letter. You write that the _Russian Messenger_ has printed
some one else's poem, while your _Temptation_ lies waiting. It is
the dullest and deadest editorial office in existence. They have
become terribly repulsive to me, not on my own account, but for the
sake of others....

My head is now better, but as it gets better it has to work that
much harder. March and the beginning of April are the months when I
work most, and I still continue to be under the delusion that what
I am writing is very important, though I know that in a month's
time I shall be ashamed to remember that I thought so. Have you
noticed that a new line has now been started, and that everybody is
writing poetry: very bad poetry, but they all do it. Some five new
poets have introduced themselves to me lately.

The dislike Tolstoy felt of the artificially stimulated war fever
(though, to do Katkóf and his friends justice, one must admit that no
European Power during the last fifty years has had more justification
for war than Russia had for intervening in defence of the Slav
population of Turkey) was connected with the religious impulse that was
beginning to reshape his whole life; but it does not appear that he
actually disapproved of the war after Russia had officially commenced
it. What he primarily objected to was, that private individuals should
push the Government into a war.

An influence which has left its traces in the latter part of _Anna
Karénina_ (particularly Part VII, Chap. 21) was Tolstoy's intercourse,
about this time, with some of the most prominent followers of Lord
Radstock, who frequently visited Russia and obtained considerable
influence with a number of people in certain aristocratic Petersburg
circles. One of these people, Count A. P. Bóbrinsky, who had been
Minister of Ways of Communication, made Tolstoy's acquaintance and had
animated religious discussions with him. Both Bóbrinsky and Colonel
Páshkof (another very prominent Radstockite) for a while cherished
hopes of winning Tolstoy over to Evangelical Christianity, and making
him the spokesman of their cause. Tolstoy, as the event proved, was
quite capable of throwing himself whole-heartedly into a religious
movement; but he needed a faith much more clear-cut than the scheme
of Redemption by the blood of Jesus: one that faced the facts of
life, dealt explicitly with the bread-and-butter problem, and told
men how to regard the fact that some people have to overtax their
strength without ever reaching an assured maintenance, while others
have a superabundance provided for them from their birth without ever
needing to do a stroke of work. His profound contempt for Evangelical
doctrines flashed out twenty years later, in the 17th Chapter of Book
II of _Resurrection_.

It was a little before this that Fet told Tolstoy the following story.
Sauntering in a churchyard, he had come upon an inscription which
touched him more than any epitaph he had ever read. The tombstone was
in the form of an obelisk of plain grey sandstone. On one of its four
sides were deeply cut the words:

_Here is buried the body of the peasant girl Mary_;

on another side:

_Here also is buried an infant of the female sex_.

On the side opposite the name of the deceased stood these words
ill-spelt:

_This, my dear, is the last adornment I can give thee_;

and below stood the name of

_Retired non-commissioned officer So-and-so_.

In his next letter Tolstoy writes:

_18 October 1876._

_This, my dear, is the last adornment I can give thee_ is charming!
I have told it twice, and each time my voice has broken with tears.

1877

In Tolstoy's next letter to Fet, dated 11th January, we get a glimpse
of one of the reasons that led this strenuous worker to prefer a
country life:

DEAR AFANÁSY AFANÁSYEVITCH,--One does not strike or cut off
the head that owns its fault! I confess that I am quite at
fault towards you. But truly, in Moscow I am in a condition of
irresponsibility; my nerves are out of order, the hours turn to
minutes, and as though on purpose, the people I do not want turn up
and prevent my seeing those whom I do want.

Among the people whom in his search for truth Tolstoy did want to know,
were some of the leading scientists of that day--a day when many men
thought that Darwin had opened the gateway to a knowledge which would
gradually solve the mysteries of life and death, the here and the
hereafter. The great literary fame Tolstoy now enjoyed made it an easy
matter to make such acquaintances.

One of the scientists he got to know, was a celebrated professor of
Chemistry, A. M. Boutleróf, whom to his amazement he found to be much
concerned with table-turning and spiritualism; occupations Tolstoy held
in contempt.

A letter to Fet, dated 14th April, gives some inkling of what was going
on in Tolstoy's mind at this time:

I value every letter of yours, especially such as this last! You
would hardly believe how pleased I am at what you write 'On the
existence of the Deity.' I agree with it all, and should like to
say much about it, but cannot in a letter, and am too busy. It is
the first time you have spoken to me about the Deity--God. And I
have long been thinking unceasingly about that chief problem. Do
not say that one cannot think about it! One not only can, but must!
In all ages the best, the real people, have thought about it. And
if we cannot think of it as they did, we must find out _how_. Have
you read _Pensées de Pascal_--_i.e._ have you read it recently with
a mature head-piece? When (which God grant) you come to see me, we
will talk of many things, and I will give you that book. Were I
free from my novel--of which the end is already in type and I am
correcting the proofs--I would at once on receipt of your letter
have come to you.

In the middle of this summer Tolstoy, bringing with him N. Stráhof,
paid Fet an unexpected visit. The latter had at this time engaged
as governess a Mlle. Oberlender, an excellent pianist, and in his
_Recollections_ he tells us that on this visit:

The Count, a sensitive esthete by nature, was greatly taken by the
piano playing of Mlle. Oberlender. He sat down to play duets with
her, and they played through almost the whole of Beethoven.

Fet quotes Tolstoy's comment on the lady's performance:

'When we were young, such pianists travelled across Europe giving
concerts. She reads any piece of music as you read poetry, finding
just the suitable expression for each note.'

Towards the end of July, Tolstoy, accompanied by N. Stráhof, visited
for the first time the Monastery of Óptin, which is situated in
the Kaloúga Government, and is about 135 miles to the west of
Yásnaya. A very prominent figure in the monastic world at that time
was the _Staretz_ Father Ambrose, with whom Tolstoy had some long
conversations. Among others whose acquaintance Tolstoy made there,
was a monk who had formerly been an officer in the Horse Guards. One
of the most important of the works Tolstoy left for publication after
his death, is a remarkable novel called _Father Sergius_, the hero of
which is a man of the world who becomes a monk, acquires a reputation
for sanctity, and then yields to temptation and ends as an outcast.
His visits to the Óptin Monastery, which were repeated three times,
supplied Tolstoy with material which many years later he utilised in
that work.

At Óptin, Tolstoy had met his friend Prince Obolénsky, to whom on his
return journey he paid a visit at the latter's estate of Beryósino.
Here he renewed acquaintance with N. Rubinstein, who was staying with
Obolénsky, and whose pianoforte playing he enjoyed intensely.

A visit which much interested Tolstoy was paid him about this time by
an itinerant story-teller, expert in folk-lore, wielding beautifully
the simple language of the people, such as Tolstoy loves and has
utilised in his stories. He took down in writing some of this
traveller's tales, and from them subsequently worked up into literary
form _What Men Live By_, _The Three Hermits_ (included in _Twenty-three
Tales_), and some others. The root idea of _What Men Live By_ is that
of an angel sent by God to do penance on earth for a well-intentioned
act of disobedience. It seems that it is one of the most widely
disseminated of the world's legends, appearing and reappearing in the
literature of many countries through many centuries.

In the latter part of 1877 a number of Turkish prisoners of war were
located in an abandoned sugar-factory between Toúla and Yásnaya.
Tolstoy visited them there, and found that they were fairly well
treated. Being himself greatly concerned about religion, he naturally
talked to them on that subject, and was much impressed when he found
that each of them had a copy of the Koran in his kit.

On 6th December another son, Andrew (Andréy), was born.

All through this year, amid bustle and activity of various kinds,
spiritual problems continued to torment Tolstoy, and his physical
health began to show signs of the strain. Here is a note to Fet, dated
2nd September:

Just now I am constantly out hunting and am busy arranging how to
place our educational staff for the winter. I have been to Moscow
looking for a teacher and a tutor. To-day I feel quite ill.

1878

Nor did matters improve as the months went on, for on 27th January he
again writes:

Most unfortunately your suppositions, dear Afanásy Afanásyevitch,
are wrong. Not only am I not at work, but the reason I failed to
answer you was because I have been ill all this time. Lately I have
even been in bed for some days. A chill in various forms: teeth and
side, and the result is that time goes by--my best time--and I do
no work.

Then follows a touch showing how, in many matters, his wife's mind was
still attuned to his own, though she was not sharing his spiritual
struggles, and in the matter of the education of the children there was
already some disagreement between them:

On reading it I said to my wife, 'Fet's poem is charming, but there
is one word that is wrong.' She was nursing and bustling about at
the time; but at tea, having quieted down, she took up the poem
to read, and at once pointed out the words 'as the Gods'--which I
considered bad.

On 25th March 1878 he writes to Fet:

Last week, after seventeen years' absence, I went to Petersburg to
purchase some land in Samára from General B....

There I met a pair of Orlóf Generals who made me shudder: it was
just as though one were standing between two sets of rails with
goods trains passing. To enter into the minds of these Generals, I
had to recall the rare days of drunkenness I have experienced, or
the days of my very earliest childhood.

After completing _Anna Karénina_ Tolstoy again took up _The
Decembrists_, which he had put aside in favour of _War and Peace_
fourteen years before. As already mentioned, a second cousin of
Tolstoy's mother, Prince S. G. Volkónsky, had been a prominent
Decembrist; and Tolstoy had at his disposal a number of family diaries
and journals throwing much light on the subject of that conspiracy.
While in Petersburg he made personal acquaintance with some of the
survivors of the movement, and also applied to the Commandant of the
Petropávlof Fortress--who happened to be an officer under whom he had
served in the Crimea--for permission to see the Alexis dungeons, in
which the Decembrists had been confined. The Commandant received him
very politely, allowed him to see over other parts of the fortress,
but told him that, though any one could enter the dungeons, only three
persons in the whole Empire--the Emperor, the Commandant, and the Chief
of the Gendarmes--having once entered them, could again leave them.

Finally, after writing three fragments of it, Tolstoy abandoned this
novel, to which he had devoted much time. The subject was one he could
hardly have dealt with frankly without getting into trouble with the
Censor; and he had been refused permission to study the State Archives;
but in the following passage Behrs gives another, and a curiously
characteristic, reason for Tolstoy's decision:

He affirmed that the Decembrist insurrection was a result of the
influence of French nobles, a large number of whom had emigrated
to Russia after the French Revolution. As tutors in aristocratic
families, they educated the whole Russian nobility, which explains
the fact that many of the Decembrists were Catholics. The belief
that the movement was due to foreign influence, and was not a
purely national one, sufficed to prevent Tolstoy from sympathising
with it.

Another letter to Fet again shows the direction in which Tolstoy's mind
was working:

_6 April 1878._

I have received your delightful and long letter, dear Afanásy
Afanásyevitch. Do not praise me. Really you see in me too much
good, and in others too much bad. One thing in me is good: that
I understand you and therefore love you. But though I love you
as you are, I am always angry with you for this, that 'Martha is
anxious about many things; but one thing is needful.' And in you
that one thing is very strong, but somehow you disdain it and are
more concerned about arranging a billiard room. Don't suppose
that I refer to poems: though I expect them to come too! But it
is not of them I speak; they will come in spite of the billiards;
I am speaking of a conception of the world which would make it
unnecessary to be angry at the stupidity of mortals. Were you and
I to be pounded together in a mortar and moulded into two people,
we should make a capital pair. But at present you are so attached
to the things of this life, that should they some day fail you, it
will go hard with you; while I am so indifferent to them, that life
becomes uninteresting, and I depress others by an eternal pouring
'from void into vacuum'! Do not suppose that I have gone mad; I am
merely out of sorts, but hope you will love me though I be black.

The prolonged mental struggle through which Tolstoy passed with great
suffering during the years 1874-78, was quite evident to those about
him, at least from 1876 onward. Not merely did he go regularly to
church, and shut himself up in his study morning and evening to pray,
but his former high spirits subsided, and his desire to become meek and
humble was plainly noticeable. One result of his altered attitude was,
that he felt keenly that it was wrong to have an enemy. Accordingly he
wrote Tourgénef to that effect, and held out to him the right hand of
friendship.

To this Tourgénef replied:

PARIS, _8 May 1878_.

DEAR LEO NIKOLÁYEVITCH,--I only to-day received your letter,
addressed _poste-restante_. It gladdened and touched me very much.
With the greatest readiness will I renew our former friendship, and
I warmly press the hand you hold out to me. You are quite right in
supposing me to have no hostile feelings towards you. If ever they
existed they have long since disappeared, and the recollection of
you only remains as of a man to whom I am sincerely attached, and
of a writer whose first steps it was my good fortune to be the
first to hail, and each new work from whom has always aroused in me
the liveliest interest. I am heartily glad of the cessation of the
misunderstandings that arose between us.

I hope this summer to be in the Government of Orlóf, and in that
case we shall of course see one another. Till then, I wish you all
that is good, and once more press your hand in friendship.

On 13th June, on the point of starting for Samára with the elder
children and their tutor, Tolstoy writes to Fet:

I have seldom so enjoyed a summer as this year, but a week ago I
caught cold and fell ill, and only to-day have I come to life again.

Somewhat later in the summer the Countess, with the younger children,
joined her husband in Samára.

Hardly were the Tolstoys back from Samára before Tourgénef wrote from
Moscow that he would be in Toúla on the following Monday, 7th August.
Tolstoy, accompanied by his brother-in-law, drove thither to meet him,
and brought him to Yásnaya, where he passed a couple of days. Both
writers were delighted to feel that their seventeen-year disagreement
was ended; and the Countess, who when a girl had known Tourgénef well,
was equally pleased to welcome him to the house.

A lady who was there at the time, tells us that the two writers spent
much of their time in philosophic and religious conversation in
Tolstoy's study, but:

When they came out into the sitting-room their conversation became
general and took a different turn. Tourgénef told with pleasure
of the villa Bougival which he had just bought near Paris, and of
its comfort and arrangements, saying, 'We have built a charming
conservatory, costing ten thousand francs,' and 'we' did so-and-so
and so-and-so, meaning by 'we,' the Viardot family and himself.

'Of an evening we often play _vint_ [a game similar to bridge]--do
you?' he asked Tolstoy.

'No, we never play cards,' replied the Count, and turned the
conversation to another topic.

Knowing that he was fond of chess, the Countess Tolstoy asked him
to play a game with her eldest son, a lad of fifteen, saying, 'He
will all his life remember having played with Tourgénef.'

Tourgénef condescendingly agreed, and began a game, while
continuing to talk to us.

'In Paris I often used to play chess and was considered a good
player. They called me _le chevalier de pion_. I am fond of
pawns.... Do you know the new phrase now in fashion among the
French--_vieux jeu_? Whatever you say, a Frenchman replies, "_Vieux
jeu!_"'

'Eh! but one must not joke with you,' he exclaimed suddenly,
turning to his youthful opponent. 'You have all but done for me.'

And he began to play carefully, and only won the game with
difficulty, for young Tolstoy really played chess excellently.

At evening tea Tourgénef told how he had played the part of a
satyr at M^{me} Viardot's private theatricals, and how some of
the audience had gazed at him with amazement. We knew that he
had himself written the piece (a sort of operetta) for those
theatricals, and knew also that Russians, both abroad and at home,
disapproved of his playing the fool for M^{me} Viardot's amusement;
and we all felt uncomfortable. In telling it he seemed to be trying
to justify himself, but he soon passed on to another theme, and we
breathed more freely.

He had the gift of words and spoke readily and smoothly, but seemed
to prefer narrating to conversing. He told us of his confinement in
the Hauptwerk of the Spássky Police-station in Petersburg, for his
article on the death of Gógol, and he described how dull it was....

Tolstoy also narrated, and I liked his stories better: they were
more strongly sketched, often humorous, and always original. In
them much was simple, unexpected and touching.... I. S. Aksákof
used to say, with reference to Tolstoy's gigantic power, that he
had 'a bear-like talent,' but I will add that his soul is as meek
'as a dove,' and as enthusiastic as a youth; and that the union of
those two qualities explains the new direction he has since taken,
a direction which so distressed Tourgénef.

An hour before midnight Tourgénef rose.

'It is time for me to go to the station,' said he.

We all rose. The railway station was one-and-a-half miles away, and
Count Leo Nikoláyevitch drove with him, to see him off.

Behrs also writes of the same visit:

At dinner Tourgénef told many stories, and to the delight of the
younger folk mimicked not only persons, but animals also. Thus,
placing one hand under the other, he depicted a fowl waddling in
the soup, and then imitated a hunting dog at a loss. As I listened
to him and watched his tricks I couldn't help thinking that he
evidently inherited something of the talent for which one of his
ancestors under Peter the Great enjoyed no little fame.

This was the last summer Behrs, now a young man of twenty-three, passed
with Tolstoy before taking up official work in the Caucasus. His
evidence fully supports that of others who have seen Tolstoy in contact
with children, peasants or native races: to all of these Tolstoy
extends his charm of comprehension, consideration, and sympathy.

Whenever Tolstoy went out with his gun and his dogs, Behrs used to
accompany him; and together they would ride twenty-four miles from
Yásnaya to visit Count Sergius Tolstoy at Pirogóvo. Leo Tolstoy took
his brother-in-law on these visits, Behrs says, 'for my sake, if not
for his own, since he knew what pleasure it gave me to be with him.'
The remark he made when he heard that Behrs had obtained an official
appointment in the Caucasus is characteristic: 'You are too late
for the Caucasus. The whole country already stinks of officials.'
Characteristic too of the feeling Tolstoy inspires among those who know
him most intimately, is Behrs's concluding remark: 'I at least am aware
of nothing in his life that needs to be concealed.'

At the beginning of September Tourgénef, on his return from his estate,
again visited Yásnaya, but he arrived at an unfortunate time, when
there was illness in the house, and he paid but a short visit.

One sees by a letter to Fet on 5th September that Tolstoy still found
himself unable to be quite intimate with his fellow novelist:

Tourgénef on his return journey came to see us and was glad to
receive your letter. He is still the same, and we know the degree
of nearness possible between us.

I have a terrible desire to write something, but feel a depressing
doubt whether this is a false or a true appetite.

The last sentence must refer to the _Confession_, most of which was not
written till the next year.

In October he again wrote to Fet:

I do not know how or in what spirit to begin to write to you, dear
Afanásy Afanásyevitch; any way, there are no words for it but,
'I am to blame, I am to blame, and I am altogether to blame!'
Though it is always superfluous for apologisers to explain their
reasons, I will yet write mine because they are true and explain
my condition. For a month past, if not more, I have been living
amid the fumes not of external occurrences (on the contrary we
are by ourselves, living quietly) but of what is going on inside:
something I know not how to name. I go out shooting, read, reply to
questions put to me, eat, and sleep, but can do nothing, not even
write a letter, a score of which have collected.

Apparently while in bad spirits, he wrote to Tourgénef asking him not
to refer to his (Tolstoy's) writings--for the latter replies on 15th
October, saying: 'I am glad you are all physically well, and hope the
"mental sickness" of which you write has now passed.' He then continues:

Although you ask me not to speak of your writings, I must still
remark that it has never happened to me to laugh at you 'even a
little.' Some of your things pleased me very much; others did
not please me at all; while others again, such as _The Cossacks_
for instance, afforded me great pleasure and excited my wonder.
But what ground was there for laughter? I thought you had long
since got rid of such 'reflexive' feelings. Why are they current
only among authors, and not among musicians, painters, and other
artists? Probably because in literary work more of that part of the
soul is exposed, which it is not quite convenient to show. But at
our (already mature) age as authors, it is time we were accustomed
to it.

This displeased Tolstoy, who in his next letter to Fet expressed his
vexation with Tourgénef who, I imagine, had not intended to give
offence:

_22 November 1878._

DEAR AFANÁSY AFANÁSYEVITCH,--I will go to Moscow and have 'I am to
blame' printed on my notepaper. But I don't think I am to blame for
not replying to the letter in which you promised to come and see
us. I remember my joy at that news, and that I replied immediately.
If not, still please don't punish me, but come....

Yesterday I received a letter from Tourgénef; and do you know, I
have decided that it will be better to 'keep further away from him
and from sin' [A common Russian saying]. He is an unpleasant sort
of quarrel-maker.

My congratulations to you on your birthday. I will not in future
omit to congratulate you on the 23rd, and hope not to forget it for
the next dozen times. That will be enough for either of us. _Au
revoir!_

Fet was destined to live four years beyond the span Tolstoy allotted
him, and Tolstoy himself is still with us, though more than thirty
years have passed since that letter was written; and what strenuous
years they have been! How he has wrestled with life's greatest
problems one after another, and how he has flung down before the world
his opinions (right, wrong, or motley) on dogmatic theology, Christ's
Christianity, religion in general, economic and social problems,
famine, the employment of violence, war, conscription, Government,
patriotism, the sex problem, art, science, food-reform and the use
of stimulants and narcotics, besides producing a series of simple
stories for the people, as well as more complex ones for the rest of
society, three plays, one great novel, and a stream of weighty and
interesting essays and letters which have poured forth from Yásnaya in
an increasing stream as the years went by; not to mention works kept
back for posthumous publication, at the mention of which the literary
world pricks up its ears!

On 1st October 1878 Tourgénef wrote to Fet from Bougival, again saying
that he intended to translate _The Cossacks_ into French, and adding,
'It will give me great pleasure to assist in acquainting the French
public with the best story that has been written in our language.'

In another letter from Bougival in December, he remarked:

I was very glad to come together with Tolstoy, and I spent three
pleasant days with him; his whole family are very sympathetic, and
his wife is charming. He has grown very quiet and has matured. His
name begins to gain European celebrity: we Russians have long known
that he has no rivals.

The course of the story has swept me a little past Tolstoy's fiftieth
birthday--the point at which I intended to close this first part of
my work. Besides giving some brief survey of his writings during his
first twenty-five years of authorship, all that now remains is to give
a summary of that remarkable work, his _Confession_, which shows us
vividly, though with some amount of involuntary artistic heightening,
what had been going on in his mind and soul from 1874 to 1879, the year
in which it was written.

By way of brief preface to his _Confession_, it will be in place to
say a few words about two different tendencies which, each in its own
way, influenced Tolstoy. On the one hand there was the religious life
of the people, with all its Medieval traditions. Tolstoy had only to go
a short walk from his house to reach the highroad, on which pilgrims
going afoot to the shrines of the Saints could always be met; and he
had many a conversation with these pilgrims at the rest-house they
frequented. Among them there were many to whom the things of this world
were certainly less precious than obedience to the will of God as they
understood it; and Tolstoy's stories show us how closely he observed
these people, and how near some of them came to his soul. On the other
hand he was influenced by the quite modern and very remarkable movement
that was at this time beginning to make itself felt in Russia; a
movement having its roots in conditions of life which greatly disturbed
Tolstoy's own mind, and which took as one of its watchwords the motto
'Towards the People'--a sentiment quite in harmony with his own
attitude.

In 1875 public attention was aroused by the trial of the Dolgoúshin
group of propagandists; and the trial of 'The Moscow 50,' in March
1877, revealed the fact that a number of girls of wealthy families were
voluntarily leading the life of factory hands working fourteen hours
a day in over-crowded factories, that they might come into touch with
working people, to teach them, and to carry on a social and political
propaganda among them. Then followed the historic trial of 'The 193' in
1878.

These and many other indications showed that in spite of the repressive
measures of the Government, a steadily increasing number of Russians
felt (what Tolstoy also felt strongly) that the existing order of
society results in the mass of the people having to live in conditions
of blighting ignorance and grinding poverty; while the parasitic
minority who live in plenty and sometimes in extravagant superfluity,
render no service at all equivalent to the cost of their maintenance.
The mere statement that those who had received an education thanks to
the work of the masses, owe service to the masses in return, sufficed
to rouse to action some of the young men and women of that day. They
left their wealthy homes, lived the simplest lives, ran fearful risks,
and according to their lights--sometimes not very clear ones--devoted
themselves to the service of the people.

While this was going on around him, a man with such a temperament as
Tolstoy's, could not be at rest.

Already in 1875 Mihaylóvsky had published a remarkable series of
articles on _The Right and Left Hand of Count Tolstoy_, in which he
pointed out that that author's works reveal the clash of contrary
ideals and tendencies in the writer's soul, and that especially his
educational articles contain ideas quite in conflict with certain
tendencies noticeable in _War and Peace_. With remarkable prevision
Mihaylóvsky predicted an inevitable crisis in Tolstoy's life, and added:

One asks oneself what such a man is to do, and how he is to
live?... I think an ordinary man in such a position would end by
suicide or drunkenness; but a man of worth will seek for other
issues--and of these there are several.

One of these he suggested would be, to write for the people (Tolstoy's
_Readers_ had already been published) or to write so as to remind
'Society' that its pleasures and amusements are not those of the mass
of mankind, and thus to arouse the latent feelings of justice in some
who now forget the debt they owe to their fellows.

In fact, the trial of 'The 193' or the movement from which it arose,
had a vital, though indirect, influence on Tolstoy, who at this time
had engaged V. I. Alexéyef, a graduate of Petersburg University,
as mathematical master for his son. Alexéyef had been a member of
the Tchaykóvsky group which carried on an educational propaganda in
elementary Socialism in the early '70's. The activities of this group
were so restricted, and they were so hampered by the police, that some
of its members, feeling a need of freer activity, migrated to Kansas,
where for two years they carried on an agricultural colony. Dissensions
arose among them, and their experiment failed. Alexéyef returned to
Russia; Tchaykóvsky settled in England, where he spent many years, and
only returned to Russia after the amnesty of 1905, to be again arrested
and to spend more than a year in prison awaiting a trial which ended in
his acquittal. Tolstoy noticed that Alexéyef was a man who shaped his
life in accord with his beliefs, and he respected him accordingly, and
through him made acquaintance with some of the best representatives of
the immature Socialist movement then brewing in Russia. We have here a
remarkable example of the indirect way in which thoughts influence the
world. Auguste Comte wrote a philosophy. Having filtered through the
minds of G. H. Lewes and J. S. Mill, it reached Nicholas Tchaykóvsky
when he was a schoolboy of fourteen in the Seventh Gymnasium in
Petersburg. 'It fascinated me to such an extent,' says he in the
reminiscences contributed to G. H. Perris's interesting book, _Russia
in Revolution_, 'that, while sitting in school, I longed to get back to
our lodgings and to my chosen reading. The more I progressed, the more
I was absorbed. This study powerfully affected my mind and systematised
my ideas.' A few years later Tchaykóvsky, having read much meanwhile,
formed his group, which sowed the seeds of changes yet to come.
Progress, however, was very slow, and he felt 'the ineffectiveness of
ordinary political and socialistic propaganda among a deeply religious
peasantry, still hopeful of benefits from above.' This forced him to
reconsider the whole situation. 'I met,' adds he, 'some friends with
whom I began to work upon the rather Utopian idea of formulating a new
religion, and, for the sake of more effective experiment, we were soon
compelled to transfer ourselves with this stupendous mission, to the
steppes of Kansas.'

Wishing to transform society, Tchaykóvsky had seen the need of some
systematic outlook on life--'a new religion,' in fact. Dissatisfied
with his own outlook on life, Tolstoy was seeking a new religion, and
when he found it, it led him to demand great changes in society. The
mature novelist and the young propagandist, who have never met in the
flesh, had therefore much in common; though Tolstoy dislikes the works
of Comte and Mill, which had done so much for Tchaykóvsky, and can
hardly speak of them with tolerance (except Mill's _Autobiography_,
which interests him). Detesting the methods of violence to which those
who succeeded Tchaykóvsky felt themselves driven, Tolstoy could still
not doubt the sincerity of the faith that actuated most of them; for
they had all to lose and nothing to gain by joining the revolutionary
movement. Sophie Peróvsky, one of 'the 193' (subsequently hanged in
Petersburg for taking part in the assassination of Alexander II), was
the daughter of the Governor-General of that city, and was a niece of
the Minister of Education. Demetrius Lisogoúb, a landowner, devoted
his whole fortune of some £40,000 to the movement; and was hanged
in Odessa. Prince Peter Kropótkin risked his all to give lessons to
workmen; and escaped abroad, having lost position, fortune, and the
right to live in his native land. Tolstoy, an older man, with a strong
character and definite views of his own on many points, could not join
the Socialist movement, but that he was influenced by it is beyond
doubt.

The state of Russian life was indeed such that men of sensitive
consciences could not be at rest (as, indeed, when and where in the
wide world can they?), and the work Tolstoy had already done, marked
him out as one in whose soul the struggle which was moving others,
would assuredly be fought out strenuously. No one however, and
certainly not he himself, as yet knew what effect that crisis would
have upon him, or what his course of life would be in the years that
were to come.

CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER X

Besides books mentioned in last chapter, information relating to this
period is contained in a number of magazines and newspaper articles, of
which the following are the most important.

On the Education dispute see:

_Moskov. Eparhial. Ved._, October 1874.

_Rousskiya Vedomosti_, 1894, No. 31.

N. K. Mihaylovsky's _Zapiski Profana_, and E. Schuyler in _Rousskaya
Starina_, October 1870, and in _Scribner's Magazine_, May and June,
1889.

About Samara Famine, etc., see: A. S. Prougavin in _Obrazovaniye_, Nov.
1902.

On Tourgenef's visit to Yasnaya see: _Tobolskiya Goubern. Vedomosti_,
1893, No. 26.

The _Rousskoye Obozreniye_, 1896, contains a letter from Tolstoy to Fet.

The _Vestnik Evropy_, June 1904, contains M. Zaharina's _Vospominaniya
gr. A. A. Tolstaya_.

_Zhisn P. I. Tschaikovskavo._

_Pervoe Sobranie pisem Tourgeneva, 1840-1883_; Petersburg, 1884.

P. A. Sergeyenko in _Niva_, No. 8, 1906.

CHAPTER XI

CONFESSION

What is the meaning of life? Thoughts of suicide. The traveller in the
well. Schopenhauer and Solomon. Four ways of meeting the problem. The
peasants' answer. The finite linked to the infinite. Faith essential.
Faiths that obscure. Why life seemed meaningless. The search for God.
The infallibility of the Church. Rites and prayers. Communion. The
lives of the Saints. The Orthodox and the Sectarians. War. The need to
unravel truth from error.

THIS chapter is a summary of Tolstoy's _Confession_,[54] or
'Introduction to a Criticism of Dogmatic Theology and to an
Investigation of the Christian Teachings,' as the Russian title ran,
from the first pages of which I have already quoted freely in the
preceding chapters. I have kept as much to Tolstoy's words as possible,
but having to condense, I have not only omitted much, but have also
paraphrased some passages to avoid repetition. The plan I have
adopted, since this is a _Life_ and not a theological treatise, has
been to cut down to a mere skeleton the abstract argument of Tolstoy's
_Confession_, while giving almost in full what he says about his own
experience.

[54] It is strange that Tolstoy's _Confession_ has not
yet been put into English at all reproducing the vigorous
simplicity of the original. There is, I think, nothing better
than the threepenny edition issued by the _Free Age Press_
under the title, _How I Came to Believe_; and on looking at
that to see if I could quote from it, I find that it is not
good enough.

Many men, at the age of puberty, or at any rate while their minds were
still maturing, have experienced the change known as 'Conversion.' That
is to say, they have more or less suddenly turned round and looked at
life from a fresh point of view: what in their nature had been latent
or secondary has become dominant and primary, and things temporal and
material have become subordinate to things spiritual and eternal.

What is unusual about the story of Tolstoy's conversion is that it came
so late in life and so gradually, and that the intellect played so
large a part in it.

Some men take to religion at the prompting of the heart, others at the
prompting of the brain; and Tolstoy belongs to the latter category,
not from lack of heart, but because strong as are his emotions, his
intellectual power is stronger still.

His _Confession_ was written in 1879, and in it he says:

Five years ago something very strange began to happen to me: At first
I experienced moments of perplexity and arrest of life, as though I
did not know how to live or what to do; and I felt lost and became
dejected. But this passed, and I went on living as before. Then these
moments of perplexity began to recur oftener and oftener, and always in
the same form. They were always expressed by the questions: What's it
for? What does it lead to?

At first it seemed to me that these were aimless and irrelevant
questions. I thought that it was all well known, and that if I should
ever wish to deal with the solution, it would not cost me much effort;
just at present I had no time for it, but when I wanted to I should
be able to find the answer. The questions, however, began to repeat
themselves frequently, and more and more insistently to demand replies;
and like drops of ink always falling on one place, they ran together
into one black blot.

That occurred which happens to every one sickening with a mortal
internal disease. At first trivial signs of indisposition appear, to
which the sick man pays no attention; then these signs reappear more
and more often, and merge into one uninterrupted period of suffering.
The suffering increases, and before the sick man can look round, what
he took for a mere indisposition has already become more important to
him than anything else in the world--it is death!

That was what happened to me. I understood that it was no casual
indisposition, but something very important, and that if these
questions constantly repeated themselves, it would be necessary to
answer them. And I tried to do so. The questions seemed such stupid
simple childish questions; but as soon as I touched them and tried to
solve them, I at once became convinced (1) that they are not childish
and stupid, but the most important and the deepest of life's questions;
and (2) that, try as I would, I could not solve them. Before occupying
myself with my Samára estate, the education of my son, or the writing
of a book, I had to know _why_ I was doing it. As long as I did not
know why, I could do nothing, and could not live. Amid the thoughts of
estate management which greatly occupied me at that time, the question
would suddenly occur to me: 'Well, you will have 16,000 acres of land
in Samára Government and 300 horses, and what next?'... And I was quite
disconcerted, and did not know what to think. Or, when considering
my plans for the education of my children, I would say to myself:
What for? Or when considering how the peasants might be prosperous, I
suddenly said to myself, 'But what business is it of mine?' Or when
thinking of the fame my works would bring me, I said to myself, 'Very
well: you will be more famous than Gógol or Poúshkin or Shakespear or
Molière, or than all the writers in the world--and what will it lead
to?' And I could find no reply at all. The questions would not wait,
they had to be answered at once, and if I did not answer them, it was
impossible to live. But there was no answer.

I felt that what I had been standing on had broken down, and that I had
nothing left under my feet. What I had lived on, no longer existed; and
I had nothing left to live on.

My life came to a standstill. I could breathe, eat, drink and sleep,
and I could not help doing these things; but there was no life,
for there were no wishes the fulfilment of which I could consider
reasonable.... Had a fairy come and offered to fulfil my desires, I
should not have known what to ask.... If in moments of intoxication I
felt something which I cannot call a wish, but a habit left by former
wishes, in sober moments I knew this to be a delusion, and that there
is really nothing to wish for. I could not even wish to know the
truth, for I guessed in what it consisted. The truth was that life is
meaningless. I had, as it were, lived, lived, and walked, walked, till
I had come to a precipice and saw clearly that there was nothing ahead
of me but destruction. It was impossible to stop, impossible to go
back, and impossible to close my eyes or avoid seeing that there was
nothing ahead but suffering and real death--complete annihilation.

It had come to this, that I, a healthy, fortunate man, felt I could no
longer live: some irresistible power impelled me to rid myself one way
or other of life. I cannot say I _wished_ to kill myself. The power
which drew me away from life was stronger, fuller, and more widespread
than any mere wish.

The thought of self-destruction now came to me as naturally as thoughts
of how to improve my life had come formerly. And it was so seductive
that I had to be wily with myself, lest I should carry it out too
hastily: 'If I cannot unravel matters, there will always be time.'
And it was then that I, a man favoured by fortune, hid a cord from
myself, lest I should hang myself from the crosspiece of the partition
in my room, where I undressed alone every evening; and I ceased to go
out shooting with a gun, lest I should be tempted by so easy a way of
ending my life. I did not myself know what I wanted: I feared life,
desired to escape from it; yet still hoped something of it.

[Illustration: TOLSTOY'S LIBRARY.

(FORMERLY HIS STUDY AND DRESSING-ROOM.) SHOWING THE WOODEN CROSS-PIECE
FROM WHICH HE WISHED TO HANG HIMSELF.]

And all this befell me at a time when all around me I had what is
considered complete good fortune. I was not yet fifty; I had a good
wife who loved me and whom I loved; good children, and a large estate
which without much effort on my part improved and increased. I was
respected by my relations and acquaintances more than at any previous
time. I was praised by others, and without much self-deception could
consider that my name was famous. And far from being insane or
mentally unwell,--on the contrary I enjoyed a strength of mind and body
such as I have seldom met with among men of my kind: physically I could
keep up with the peasants at mowing, and mentally I could work for
eight to ten hours at a stretch without experiencing any ill results
from such exertion....

My mental condition presented itself to me in this way: my life
is a stupid and spiteful joke some one has played on me. Though I
did not acknowledge a 'some one' who created me, yet that form of
representation--that some one had played an evil and stupid joke on me
by placing me in the world--was the form of expression that suggested
itself most naturally to me.

Involuntarily it appeared to me that there, somewhere, is some one
who amuses himself by watching how I live for thirty or forty years:
learning, developing, maturing in body and mind, and how--having now
with matured mental powers reached the summit of life, from which it
all lies before me, I stand on that summit--like an arch-fool--seeing
clearly that there is nothing in life, and that there has been and will
be nothing. And he is amused....

But whether that 'some one' laughing at me existed or not, I was none
the better off. I could give no reasonable meaning to any single
action, or to my whole life. I was only surprised that I could have
avoided understanding this from the very beginning--it has been so long
known to all. To-day or to-morrow sickness and death will come (they
have come already) to those I love or to me; nothing will remain but
stench and worms. Sooner or later my deeds, whatever they may have
been, will be forgotten, and I shall not exist. Then why go on making
any effort?... How can man fail to see this? And how go on living?
That is what is surprising! One can only live when one is intoxicated
with life; as soon as one is sober it is impossible not to see that it
is all a mere fraud and a stupid fraud! That is precisely what it is:
there is nothing either amusing or witty about it; it is simply cruel
and stupid.

There is an Eastern fable, told long ago, of a traveller overtaken on
a plain by an enraged beast. Escaping from the beast he leaps into a
dry well, but sees at the bottom of the well a dragon that has opened
its jaws to swallow him. And the unfortunate man, not daring to climb
out lest he should be destroyed by the enraged beast, and not daring to
leap to the bottom of the well lest he should be eaten by the dragon,
seizes a twig growing in a crack in the well and clings to it. His
hands are growing weaker, and he feels he will soon have to resign
himself to the destruction that awaits him above or below; but still
he clings on; and he sees that two mice, a black and a white one, go
regularly round and round the stem of the twig to which he is clinging,
and gnaw at it. And soon the twig itself will snap and he will fall
into the dragon's jaws. The traveller sees this and knows that he will
inevitably perish; but while still hanging he looks around and finds
some drops of honey on the leaves of the twig and reaches them with his
tongue and licks them. So I too clung to the twig of life, knowing that
the dragon of death was inevitably awaiting me, ready to tear me to
pieces; and I could not understand why I had fallen into such torment.
I tried to lick the honey which formerly consoled me; but the honey no
longer gave me pleasure, and the white and black mice of day and night
gnawed at the branch by which I hung. I saw the dragon clearly, and the
honey no longer tasted sweet. And this is not a fable, but the real
unanswerable truth intelligible to all.

The deception of the joys of life which formerly allayed my terror of
the dragon, now no longer deceives me. No matter how much I may be
told: 'You cannot understand the meaning of life, so do not think about
it, but live,' I can no longer do it: I have already done it too long.
I cannot now help seeing day and night going round and bringing me to
death. That is all I see, for that alone is true. All else is false.

The two drops of honey which diverted my eyes from the cruel truth
longer than the rest: my love of family, and of writing--art as I
called it--were no longer sweet to me.

Family ... said I to myself. But my family: wife and children--are also
human. They too are placed as I am: they must either live in a lie, or
see the terrible truth. Why should they live? Why should I love them,
guard them, bring them up, or watch them? That they may come to the
despair that I feel, or else be stupid? Loving them, I cannot hide the
truth from them: each step in knowledge leads them to that truth. And
the truth is death.

'Art, poetry?'... Under the influence of success and the praise of men,
I had long assured myself that this was a thing one could do though
death was drawing near--death which destroys all things, including my
work and its remembrance; but I soon saw that that too was a fraud.
It was plain to me that art is an adornment to life, an allurement to
life. But life had lost its attraction for me; so how could I attract
others? As long as I was not living my own life, but was borne on
the waves of some other life--as long as I believed that life had a
meaning, though one I could not express--the reflection of life in
poetry and art of all kinds, afforded me pleasure: it was pleasant to
look at life in the mirror of art. But when I began to seek the meaning
of life, and felt the necessity of living on my own account, that
mirror became for me unnecessary, superfluous, ridiculous, or painful.
I could no longer soothe myself with what I saw in the mirror, for what
I saw was, that my position was stupid and desperate. It was all very
well to enjoy the sight when in the depth of my soul I believed that my
life had a meaning. Then the play of lights--comic, tragic, touching,
beautiful and terrible--in life, amused me. But when I knew life to be
meaningless and terrible, the play in the mirror could no longer amuse
me. No sweetness of honey could be sweet to me when I saw the dragon,
and saw the mice gnawing away my support.

Nor was that all. Had I simply understood that life has no meaning, I
could have borne it quietly, knowing that that was my lot. But I could
not satisfy myself with that. Had I been like a man living in a wood
from which he knows there is no exit, I could have lived; but I was
like one lost in a wood who, horrified at having lost his way, rushes
about, wishing to find the road, yet knows that each step he takes
confuses him more and more; and still cannot help rushing about.

It was indeed terrible. And to rid myself of the terror, I wished to
kill myself. I experienced terror at what awaited me--knew that that
terror was even worse than the position I was in; but still I could not
patiently await the end. However convincing the argument might be that,
in any case, some vessel in my heart would give way, or something would
burst and all would be over, I could not patiently await that end. The
horror of darkness was too great, and I wished to free myself from it
as quickly as possible by noose or bullet. That was the feeling which
drew me most strongly towards suicide.

* * * * *

'But perhaps I have overlooked something, or misunderstood something?
It cannot be that this condition of despair is natural to man!' thought
I, and as a perishing man seeks safety, I sought some way of escape.

I sought everywhere; and thanks to a life spent in learning, and thanks
also to the relations I had with the scholarly world, I had access
to scientists and scholars in all branches of knowledge, and they
readily showed me all their knowledge, not only in books, but also in
conversation, so that I had at my disposal all that knowledge has to
say on this question of life....

The question which at the age of fifty brought me to the verge of
suicide, was the simplest of questions lying in the soul of every man,
from the foolish child to the wisest elder: it was a question without
answering which one cannot live, as I had found by experience. It was,
What will come of what I am doing to-day or shall do to-morrow--What
will come of my whole life?

Differently expressed, the question is: Why should I live, why wish
for anything, or do anything? It can also be expressed thus: Is there
any meaning in life, that the inevitable death awaiting one, does not
destroy? All human knowledge I found divided into two kinds. One kind,
such as chemistry and mathematics and the exact sciences, did not deal
with my question. They were interesting, attractive, and wonderfully
definite, but made no attempt to solve the question; while on the other
hand the speculative sciences, culminating in metaphysics, dealt with
the question, but supplied no satisfactory answer.

Where philosophy does not lose sight of the essential question, its
answer is always one and the same: an answer given by Socrates,
Schopenhauer, Solomon and Buddha.

'We approach truth only inasmuch as we depart from life,' said Socrates
when preparing for death. 'For what do we who love truth, strive after
in life? To free ourselves from the body, and from all the evil that is
caused by the body! If so, then how can we fail to be glad when death
comes to us?'

'The wise man seeks death all his life, and therefore does not fear
death.'

And Schopenhauer also says that life is an evil; and Solomon (or
whoever wrote the works attributed to him) says:

'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. What profit hath man of all his
labour under the sun?... There is no remembrance of former things,
neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come, with
those that shall come after....

'Therefore I hated life, because the work that is wrought under the sun
is grievous to me; for all is vanity and vexation of spirit.'

And Sakya Muni when he learnt what age and sickness and death are,
could find no consolation in life, and decided that life is the
greatest of evils; and he devoted all the strength of his soul to free
himself from it, and to free others; and to do this so that even after
death life shall not be renewed any more, but be completely destroyed
at its very roots. So speaks all the wisdom of India.

These then are the direct replies that human wisdom gives, when it
replies to the question of life:

'The life of the body is an evil and a lie. Therefore the destruction
of the life of the body is a blessing, and we should desire it,' says
Socrates.

'Life is that which should not be--an evil; and the passage into
Nothingness is the only good in life,' says Schopenhauer.

'All that is in the world: folly and wisdom and riches and poverty and
mirth and grief--are vanity and emptiness. Man dies and nothing is left
of him. And that is stupid,' says Solomon.

'To live in the consciousness of the inevitability of suffering, of
becoming enfeebled, of old age and of death, is impossible--we must
free ourselves from life, from all possible life,' says Buddha.

And what these strong minds said, has been said and thought and felt by
millions upon millions of people like them. And I have thought it and
felt it.

One cannot deceive oneself. It is all--vanity! Happy is he who has not
been born: death is better than life, and one must free oneself from
life.

Then I began to consider the lives of the men of my own kind; and I
found that they met the problem in one or other of four ways.

The first way was that of ignorance. Some people--mostly women, or very
young or very dull people--have not yet understood the question of
life; but I, having understood it, could not again shut my eyes.

The second way was that of the Epicureans, expressed by Solomon when he
said: 'Then I commended mirth, because a man hath no better thing under
the sun, than to eat, and to drink, and to be merry.'

That is the way in which the majority of people of our circle make
life possible for themselves. Their circumstances furnish them with
more of welfare than of hardship, and their moral dullness makes it
possible for them to forget that the advantage of their position is
an accidental advantage, and that not every one can have a thousand
wives and a thousand palaces like Solomon, and that for every man with
a thousand wives there are a thousand without wives, and that for each
palace there are a thousand people who have to build it in the sweat of
their brows; and that the accident that has to-day made me a Solomon,
may to-morrow make me Solomon's slave. The dullness of these people's
imaginations enables them to forget what gave no peace to Buddha--the
inevitability of sickness, age and death, which to-day or to-morrow
will destroy all these pleasures. I could not imitate these people: I
had not their dullness of imagination, and I could not artificially
produce it in myself.

The third escape is that of strength and energy. It consists in
understanding that life is an evil and an absurdity, and in destroying
it. It is a way adopted by a few exceptionally strong and consistent
people. I saw that it was the worthiest way of escape, and I wished to
adopt it.

The fourth escape is that of weakness. It consists in seeing the truth
of the situation, and yet clinging to life as though one still hoped
something from it; and I found myself in that category.

To live like Solomon and Schopenhauer, knowing that life is a stupid
joke played upon us, and still to go on living: washing oneself,
dressing, dining, talking and even writing books, was to me repulsive
and tormenting, but I remained in that position.

I now see that if I did not kill myself, it was due to some dim
consciousness of the invalidity of my thoughts. And I began to feel,
rather than argue, in this way: 'I, my reason, has acknowledged life
to be unreasonable. If there be no higher reason (and there is not:
nothing can prove that there is) then reason is the creator of life
for me. If reason did not exist, there would be for me no life. How
can reason deny life, when it is the creator of life? Or to put it the
other way: were there no life, my reason would not exist; therefore
reason is life's son. Life is all. Reason is its fruit, yet reason
denies life itself!' I felt that there was something wrong here.

Nothing prevents our denying life by suicide. Well then, kill yourself,
and cease discussing. If life displeases you, kill yourself! You live,
and cannot understand the meaning of life--then finish it; and do not
fool about in life, saying and writing that you do not understand it.
You have come into good company, where people are contented and like
what they are doing: if you find it dull and repulsive--go away!

Indeed, what are we who are convinced of the necessity of suicide yet
do not decide to commit it, but the weakest, most inconsistent, and
to put it plainly, the stupidest of men, fussing about with our own
stupidity as a fool fusses about with a painted hussy?

'There is something wrong,' said I to myself; but what was wrong, I
could in no way make out. It was long before the fog began to clear,
and I began to be able to restate my position.

It had seemed to me that the narrow circle of rich learned and leisured
people to whom I belonged, formed the whole of humanity, and that the
milliards of others who have lived and are living, were cattle of some
sort--not real people.... And it was long before it dawned upon me to
ask: 'But what meaning is, and has been, given to their lives by all
the milliards of common folk who live and have lived in the world?'

I long lived in this state of lunacy, which in fact if not in words
is particularly characteristic of us Liberal and learned people. But
whether the strange physical affection I have for the real labouring
people compelled me to understand them and to see that they are not
so stupid as we suppose; or whether it was due to the sincerity of my
conviction that I could know nothing beyond the fact that the best I
could do was to hang myself, at any rate I instinctively felt that if
I wished to live and understand the meaning of life, I must seek this
meaning not among those who have lost it and wish to kill themselves,
but among those milliards of the past and the present who know it, and
who support the burden of their own lives and of ours also.

And on examining the matter I saw that the milliards of mankind always
have had and still have a knowledge of the meaning of life, but _that_
knowledge is their faith, which I could not but reject. 'It is God, one
and three, the creation in six days, the devils and angels, and all the
rest that I cannot accept as long as I retain my reason,' said I to
myself.

My position was terrible. I knew I could find nothing along the path
of reasonable knowledge, except a denial of life; and in faith I could
find nothing but a denial of reason, still more impossible to me than a
denial of life.

Finally I saw that my mistake lay in ever expecting an examination of
finite things to supply a meaning to life. The finite has no ultimate
meaning apart from the infinite. The two must be linked together before
an answer to life's problems can be reached.

It had only appeared to me that knowledge gave a definite
answer--Schopenhauer's answer: that life has no meaning, and is an
evil. On examining the matter further, I understood that the reply is
not positive: it was only my feeling that made it seem so. The reply,
strictly expressed as the Brahmins and Solomon and Schopenhauer express
it, amounts only to an indefinite answer, like the reply given in
mathematics when instead of solving an equation we find we have solved
an identity: X = X, or 0 = 0. The answer is, that life is nothing.
So that philosophic knowledge merely asserts that it cannot solve
the question, and the solution remains, as far as it is concerned,
indefinite. And I understood, further, that however unreasonable
and monstrous might be the replies given by faith, they had this
advantage, that they introduce into each reply a relation between the
finite and the infinite, without which relation no reply is possible.

Whichever way I put the question, that relation appeared in the answer.
How am I to live?--According to the law of God. What real result will
come of my life?--Eternal torment or eternal bliss. What meaning has
life, that death does not destroy?--Union with the eternal God: heaven.

Faith still remained to me as irrational as it was before, but I could
not but admit that it alone gives mankind a reply to the questions of
life; and that consequently it makes life possible.

Where there is life, there, since man began, faith has made life
possible for him; and the chief outline of that faith is everywhere
and always one and the same. Faith does not consist in agreeing with
what some one has said, as is usually supposed; faith is a knowledge of
the meaning of human life in consequence of which man does not destroy
himself, but lives. Faith is the strength of life. If a man lives he
believes in something. If he does not see and recognise the visionary
nature of the finite, then he believes in the finite; if he understands
the visionary nature of the finite, he must believe in the infinite.
Without faith he cannot live.

* * * * *

What am I?--A part of the infinite. In those few words lies the whole
problem.

I began dimly to understand that in the replies given by faith, is
stored up the deepest human wisdom.

I understood this; but it made matters no better for me.

I was now ready to accept any faith, if only it did not demand of me
a direct denial of reason--which would be a falsehood. And I studied
Buddhism and Mohammedanism from books, and most of all, I studied
Christianity both from books and from living people.

Naturally I first of all turned to the Orthodox of my circle, to
people who were learned: to Church theologians, the monks, to the
theologians of the newest shade, and even to the Evangelicals[55]
who profess salvation by belief in the Redemption. And I seized on
these believers and questioned them as to their beliefs, and their
understanding of the meaning of life.

[55] Readers of _Resurrection_ (Book II, Chap. 17) will
remember the vivid description of the Evangelical meeting
addressed by Kiesewetter, who spoke in English. The original
from whom Tolstoy drew Kiesewetter was Baedeker, a well-known
Evangelical preacher who lived in England, but visited Russia
frequently.

But in spite of my readiness to make all possible concessions, I saw
that what they gave out as their faith did not explain the meaning of
life, but obscured it.

I remember the painful feeling of fear of being thrown back into my
former state of despair, after the hope I often and often experienced
in my intercourse with these people.

The more fully they explained to me their doctrines, the more clearly
did I see their error.... It was not that in their doctrines they mixed
many unnecessary and unreasonable things with the Christian truths
that had always been near to me: that was not what repelled me. I
was repelled by the fact that these people's lives were like my own,
with only this difference--that such a life did not correspond to the
principles they expounded in their teachings.

No arguments could convince me of the truth of their faith. Only deeds
which showed that they saw a meaning in life, which made what was so
dreadful to me--poverty sickness and death--not dreadful to them, could
convince me. And such deeds I did not see among the various bodies of
believers in our circle. On the contrary, I saw such deeds done by
people of our circle who were the most unbelieving, but never by the
so-called believers of our circle.[56]

[56] This passage is the more noteworthy because it is almost
the only reference (and even this is indirect) made by Tolstoy
at this period to the revolutionary or 'To-the-People'
movement in which so many young men and women were risking and
sacrificing home, property, freedom, and life itself, from
motives which had much in common with his own perception that
the upper layers of 'Society' are parasitic, and prey on the
vitals of the people who support them.

And I understood that the belief of these people was not the faith I
sought, and that their faith is not a real faith, but an Epicurean
consolation in life.

And I began to draw near to the believers among the poor simple
unlettered folk: pilgrims, monks, sectarians and peasants. Among them,
too, I found a great deal of superstition mixed with the Christian
truths; but their superstitions seemed a necessary and natural part of
their lives.... And I began to look well into the life and faith of
these people, and the more I considered it, the more I became convinced
that they have a real faith, which is a necessity to them and alone
gives their life a meaning and makes it possible for them to live....
In contrast with what I had seen in our circle, where the whole of life
is passed in idleness and amusements and dissatisfaction, I saw that
the whole life of these people was passed in heavy labour, and that
they were content with life.... While we think it terrible that we have
to suffer and die, these folk live and suffer, and approach death with
tranquillity, and in most cases gladly.

And I learnt to love these people. The more I came to know their life
the more I loved them, and the easier it became for me to live. So
I went on for about two years, and a change took place in me which
had long been preparing, and the promise of which had always been in
me. The life of our circle, the rich and learned, not merely became
distasteful to me but lost all meaning for me; while the life of the
whole labouring people, the whole of mankind who produce life, appeared
to me in its true light. I understood that _that_ is life itself, and
that the meaning given to that life is true; and I accepted it.

I then understood that my answer to the question, 'What is life?' when
I said that life is 'evil,' was quite correct. The only mistake was,
that that answer referred to _my_ life, but not to life in general. My
life, a life of indulgence and desires, was meaningless and evil....
And I understood the truth, which I afterwards found in the Gospels,
that men love darkness rather than the light because their deeds are
evil; and that to see things as they are, one must think and speak
of the life of humanity, and not of the life of the minority who are
parasites on life.

And indeed, the bird lives so that it must fly, collect food and
build its nest; and when I see the bird doing that, I joy in its joy.
The goat, hare and wolf live so that they must feed themselves, and
propagate and feed their families, and when they do so, I feel firmly
assured that they are happy and that their life is a reasonable one.
And what does man do? He should earn a living as the beasts do, but
with this difference--that he would perish if he did it alone; he has
to procure it not for himself but for all. When he does _that_, I have
a firm assurance that he is happy and that his life is reasonable. And
what had I done during the whole thirty years of my conscious life? I
had not only not been earning a living for all, I had not even earned
my own living. I had lived as a parasite, and when I asked myself what
use my life was, I found that my life was useless. If the meaning of
human life lies in supporting it, how could I, who for thirty years
had occupied myself not with supporting life but with destroying it in
myself and in others--how could I obtain any other reply than that my
life was senseless and an evil? It was both senseless and evil.

The conviction that a knowledge of life can only be found by living,
led me to doubt the goodness of my own life.... During that whole year,
when I was asking myself almost every moment, whether I should not end
matters with a noose or a bullet--all that time, alongside the course
of thought and observation about which I have spoken, my heart was
oppressed with a painful feeling which I can only describe as a search
for God.

I went over in my mind the arguments of Kant and Schopenhauer showing
the impossibility of proving the existence of a God, and I began to
refute them. Cause, said I to myself, is not a category such as are
Time and Space. If I exist, there must be some cause for it, and a
cause of causes. And that first cause of all, is what men have called
'God.' And as soon as I acknowledged that there is a force in whose
power I am, I at once felt that I could live. But I asked myself:
What is that cause, that force? How am I to think of it? What are my
relations to that which I call 'God'? And only the familiar replies
occurred to me: 'He is the Creator and Preserver.' This reply did not
satisfy me, and I felt I was losing within me what I needed for my
life. I became terrified and began to pray to him whom I sought, that
he should help me. But the more I prayed the more apparent it became
to me that he did not hear me, and that there was no one to whom to
address myself. And with despair in my heart that there is no God at
all, I said: 'Lord, have mercy, save me! Lord, teach me!' But no one
had mercy on me, and I felt that my life was coming to a standstill.

But again and again I returned to the same admission that I could not
have come into the world without any cause or reason or meaning; I
could not be such a fledgling fallen from its nest as I felt myself to
be. Or, granting that I be such, lying on my back in the high grass,
even then I cry because I know that a mother has borne me within her,
has hatched me, warmed me, fed me and loved me. Where is she--that
mother? If she has deserted me, who is it that has done so? I cannot
hide from myself that some one bore me, loving me. Who was that some
one? Again 'God'?

'He exists,' said I to myself. And I had only for an instant to admit
that, and at once life rose within me, and I felt the possibility and
joy of being. But again, from the admission of the existence of a God
I went on to seek my relations with him; and again I imagined _that_
God--our creator in three persons who sent his son, the Saviour--and
again _that_ God, detached from the world and from me, melts like a
block of ice, melts before my eyes, and again nothing remains, and
again the spring of life dries up within me, and I despair, and feel
that I have nothing to do but to kill myself. And the worst of all is,
that I feel I cannot do it.

Not twice or three times, but tens and hundreds of times, I reached
those conditions first of joy and animation, and then of despair and
consciousness of the impossibility of living.

I remember that it was in early spring: I was alone in the wood
listening to its sounds. I listened and thought ever of the same thing,
as I had constantly done during those last three years. I was again
seeking God.

'Very well, there is no God,' said I to myself; 'there is no one who is
not my imagination but a reality like my whole life. He does not exist,
and no miracles can prove his existence, because the miracles would be
my perceptions, besides being irrational.'

'But my _perception_ of God, of him whom I seek,' asked I of myself,
'where has that perception come from?' And again at this thought the
glad waves of life rose within me. All that was around me came to life,
and received a meaning. But my joy did not last long. My mind continued
its work.

'The conception of God, is not God,' said I to myself. 'The conception,
is what takes place within me. The conception of God, is something I
can evoke or can refrain from evoking in myself. That is not what I
seek. I seek that, without which there can be no life.' And again all
around me and within me began to die, and again I wished to kill myself.

But then I turned my gaze upon myself, on what went on within me, and
I remembered that I only lived at those times when I believed in God.
As it was before, so it was now; I need only be aware of God to live; I
need only forget him, or disbelieve in him, and I die.... 'What more
do you seek?' exclaimed a voice within me. 'This is he. He is that
without which one cannot live. To know God and to live is one and the
same thing. God is life. Live seeking God, and then you will not live
without God.' And more than ever before, all within me and around me
lit up, and the light did not again abandon me.

And I was saved from suicide.... And strange to say, the strength of
life which returned to me was not new, but quite old--the same that had
borne me along in my earliest days.

I quite returned to what belonged to my earliest childhood and youth.
I returned to the belief in that Will which produced me, and desires
something of me. I returned to the belief that the chief and only
aim of my life is to be better, _i.e._ to live in accord with that
Will. And I returned to the belief that I can find the expression of
that Will, in what humanity, in the distant past hidden from me, has
produced for its guidance: that is to say, I returned to a belief in
God, in moral perfecting, and in a tradition transmitting the meaning
of life....

I turned from the life of our circle: acknowledging that theirs is
not life but only a simulacrum of life, and that the conditions
of superfluity in which we live deprive us of the possibility of
understanding life.... The simple labouring people around me were the
Russian people, and I turned to them and to the meaning which they give
to life. That meaning, if one can put it into words, was the following.
Every man has come into this world by the will of God. And God has so
made man that every man can destroy his soul or save it. The aim of man
in life is to save his soul; and to save his soul he must live 'godly,'
and to live 'godly' he must renounce all the pleasures of life, must
labour, humble himself, suffer and be merciful.... The meaning of this
was clear and near to my heart. But together with this meaning of the
popular faith of our non-sectarian folk among whom I live, much was
inseparably bound up that revolted me and seemed to me inexplicable:
sacraments, Church services, fasts, and the adoration of relics and
icons. The people cannot separate the one from the other, nor could
I. And strange as much of it was to me, I accepted everything; and
attended the services, knelt morning and evening in prayer, fasted,
and prepared to receive the eucharist; and at first my reason did not
resist anything. What had formerly seemed to me impossible, did not now
evoke in me any resistance....

I told myself that the essence of every faith consists in its giving
life a meaning which death does not destroy. Naturally, for a faith
to be able to reply to the questions of a king dying in luxury, of an
old slave tormented by overwork, and of all sorts of people, young and
old, wise and foolish,--its answers must be expressed in all sorts
of different ways.... But this argument, justifying in my eyes the
queerness of much on the ritual side of religion, did not suffice to
allow me, in the one great affair of life--religion--to do things
which seemed to me questionable. With all my soul I wished to be in a
position to mingle with the people, fulfilling the ritual side of their
religion; but I could not do it. I felt that I should lie to myself,
and mock at what was sacred to me, were I to do so. At this point,
however, our new Russian theological writers came to my rescue.

According to the explanation these theologians gave, the fundamental
dogma of our faith is the infallibility of the Church. From the
admission of that dogma follows inevitably the truth of all that is
professed by the Church. The Church as an assembly of true-believers
united by love, and therefore possessed of true knowledge, became
the basis of my belief. I told myself that divine truth cannot be
accessible to a separate individual; it is revealed only to the whole
assembly of people united by love. To attain truth one must not
separate; and not to separate, one must love and must endure things one
may not agree with.

Truth reveals itself to love, and if you do not submit to the rites of
the Church, you transgress against love; and by transgressing against
love you deprive yourself of the possibility of recognising the truth.
I did not then see the sophistry contained in this argument. I did
not see that union in love may give the greatest love, but certainly
cannot give us divine truth expressed in the definite words of the
Nicene Creed. I also did not perceive that love cannot make a certain
expression of truth an obligatory condition of union. I did not
then see these mistakes in the argument, and thanks to it, was able
to accept and perform all the rites of the Orthodox Church without
understanding most of them.

When fulfilling the rites of the Church I humbled my reason, submitted
to tradition, united myself with my forefathers: the father, mother
and grandparents I loved, and with all those millions of the common
people whom I respected. When rising before dawn for the early Church
services, I knew I was doing well, if only because I was sacrificing
my bodily ease to humble my mental pride, and for the sake of finding
the meaning of life. However insignificant these sacrifices might
be, I made them for the sake of something good. I fasted, prepared
for communion, and observed the fixed hours of prayer at home and in
church. During Church service I attended to every word, and gave them a
meaning whenever I could.

But this reading of meanings into the rites had its limits.... If I
explained to myself the frequent repetition of prayers for the Tsar and
his relatives, by the fact that they are more exposed to temptation
than other people and therefore more in need of being prayed for, the
prayers about subduing enemies and foes under his feet (even though
one tried to say that sin was the foe prayed against) and many other
unintelligible prayers--nearly two-thirds of the whole service--either
remained quite incomprehensible or, when I forced an explanation into
them, made me feel that I was lying, and thereby quite destroying my
relation to God and losing all possibility of believing....

Never shall I forget the painful feeling I experienced the day I
received the eucharist for the first time after many years. The
service, confession and prayers were quite intelligible and produced
in me a glad consciousness that the meaning of life was being revealed
to me. The communion itself I explained as an act performed in
remembrance of Christ, and indicating a purification from sin and
the full acceptance of Christ's teaching. If that explanation was
artificial I did not notice its artificiality: so happy was I at
humbling and abasing myself before the priest--a simple timid country
clergyman--turning all the dirt out of my soul and confessing my vices,
so glad was I to merge in thought with the humility of the Fathers who
wrote the prayers of the Office, so glad was I of union with all who
have believed and now believe, that I did not notice the artificiality
of my explanation. But when I approached the altar gates, and the
priest made me say that I believed that what I was about to swallow was
truly flesh and blood, I felt a pain in my heart: it was not merely
a false note, it was a cruel demand made by some one or other who
evidently had never known what faith is.

I now permit myself to say that it was a cruel demand, but I did not
then think so: only it was indescribably painful to me. At the time, I
found in my soul a feeling which helped me to endure it. This was the
feeling of self-abasement and humility. I humbled myself, swallowed
that flesh and blood without any blasphemous feelings, and with a wish
to believe. But the blow had been struck, and knowing what awaited me,
I could not go a second time.

I continued to fulfil the rites of the Church and still believed that
the doctrine I was following contained the truth, when something
happened to me which I now understand but which then seemed strange.

I was listening to the conversation of an illiterate peasant, a
pilgrim, about God, faith, life and salvation, when a knowledge of
faith revealed itself to me. I drew near to the people, listening to
their opinions on life and faith, and I understood the truth. So also
was it when I read the Lives of the Saints, which became my favourite
books. Putting aside the miracles, and regarding them as fables
illustrating thoughts, this reading revealed to me life's meaning.
There were the lives of Makarius the Great, of the Tsarévitch Joasafa
(the story of Buddha) and there were the stories of the traveller in
the well, and the monk who found some gold. There were stories of the
martyrs, all announcing that death does not exclude life; and there
were the stories of ignorant, stupid men, and such as knew nothing of
the teaching of the Church, but who yet were saved.

But as soon as I met learned believers, or took up their books, doubt
of myself, dissatisfaction, and exasperated disputation, were roused
within me, and I felt that the more I entered into the meaning of
these men's speech, the more I went astray from truth and approached
an abyss. How often I envied the peasants their illiteracy and lack
of learning! Those statements in the creeds, which to me were evident
absurdities, for them contained nothing false. Only to me, unhappy
man, was it clear that with truth falsehood was interwoven by finest
threads, and that I could not accept it in that form.

So I lived for about three years. At first, when I did not understand
something, I said, 'It is my fault, I am sinful'; but the more I
fathomed the truth, the clearer became the line between what I do not
understand because I am not able to understand it, and what cannot be
understood except by lying to oneself.

In spite of my doubts and sufferings, I still clung to the Orthodox
Church. But questions of life arose which had to be decided; and
the decision of these questions by the Church, contrary to the very
bases of the belief by which I lived, obliged me at last to own that
communion with Orthodoxy is impossible. These questions were: first
the relation of the Orthodox Eastern Church to other Churches--to the
Catholics and to the so-called sectarians. At that time, in consequence
of my interest in religion, I came into touch with believers of various
faiths: Catholics, Protestants, Old-Believers, Molokáns and others. And
I met many men of lofty morals who were truly religious. I wished to
be a brother to them. And what happened? That teaching which promised
to unite all in one faith and love--that very teaching, in the person
of its best representatives, told me that these men were all living
a lie; that what gave them their power of life, is a temptation of
the devil; and that we alone possess the only possible truth. And I
saw that all who do not profess an identical faith with themselves,
are considered by the Orthodox to be heretics; just as the Catholics
and others consider the Orthodox to be heretics. And I saw that the
Orthodox (though they try to hide this) regard with hostility all who
do not express their faith by the same external symbols and words as
themselves; and this is naturally so: first, because the assertion that
you are in falsehood and I am in truth, is the most cruel thing one man
can say to another; and secondly, because a man loving his children and
brothers cannot help being hostile to those who wish to pervert his
children and brothers to a false belief.... And to me, who considered
that truth lay in union by love, it became self-evident that the faith
was itself destroying what it ought to produce.

As people of many different religions behave to one another in this
same contemptuous, self-assured manner--the error of such conduct was
obvious; and I thought on the matter and read all I could about it,
and consulted all whom I could. And no one gave me any explanation
except the one which causes the Soúmsky Hussars to consider the Soúmsky
Hussars the best regiment in the world, and the Yellow Uhlans to
consider that the best regiment in the world is the Yellow Uhlans....
I went to Archimandrites, archbishops, elders, monks of the strictest
Orders, and asked them; but none of them made any attempt to explain
the matter to me, except one man, who explained it all, and explained
it so that I never asked any one any more about it.

I asked him why we should not unite on those main points on which we
could agree, and leave the rest for each to decide as he pleases. My
collocutor agreed with my thoughts, but told me that such concessions
would bring reproach on the spiritual authorities for deserting the
faith of our forefathers, and this would produce a split; and the
vocation of the spiritual authorities is to safeguard in all its purity
the Greco-Russian Orthodox faith inherited from our forefathers.

And I understood it all. I am seeking a faith, the power of life;
and they are seeking the best way to fulfil before men certain human
obligations.... And I noticed what is done in the name of religion, and
was horrified; and I almost entirely abjured Orthodoxy.

The second relation of the Church to a question of life, was with
regard to war and executions.

At that time Russia was at war. And Russians, in the name of Christian
love, began to kill their fellow-men. It was impossible not to think
about this, and not to see that killing is an evil, repugnant to the
first principles of any faith. Yet they prayed in the churches for the
success of our arms, and the teachers of the faith acknowledged killing
to be an act resulting from the faith. And besides the murders during
the war, I saw during the disturbances which followed the war, Church
dignitaries and teachers and monks of the lesser and stricter Orders,
who approved the killing of helpless erring youths. And I took note of
all that is done by men who profess Christianity, and I was horrified.

And I ceased to doubt, and became fully convinced that not all was true
in the religion I had joined. Formerly I should have said that it was
all false; but I could not say so now, for I had felt its truth and had
lived by it. But I no longer doubted that there is in it much that is
false. And though among the peasants there was less admixture of what
repelled me, still I saw that in their belief also, falsehood was mixed
with the truth.

But where did the truth and where did the falsehood come from? Both the
falsehood and the truth were contained in the so-called holy tradition
and Scriptures. Both the falsehood and the truth had been handed down
by what is called the Church.

And whether I liked to or not, I was brought to the study and
investigation of these writings and traditions--which till now I had
been so afraid to investigate.

And I turned to the examination of that same theology which I had once
rejected with such contempt.... On it religious doctrine rests, or at
least with it the only knowledge of the meaning of life that I have
found, is inseparably connected.... I shall not seek the explanation
of everything. I know that the explanation of everything, like the
commencement of everything, must be concealed in infinity. But I wish
to understand in a way which will bring me to what is inevitably
inexplicable. I wish to recognise anything that is inexplicable, as
being so, not because the demands of my reason are wrong (they are
right, and apart from them I can understand nothing), but because I
recognise the limits of my intellect. I wish to understand in such a
way that everything that is inexplicable shall present itself to me as
being necessarily inexplicable, and not as being something I am under
an arbitrary obligation to believe. I must find what is true and what
is false, and must disentangle the one from the other. I am setting
to work upon this task. What of falsehood I find in the teaching, and
what I find of truth, and to what conclusions I come, will form the
following parts of this work, which if it be worth it, and if any one
wants it, will probably some day be printed somewhere.

* * * * *

These closing words in which Tolstoy expresses the hope that his work
'will probably some day be printed somewhere,' are a reminder of the
difficulties and dangers that had to be encountered in Russia by any
man who set out to challenge the authority of the Orthodox Church,
whose affairs were managed by the Holy Synod, presided over by a
Procurator able to call on the secular powers to enforce his decisions.

AUTHORITY FOR CHAPTER XI

Tolstoy's _Ispoved_: Christchurch, 1901.

Tolstoy's _Confession_ being prohibited in Russia, had to be printed
abroad. The edition mentioned above is a reliable one.

CHAPTER XII

WORKS: 1852-1878

Tolstoy's first nineteen stories. Stands in a line of succession.
Quality as writer. _War and Peace._ 'Great' men. Napoleon. The battles
of Schöngraben and Borodinó. Tolstoy's influence on war-correspondence.
Serfdom. The organisation of society. Characters in _War and Peace_.
Its range. _Anna Karénina_: Matthew Arnold's essay. Translations. The
tendency of the book. Kropótkin's criticism. The volunteers. Tolstoy's
attitude towards Government. W. D. Howells's appreciation. Tolstoy's
Last Three Decades of work: the magnitude and nature of his effort.

TOLSTOY'S writings during the first twenty-five years of his literary
career divide up into six sections.

First came a series of seventeen stories and sketches, beginning with
_Childhood_ and ending with _Family Happiness_. Next came his series
of educational articles in the _Yásnaya Polyána_ magazine. Third came
_The Cossacks_ (the finest story he had yet written) and _Polikoúshka_.
Fourth, came _War and Peace_. Fifth, came the _ABC_ Book, the
_Readers_, and another article on Education; and sixth, came _Anna
Karénina_.

Leaving the educational works out of account, the list can be reduced
to nineteen stories and sketches, followed by two great novels.

The nineteen sketches and stories, 'trials of the pen,' as Tolstoy
called them, covered a wide range of subjects, from charmingly
realistic sketches of childhood to vigorous depictions of Cossack
life, and showed their writer to be an amazingly accurate observer of
physical facts and qualities, manners, tones and gestures, besides
being possessed of a yet more wonderful knowledge of the hearts and
minds of all sorts and conditions of men, from the shame-faced child
to the officer dying on the field of battle. He is so concerned with
the interest and importance of life, that he can hold his reader's
attention without having to tell his stories so that they must be
guessed like riddles, and he never makes use of elaborate plots. He
needs no tricks of that sort. Nor does he strive after effect by
the use of pornographic details, the introduction of extraordinary
events, or the piling up of many horrible details. His stories are as
straightforward as everyday life.

His great novels bear out all the promise of his short stories, with
the added power of maturity.

Though highly original and of strong individuality, he stands none
the less in the line of succession of great writers which began with
Poúshkin, whose genius for simple sincere and direct narrative gave
an invaluable direction to Russian literature, was continued by Gógol
whose biting irony and remorseless exposure of shams and hypocrisies
completed the emancipation from romanticism, and was carried on by
Tourgénef, whose art, conscious of and not indifferent to the trend
of thought and feeling in the society it describes, reached an
extraordinary pitch of artistic perfection.

Tolstoy's works have from the first interested Russia, and now interest
the world, because in greater measure than any of his predecessors he
possesses the capacity to feel intensely, note accurately, and think
deeply. The combination which makes Tolstoy the most interesting of
writers, is the scientific accuracy of his observation (which never
allows him to take liberties with his characters or events in order to
make out a case for the side he sympathises with) and the fact that
he is mightily in earnest. Life to him is important, and art is the
handmaid of life. He wants to know what is good and what is bad; to
help the former and to resist the latter. His work tends to evolve
order out of life's chaos; and as that is the most important thing a
man can do, his books are among the most interesting and important
books of our time. He makes no pretence of standing aloof, cutting off
his art from his life, or concealing his desire that kindness should
prevail over cruelty. Life interests him, and therefore the reflection
of life interests him, and the problems of art are the problems of
life: love and passion and death and the desire to do right.

The chief subject reappearing again and again throughout the stories
he wrote before _War and Peace_, is the mental striving of a young
Russian nobleman to free himself from the artificial futilities of
the society in which he was born, and to see and do what is right.
The search is only partially successful. The indictment of society is
often convincing, but the heroes' failures and perplexities are frankly
admitted. Sometimes there is no hero. In _Sevastopol_, for instance, he
exclaims: 'Where in this tale is the evil shown that should be avoided?
Where is the good that should be imitated? Who is the villain, who the
hero of the story? All are good and all are bad'; and in _Lucerne_ he
says: 'Who will define for me what is freedom, what despotism, what
civilisation and what barbarism? Or tell me where are the limits of the
one or the other? Who has in his soul so immovable a _standard of good
and evil_ that by it he can measure the passing facts of life?'

This searching for what is good and rejecting what is false--resulting
in a strong distrust and dislike of the predatory masterful domineering
types of humanity, and in general of what has usually been regarded
as the heroic type, and also in a friendly compassion for all that is
humble simple forbearing and sincere--is the keynote of Tolstoy's early
tales. They are studies of life, so truthful that the characters seem
to have an independent life of their own. They speak for themselves,
and at times, like Balaam, bless what they were apparently expected
to curse. For instance, when Prince Nehlúdof insists on bringing the
wandering musician into the Schweizerhof Hotel in _Lucerne_, we feel
how uncomfortable he thereby makes the poor singer, though that is
evidently not what Tolstoy originally set out to make us feel.

_War and Peace_, besides being maturer than the preceding tales, was
composed during the early years of Tolstoy's married life, when he
felt more content with himself and with life in general, and when his
attitude towards existing things was more tolerant and sympathetic than
it had been, or than it became in later years.

He told me that in _War and Peace_ and _Anna Karénina_ his aim was
simply to amuse his readers. I am bound to accept his statement; but
one has only to read either of those books to see that through them
Tolstoy's ardent nature found vent, with all its likes and dislikes,
strivings, yearnings, hopes and fears.

I asked Tolstoy why in _What is Art?_ he relegates these great novels
to the realm of 'bad art'; and his answer showed, as I expected it
would, that he does not really consider them at all bad, but condemns
them merely as being too long, and written in a way chiefly adapted
to please the leisured well-to-do classes, who have time for reading
novels in several volumes, because other people do their rough work for
them. Of _War and Peace_ he said, 'It is, one would think, harmless
enough, but one never knows how things will affect people,' and he went
on to mention, with regret, that one of Professor Zahárin's daughters
had told him that from his novels she had acquired a love of balls and
parties; things of which, at the time of our conversation, he heartily
disapproved.

In form, _War and Peace_ is unlike any English novel, but it resembles
Poúshkin's _The Captain's Daughter_ (though the latter is a much
shorter story) in that both works are chronicles of Russian families,
round whom the stories centre. In _War and Peace_ there are two
families, the Rostófs and the Bolkónskys.

The mighty drama of the Napoleonic advance from 1805 to 1812 comes into
the novel, in so far as it affects the members of those two families.
But Tolstoy is not content merely to tell us of historic events. He
introduces a whole philosophy of history, which is sound at bottom
though no doubt he somewhat overstates his case, as is his habit. The
theory is that the 'great' men of history count for very little. They
are the figureheads of forces that are beyond their control. They do
most good and least harm when, like Koutoúzof, they are aware of the
true direction of the great human forces and adapt themselves to them;
but then they are modest, and the world does not esteem them great.
The typical case of the impotent 'great' man is Napoleon in 1812, at
the time of his invasion of Russia. He posed before the world as a man
of destiny whose will and intellect decided the fate of empires. Yet
from first to last, during that campaign, he never in the least knew
what was about to happen. The result was decided by the spirit of the
Russian nation, and by its steadfast endurance. Every common Russian
soldier who understood that the Russian people dreaded and detested
the thought of a foreign yoke, and who therefore co-operated with the
natural course of events, did more to further the result than Napoleon,
that 'most insignificant tool of history,' as Tolstoy calls him, who
even in St. Helena was never able to understand what had caused his
overthrow.

The main theme of the novel, if it be permissible to select a main
theme out of the many latent in the story, is Tolstoy's favourite
thesis. He tacitly asks: What is good and what is bad? With what must
we sympathise and what must we reject? And the reply is that the
predatory, artificial and insincere types, exemplified historically by
the invading French, as well as by such characters among the Russians
as Ellen, Anatole and Dólohof, are repugnant to him, while he loves the
humble, the meek and the sincere: Marie and Platon Karatáef, Natásha
(so impulsive and charming in her youth, so absorbed in her family
later on), and Pierre (who is often humble and always sincere, and
loves ideas and ideals).

It is impossible to do justice to this wonderful book in any brief
summary. It is not a work to be summed up in a few pages. It has many
characters, all of them so distinctly drawn that we know them better
than we know our personal acquaintances. It treats of life's deepest
experiences from the cradle to the grave; and to read it with the care
it deserves is to know life better and see it more sanely and seriously
than one ever did before. Some foolish people think that reading novels
is a waste of time; but there are hardly any books--at any rate hardly
any big books--that are better worth reading than Tolstoy's novels.

He is probably justified in claiming that his history is truer than
the historians' history of the battles of Schöngraben, Austerlitz,
and Borodinó. The historians, from mendacious military reports drawn
up after the action, try to discover what the Commanders-in-Chief
meant to do; and to tell their story within moderate limits they have
to systematise what was really a huge disorder; thereby giving their
readers a completely wrong impression of what a battle is like.

N. N. Mouravyóf, a Commander-in-Chief who distinguished himself in
more than one war, declared he had never read a better description of
a battle than Tolstoy's account of Schöngraben; and added that he was
convinced from his own experience that during a battle it is impossible
to carry out a Commander-in-Chief's orders.

Tolstoy, when he wrote the book, was convinced that war is inevitable.
The idea that it is man's duty to resist war and to refuse to take part
in it, came to him later.

In an article entitled 'Some Words about _War and Peace_,' which he
wrote in 1868 for one of the periodicals, he says:

'Why did millions of people kill one another, when since the foundation
of the world it has been known that this is both physically and morally
bad?

'Because it was so inevitably necessary, that when doing it they
fulfilled the elemental zoological law bees fulfil when they kill one
another in autumn, and male animals fulfil when they destroy one
another. No other reply can be given to that dreadful question.'

Yet his inveterate truthfulness, and his personal knowledge of war,
caused him to describe it so exactly, that the result is tantamount
to a condemnation. As Kropótkin says, _War and Peace_ is a powerful
indictment of war. The effect which the great writer has exercised in
this direction upon his generation can be actually seen in Russia.
It was already apparent during the Russo-Turkish war of 1877-8, when
it was impossible to find in Russia a correspondent who would have
described how '_we_ peppered the enemy with grape-shot,' or how 'we
knocked them down like ninepins.' If any one could have been found
to use in his letters such survivals of barbarism, no paper would
have dared to print them. The general character of the Russian
war-correspondent had totally changed; and during that war there
appeared Gárshin the novelist, and Verestchágin the painter, 'with whom
to combat war became a life work.'

It has been charged against _War and Peace_ that it neglects to show
the evil side of serfdom: the brutality, the cruelty, the immurement
of women, the flogging of grown-up sons, the torture of serf girls by
their mistresses, etc. But Tolstoy studied the period closely from
letters, diaries and traditions, especially from the records of his own
grandparents, the Tolstoys and the Volkónskys; and he says he did not
find horrors worse than are to be found now, or at any other period.
People then loved and envied, and sought for truth and virtue, and were
swayed by passions, as now. Their mental and moral life was just as
complex, and in the upper circles it was sometimes even more refined
than now.... No doubt the greater remoteness of the higher circle from
the other classes gave a special character to the period, but not the
character of brutal violence.

Tolstoy is in sympathy with that time, sees the poetry of it, and
knows how much of goodness, courage, kindliness and high aspiration
existed among those politically unenfranchised serf-owners. With our
modern, Western desire to _organise society efficiently_, he never has
sympathised. The state of a man's mind has always been to him more
important than the conditions of his life, and it seems to him as
though there were some antithesis between the two: as though, if you
organised your society, it would cease to think truly or feel deeply.
We in the West are beginning to believe the opposite, and to suspect
that to leave society unorganised or disorganised has an inevitable
tendency to blunt our minds and souls. But not the less is it valuable
to have so wonderful a picture of Russia as it was at the commencement
of the nineteenth century, painted by one who sees it as the best
Russians of that period saw it themselves.

Of the history part of the book, it should be noted that Tolstoy says:
'Wherever in my novel historic characters speak or act, I have not
invented, but have made use of materials which during my work have
accumulated till they form a whole library.'

He told me he considered the defect of the book, besides its size, to
be the intrusion of a long philosophic argument into the story. He
still holds the opinions he held when he wrote it, as to the influence
or impotence of 'great' men, as well as all that he then said about
destiny and free will; but he now realises that his novel would have
been a better novel without these abstract disquisitions.

The characters in the book are not strictly copied from life, but in
the main Tolstoy's father's family are represented by the Rostófs
and his mother's by the Bolkónskys. In the magazine article already
referred to, Tolstoy says that only two minor characters are taken from
life, and 'all the other characters are entirely invented, and I have
not even for them any definite prototypes in tradition or in reality.'
But when he said that, he was defending himself from the charge of
having copied actual people who had played a part in the society of the
time, and he clearly overstates his case, for to a considerable extent
the characters in the novel correspond to the people mentioned in the
following list:

CHARACTERS IN _War and_ MEMBERS OF THE TOLSTOY
_Peace_: OR VOLKÓNSKY FAMILIES:

The old Prince N. Bolkónsky = Tolstoy's grandfather, Prince
N. Volkónsky.

His daughter, Princess Marie = Tolstoy's mother, the Princess
N. Bolkónsky Marie N. Volkónsky.

The old Count Ilyá A. Rostóf = Tolstoy's grandfather, Count
Ilyá A. Tolstoy.

Count Nicholas I. Rostóf = Tolstoy's father. Count
Nicholas I. Tolstoy.

Countess Natálya Rostóf = Tatiána Behrs, Tolstoy's
youngest sister-in-law.

Sónya = Tatiána A. Érgolsky.

Dólohof is made up of a combination of Count Theodore Tolstoy, a
famous traveller, with R. I. Dórohof, a notorious dare-devil of
Alexander I.'s days.

Many even of the minor characters, such as Mlle. Bourienne, and
Ivánushka the woman pilgrim in man's clothes, are copied more or less
closely from people connected with the Volkónskys' home at Yásnaya
Polyána.

Tolstoy's sympathies and antipathies in this novel: his appreciation of
affection, kindliness, simplicity and truthfulness, and his dislike of
what is cruel, pompous, complicated or false, are the same as in his
earlier stories, but mellowed and wiser; they are also the same as in
his later didactic writings, though there they are formulated, dogmatic
and rigid.

The novel covers nearly the whole range of Tolstoy's experience of
life: in it we have the aristocracy and the peasants; town life and
country life; the Commanders, officers and privates of the army, in
action and out of action; the diplomatists and courtiers; flirtation,
love, balls, hunting, and a reform movement which is all talk. What
Tolstoy does not show, is what he did not know--the middle-class world:
the world of merchants, manufacturers, engineers and men of business.
Of course these in Russia a hundred years ago, played a comparatively
small part; and there was practically no political activity such as
that of our County Councils, Borough Councils and Parliament. But
that all this was absent from Tolstoy's mind, and that his outlook on
life was confined to the aristocracy which consumed and the peasantry
which produced, will, in the sequel, help us to understand the social
teaching to which he ultimately came. His brother-in-law tells us that
Leo Tolstoy 'has in my presence confessed to being both proud and vain.
He was a rampant aristocrat, and though he always loved the country
folk, he loved the aristocracy still more. To the middle class he was
antipathetic. When, after his failures in early life, he became widely
famous as a writer, he used to admit that it gave him great pleasure
and intense happiness. In his own words, he was pleased to feel that he
was both a writer and a noble.'

'When he heard of any of his former comrades or acquaintances receiving
important appointments, his comments reminded one of those of Souvórof
[a Field-Marshal of Catherine the Great's time], who always maintained
that at Court one receives promotion for cringing and flattery, but
never for good work. Sometimes he would ironically remark that, though
he had himself not earned a Generalship in the artillery, he had at any
rate won his Generalship in literature.'

A simple world of nobles and peasants, with little organisation, and
that of a poor kind: a world the evils of which were mitigated by much
kindliness and good intention, and in which, on the whole, the less
the Government interfered with anybody or anything, the better--was
old Russia as it existed under Alexander I and as it still existed
when Tolstoy was young. He has described it with extraordinary
vividness, and has made it possible for us to picture to ourselves a
country and an age not our own. What effect the limitation of his
outlook, referred to above, had on the subsequent development of his
opinions, need not here be considered. It does not spoil the novel,
for no novel can show us the whole of life; but it had a very serious
effect on the formulation of his later philosophy of life. Of certain
important types of humanity he has hardly any conception. Of the George
Stephenson type, for instance, which masters the brute forces of nature
and harnesses them to the service of man--doing this primarily from
love of efficient work--he knows nothing; nor does he know any thing
of the Sidney Webb type, which sets itself the yet more difficult
task of evolving social order out of the partial chaos of modern
civilisation; or of the best type of organisers in our great industrial
undertakings: the men whose hearts are set on getting much work well
done, with little friction and little waste, and to whom the successful
accomplishment of a difficult project gives more satisfaction than any
effortless acquisition of wealth would do. Tolstoy over-simplifies
life's problems. He makes a sharp contrast between the predatory and
the humble types; and there is a measure of truth in his presentation.
He is right that life is supported by the humble, and is rendered hard
by the predatory types; but he has omitted from his scheme of things
the man of organising mind: the man who knows how to get his way, and
generally gets it (or a good deal of it) but does this mainly from
worthy motives; the man who is not perfect, and may take more than is
good for him, and may have some of the tendencies of the predatory
type, but who still, on the whole, is worth, and more than worth, his
salt, and but for whom there would be more of chaos and less of order
in the world. Tolstoy has said in one of his later writings that the
cause of the Russian famines is the Greek Church; and he is right. All
that stupefies, all that impedes thought, tends to make men inefficient
even in their agricultural operations. But by parity of reasoning he
should see that the introduction of thought into methods of production,
distribution and exchange, which has, during the last hundred and
fifty years, so revolutionised our Western world, should not be
condemned as bad in itself, however ugly many of its manifestations may
be; and however often we may see the organising and the predatory types
exemplified in one and the same person.

Outside Russia, _Anna Karénina_ is perhaps more popular than _War and
Peace_. The former is a long novel, but not nearly as long as the
latter; and though it contains philosophic disquisitions, these fit
better into the story and are shorter and clearer than the philosophic
chapters in _War and Peace_. In arrangement, again, _Anna Karénina_ is
more like the novels we are accustomed to, though instead of one hero
and heroine it has two pairs of lovers, living quite different lives,
and not very closely connected.

It deals with the passionate love of a beautiful and attractive woman;
and it has a further interest in the fact that Lévin, to a greater
degree than any of the author's other characters, represents Tolstoy
himself; though Tolstoy made Lévin a very simple fellow in order to get
a more effective contrast between him and the representatives of high
life in Moscow and Petersburg.

_Anna Karénina_ had the advantage of being introduced to the English
reading public by Matthew Arnold in an essay which is one of the very
best any one has ever written about Tolstoy. It is so good, and still
carries so much weight, that I may be excused for mentioning three
points on which it seems to me misleading. First, Arnold's ground for
preferring _Anna Karénina_ to _War and Peace_ is ill chosen. He says:
'One prefers, I think, to have the novelist dealing with the life which
he knows from having lived it, rather than with the life which he knows
from books or hearsay. If one has to choose a representative work of
Thackeray, it is _Vanity Fair_ which one would take rather than _The
Virginians_.'

This surely is misleading. War in Russia in 1812 was very similar to
war in Russia in 1854, and the son who had fought in the latter war,
describing the war in which his father had fought, was not at all
in the position of Thackeray describing the life of the Virginians.
Tolstoy depicting the homes of his parents and grandparents, which
he in part remembered, and which he at any rate knew well from those
who had formed part of them, was as close to first-hand experience as
he was when describing the life of Karénin the pedantic Petersburg
statesman, who belonged to a world which was essentially foreign to
Tolstoy, though he had occasionally glanced at it.

But the sentence in Arnold's essay which has done most harm, is that in
which he speaks about translations: 'I use the French translation; in
general, as I long ago said, work of this kind is better done in France
than in England, and _Anna Karénina_ is perhaps also a novel which goes
better into French than into English.'

It is true enough that the first English translations of Tolstoy were
very poor, and it is also true that the French versions, so long as
Tourgénef attended to them, were really good. But Arnold was wrong in
supposing that _Anna Karénina_ would naturally go better into French
than into English. Had he been able to read the original, or had he
been acquainted with Russian life, he would have seen that in Tolstoy's
novels there are two sets of people: a Court, Petersburg set, who
continually speak French and are Frenchified; and a plain, homely,
straightforward Russian (I had almost said, English) set who do not
use French phrases, and who are sharply contrasted with the others.
This contrast can be made quite clear in an English version, but it is
difficult to make it clear in a version where even the most Russian
characters have to speak French. The case is worse than that, however:
Arnold did not say, as he fairly might have said, that up to his time
the French versions were better than the English; he speaks as though
it were in the nature of things that any translation into French must
be better than any possible translation into English. A prejudice of
that kind tends to divert attention from the fact that some French
translations are bad, and some English translations are good. As a
matter of fact, since Arnold's time the position has been largely
reversed. When staying at Yásnaya Polyána in 1902, I heard Tolstoy
express considerable dissatisfaction with the new collected French
edition of his works, the first volumes of which had then recently
appeared, while he commended some recent English versions, including
work done by Mrs. Garnett and by my wife.

A grave error, again, is made by Arnold in speaking of Tolstoy's later
life, where he says that he 'earns his bread by the labour of his own
hands.' Tolstoy never did that, and never claimed to have done it;
though it is extraordinary how often and how confidently the statement
has been repeated. It is a matter however which need not detain us, for
it does not relate to the period with which this volume deals.

Arnold's summary of the story of the novel is excellent, but I can
here only quote one more passage from his essay. 'We have,' he says,
'been in a world which misconducts itself nearly as much as the world
of a French novel all palpitating with "modernity." But there are
two things in which the Russian novel--Count Tolstoi's novel at any
rate--is very advantageously distinguished from the type of novel now
so much in request in France. In the first place, there is no fine
sentiment, at once tiresome and false. We are not told to believe, for
example, that Anna is wonderfully exalted and ennobled by her passion
for Vrónsky. The English reader is thus saved from many a groan of
impatience. The other thing is yet more important. Our Russian novelist
deals abundantly with criminal passion and with adultery, but he does
not seem to feel himself owing any service to the goddess Lubricity,
or bound to put in touches at this goddess's dictation. Much in _Anna
Karénina_ is painful, much is unpleasant, but nothing is of a nature to
trouble the senses, or to please those who wish their senses troubled.
This taint is wholly absent.'

W. D. Howells, who has stood sponsor for Tolstoy in America as Matthew
Arnold has done in England, similarly says: 'It is Tolstoy's humanity
which is the grace beyond the reach of art in his imaginative work. It
does not reach merely the poor and the suffering; it extends to the
prosperous and the proud, and does not deny itself to the guilty. There
had been many stories of adultery before _Anna Karénina_, nearly all
the great novels outside of English are framed upon that argument, but
in _Anna Karénina_, for the first time the whole truth was told about
it. Tolstoy has said of the fiction of Maupassant that the whole truth
can never be immoral; and in his own work I have felt that it could
never be anything but moral.'

Tolstoy never fears to deal with the real problems of life, and never
fears to call a spade a spade; but he also never panders to the animal
passions. In a letter relating to _Resurrection_ he remarked: 'When
I read a book, what chiefly interests me is the _Weltanschauung des
Autors_: what he likes and what he hates. And I hope that any one who
reads my book with that in view will find out what the author likes
and dislikes, and will be influenced by the author's feelings.' What
is important is not the subject treated of, but the feeling the author
imparts when dealing with it.

Arnold, it is true, is rather shocked that Anna should yield so quickly
and easily to the persuasions of Vrónsky. He is quite sure that she
ought to have resisted. But here we come to a matter on which many
Russians disapprove of Tolstoy on quite the opposite ground. Kropótkin
in his interesting work _Ideals and Realities in Russian Literature_,
has stated their case very clearly, and this is the substance of what
he says:

_Anna Karénina_ produced in Russia an impression which brought Tolstoy
congratulations from the reactionary camp and a very cool reception
from the advanced portion of society. The fact is that the question
of marriage and of the separation of husband and wife, had been most
earnestly debated in Russia by the best men and women, both in
literature and in life. Levity towards marriage such as is continually
unveiled in the Divorce Courts, was decidedly condemned, as also was
any form of deceit such as supplies the subject for countless French
novels and plays. But after levity and deceit had been condemned, the
right of a new love--appearing perhaps after years of happy married
life--was seriously considered, Tchernyshévsky's novel, _What Is To Be
Done?_ may be taken as the best expression of the opinions on marriage
which became current among the better portion of the young generation.
Once married, it was said, don't take lightly to love affairs or
flirtation. Not every fit of passion deserves the name of a new love;
and what is called love is often merely temporary desire. Even if it
be real, before it has grown deep there is generally time to reflect
on the consequences that would result were it allowed to grow. But
when all is said and done, there are cases when a new love does come,
and comes almost inevitably: as for instance when a girl has been
married almost against her will under the continued insistence of her
lover, or when the two have married without properly understanding one
another, or when one of the two has continued to progress towards an
ideal, while the other, after having worn the mask of idealism, falls
back into the Philistine happiness of warmed slippers. In such cases
separation not only becomes inevitable, but is often to the interest
of both. It would be better for both to live through the suffering a
separation involves (honest natures are improved by such suffering)
than to spoil the entire subsequent life of one--or both in most
cases--and to face the evil consequences which living together under
such circumstances would be sure to produce on the children. That at
any rate was the conclusion to which, both in literature and in life,
the best portion of Russian society came.

And into the society Kropótkin describes in the above statement, comes
Tolstoy with _Anna Karénina_. The epigraph of the book is 'Vengeance
is mine, I will repay,' and death by suicide is the fate of poor
Anna, who was married young to an old and unattractive man, and who
had never known love till she met Vrónsky. Deceit was not in her
nature. To maintain a conventional marriage would not have made her
husband or child happier. Separation and a new life with Vrónsky,
who seriously loved her, was the only possible outcome. At any rate,
continues Kropótkin, if the story of _Anna Karénina_ had to end in
tragedy, it was not in consequence of an act of supreme justice. The
artistic genius of Tolstoy, honest here as everywhere, itself indicated
the real cause, in the inconsistency of Vrónsky and Anna. After
leaving her husband and defying public opinion--that is, as Tolstoy
shows, the opinion of women not honest enough to have a right to a
voice in the matter--neither she nor Vrónsky had the courage to break
right away from that society, the futility of which Tolstoy describes
so exquisitely. Instead of that, when Anna returns with Vrónsky to
Petersburg, their chief preoccupation is, how Betsy and other such
women will receive her if she reappears among them? 'And it was the
opinion of the Betsies--surely not Superhuman Justice--which brought
Anna to suicide.'

Whether Matthew Arnold's view or Kropótkin's view be accepted, Tolstoy
at any rate does full justice to Anna's charm: 'her large, fresh,
rich, generous, delightful nature which keeps our sympathy' and even
our respect; there is no nonsense about her being a degraded or vile
person. And after all, Tolstoy's view of marriage sanctity is a very
old and a very widely held one; and it is surely good to have that
side of the case put so artistically, so persuasively, so well, as he
puts it. If ultimately the idea that two uncongenial people ought to
live out their lives together because they have married, has to be
abandoned, let it not be abandoned without the very best advocates
being heard on its behalf.

_Anna Karénina_ contains passages: the ball, the officers'
steeplechase, the mowing, the death of Lévin's brother, and others,
which for artistic beauty are unsurpassed and, one is tempted to add,
unsurpassable. It also, towards the end, contains in admirably concise
form much of what Tolstoy has told in his _Confession_, of his quest
after the meaning of life, his thoughts of suicide, and how he learnt
from a talk with a peasant that man should live for his soul and for
God.

His treatment in this novel of the Russian volunteers who went to
fight for Servia, was as bold a slap in the face to the Russian
jingoes, who were having things all their own way at that time, as
Campbell Bannerman's 'methods of barbarism' speech, or Sir E. Clarke's
declaration that the reassertion of England's claim to suzerainty
in the internal affairs of the Transvaal, was 'a breach of national
faith,' was to our jingoes at the time of the Boer war; but it is
curious to note the precise position that (speaking through the mouth
of Lévin) Tolstoy took up. He did not say that Russia ought not to
fight to free the Christian populations of Turkey; he merely said that
no individual Russian had any business to volunteer for the Servian or
Bulgarian army, or to take any action to urge the Russian Government
towards war.

Of Lévin we are told: 'He, like Miháylitch and the peasants, whose
feelings are expressed in the legendary story of the invitation sent
to the Varyági by the early inhabitants of Russia, said: "Come and be
princes and rule over us. _We gladly promise complete submission._ All
labour, all humiliations, all sacrifices we take on ourselves, but _we
do not judge or decide_."' And Lévin goes on to repudiate the idea that
the Russian people have 'now renounced this privilege [the privilege,
that is, of not taking any part in Government] bought at so costly a
price.'

The connection between the roots of Tolstoy's opinions--manifested in
these writings of his first fifty years--and his opinions in their
ultimate rigid and dogmatic form, as expressed during the last three
decades, is in general so close, the dogmas of the later period grew
so naturally out of the sympathies and experiences of the earlier
time, that this point--at which there is a clean line of cleavage (the
difference between obeying Government and disobeying it)--is worthy
of particular note. When finishing _Anna Karénina_ Tolstoy had not
yet reached the conclusion that all Governments employing force are
immoral; but his later teachings are dominated by that view.

Apart from the special points I have referred to, the general effect
and influence of Tolstoy's fiction can hardly be summed up better than
they have been summed up by W. D. Howells, who says:

'Up to his time fiction had been a part of the pride of life, and had
been governed by the criterions of the world which it amused. But
Tolstoy replaced the artistic conscience by the human conscience. Great
as my wonder was at the truth in his work, my wonder at the love in it
was greater yet. Here, for the first time, I found the most faithful
picture of life set in the light of that human conscience which I
had falsely taught myself was to be ignored in questions of art, as
something inadequate and inappropriate. In the august presence of the
masterpieces, I had been afraid and ashamed of the highest interests of
my nature as something philistine and provincial. But here I stood in
the presence of a master, who told me not to be ashamed of them, but to
judge his work by them, since he had himself wrought in honour of them.
I found the tests of conduct which I had used in secret with myself,
applied as the rules of universal justice, condemning and acquitting
in motive and action, and admitting none of those lawyer's pleas which
baffle our own consciousness of right and wrong. Often in Tolstoy's
ethics I feel a hardness, almost an arrogance (the word says too much);
but in his esthetics I have never felt this. He has transmuted the
atmosphere of a realm hitherto supposed unmoral into the very air of
heaven. I found nowhere in his work those base and cruel lies which
cheat us into the belief that wrong may sometimes be right through
passion, or genius, or heroism. There was everywhere the grave noble
face of the truth that had looked me in the eyes all my life, and that
I knew I must confront when I came to die. But there was something more
than this, infinitely more. There was that love which is before even
the truth, without which there is no truth, and which if there is any
last day, must appear the Divine justice....

'As I have already more than once said, his ethics and esthetics are
inseparably at one; and that is what gives a vital warmth to all his
art. It is never that heartless skill which exists for its own sake,
and is content to dazzle with the brilliancy of its triumphs. It seeks
always the truth, in the love to which alone the truth unveils itself.
If Tolstoy is the greatest imaginative writer who ever lived, it is
because, beyond all others, he has written in the spirit of kindness,
and not denied his own personal complicity with his art.

'As for the scope of his work, it would not be easy to measure it,
for it seems to include all motives and actions, in good and bad, in
high and low, and not to leave life untouched at any point as it shows
itself in his vast Russian world. Its chief themes are the old themes
of art always,--they are love, passion, death, but they are treated
with such a sincerity, such a simplicity, that they seem almost new to
art, and as effectively his as if they had not been touched before....

'Passion, we have to learn from the great master, who here as
everywhere humbles himself to the truth, has in it life and death; but
of itself it is something, only as a condition precedent to these;
without it neither can be; but it is lost in their importance, and is
strictly subordinate to their laws. It has never been more charmingly
and reverently studied in its beautiful and noble phases than it is in
Tolstoy's fiction; though he has always dealt with it so sincerely,
so seriously. As to its obscure and ugly and selfish phases, he is
so far above all others who have written of it, that he alone seems
truly to have divined it, or portrayed it as experience knows it. He
never tries to lift it out of nature in either case, but leaves it
more visibly and palpably a part of the lowest as well as the highest
humanity....

'He comes nearer unriddling life for us than any other writer. He
persuades us that it cannot possibly give us any personal happiness;
that there is no room for the selfish joy of any one except as it
displaces the joy of some other, but that for unselfish joy there is
infinite place and occasion. With the same key he unlocks the mystery
of death; and he imagines so strenuously that death is neither more nor
less than a transport of self-surrender that he convinces the reason
where there can be no proof. The reader will not have forgotten how in
those last moments of earth which he has depicted, it is this utter
giving up which is made to appear the first moment of heaven. Nothing
in his mastery is so wonderful as his power upon us in the scenes of
the borderland where his vision seems to pierce the confines of another
world.'

* * * * *

Tolstoy of the later phase, the last three decades, with which the
second volume of this work will deal, differed from the Tolstoy of the
first fifty years; but the later Tolstoy grew out of the earlier, as
the branches of a tree grow from its roots.

The difference lay chiefly in this: that from about the year 1878
Tolstoy became sure of himself, succeeded in formulating his outlook on
life, and proceeded to examine and pass judgment on all the main phases
of human thought and activity. His work was sometimes hasty and often
harsh; he painted in black and white, subjects really composed of many
shades of colours; but what other man has even attempted so to examine,
to portray, and to tell the frank truth about all the greatest problems
of life and death?

No one really concerned to leave the world better than he found it--be
his line of work what it may--can afford to ignore what Tolstoy has
said on his subject.

No such combination of intellectual and artistic force has in our
times provoked the attention of mankind. No one has so stimulated
thought, or so successfully challenged established opinions. Tolstoy
has altered the outlook on life of many men in many lands, and has
caused some to alter not their ideas merely, but the settled habits and
customs of their lives. Only those who neither know nor understand him
at all, ever question his sincerity.

Those who have spoken scornfully of him are those who have not taken
the trouble to understand him. On the other hand, the small minority
who swallow his opinions whole, do so under the hypnotic influence of
his force, fervour and genius. To analyse his opinions, and disentangle
what in them is true from what is false, is a task no one has yet
adequately performed, but for which the time is ripe, and which, bold
as the undertaking may be, I mean to attempt.

Tolstoy's marvellous artistic power, his sincerity, and the love that
is so strong a feature of his work, have often been dwelt upon; but
what really gives him his supreme importance as a literary force is the
_union_ of all these things: artistic capacity, sincerity and love,
with a quite extraordinary power of intellect.

It is not given to any man to solve all the problems of life; but no
one has made so bold and interesting an attempt to do so as Tolstoy, or
has striven so hard to make his solutions plain to every child of man.

CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER XII

The literature that has grown up both in Russia and elsewhere round
Tolstoy's earlier writings is so voluminous, that I can merely indicate
a few of the best known works.

In English we have:

Matthew Arnold's essay: _Count Leo Tolstoi_ in _Essays in Criticism,
Second Series_: Macmillan and Co., London.

W. D. Howells has written several very readable and excellent essays on
Tolstoy. I have unfortunately mislaid my note of them. If any American
admirer of W. D. Howells will supply me with a list, I shall be glad to
include it in any future edition of this work.

P. Kropotkin's _Ideals and Realities in Russian Literature_ gives a
very good idea of Tolstoy's general influence and relation to Russian
life and literature generally.

In Russian:

Mihaylovsky's articles in his collected works are interesting.

N. Strahof's _Krititcheskiya Statyi o Tourgeneve i Tolstom_,
Petersburg, 1895, is excellent.

V. Zelinsky's _Rousskaya Krititcheskaya Literatoura o proizvedeniyakh
L. N. Tolstovo_ (7 vols.) reprints a large collection of Russian
criticisms on Tolstoy's works.

D. S. Merezhkovsky's _Zhizn i tvortchestvo L. N. Tolstovo i
Dostoyevskavo_ contains some acute literary criticism, but for all that
relates to Tolstoy as a man, it is worse than useless. Merezhkovsky did
not know Tolstoy personally when he wrote about him. He relied on the
works of Behrs and Anna Seuron, and even that scrappy information he
used unfairly. His talk about scents and fine linen, and in general his
whole characterisation of Tolstoy, is spiteful, and to those who know
the man attacked, it is merely ridiculous.

CHRONOLOGY

_As in the text, dates are given old style, except those relating to
the Crimean War and to Tolstoy's travels abroad._

1645 Peter Tolstoy born.

1725 Peter Tolstoy made a Count.

1727 Exiled.

1729 Died.

1814 Count Nicholas Tolstoy captured by French.

1822 Marriage of Tolstoy's parents.

1828 (28 Aug. o.s.) =Birth of Leo Tolstoy.=

1830 Death of Leo Tolstoy's mother.

1837 Death of father and grandmother. Return to
Yásnaya Polyána.

1840 Famine Year.

1841 Death of the Countess Osten-Sáken. Move to Kazán.

1844 =Matriculates at Kazán University.=

1847 Leaves the University.

1848 Passes two examinations at Petersburg University.

1849 Starts Peasant Children's School at Yásnaya.

1851 20 April =Leaves Yásnaya for Caucasus.=

" Aug. Goes on expedition from Starogládovsk.

" Nov. At Tiflis; writing _Childhood_.

" Dec. (end) =Appointed Junker.=

1852 Jan. Sádo's friendship.

" Feb. Goes on expedition.

" 2 July =Finishes _Childhood_.=

" 28 Aug. Receives letter from Nekrásof accepting _Childhood_.

1852 Nov. =_Childhood_ appears in _Contemporary_.=

" 24 Dec. _The Raid_ finished.

1853 Jan. Serves against Shámyl.

" 18 Feb. Nearly killed by grenade.

" March _The Raid_ appears in _Contemporary_.

" 13 June Chased by Tartars.

" July to Oct. Stays at Pyatigórsk.

" Oct. War between Russia and Turkey.

1854 Jan. =Receives his commission.=

" 2 Feb. Revisits Yásnaya Polyána.

" End of Feb. Starts for Bucharest.

" March War: England and France against Russia.

" " Tolstoy reaches Bucharest.

" June (end) Siege of Silistria abandoned.

" Aug. Tolstoy leaves Bucharest for Russia.

" 14 Sept. Allies land in Crimea.

" Oct. _Boyhood_ appears in _Contemporary_.

" 17 Oct. Bombardment of Sevastopol.

" Nov. (end) =Tolstoy reaches Sevastopol.=

" Dec. Stationed at Simferópol.

1855 Jan. _Memoirs of a Billiard Marker_ published.

" 13 April to 27 May =Serves in Sevastopol, in Fourth Bastion.=

" June _Sevastopol in December_ published.

" Aug. _Sevastopol in May_ published.

" 16 Aug. In Battle of Tchérnaya.

" Sept. _The Wood-Felling_ published.

" 8 Sept. Maláhof captured by French. Sevastopol abandoned by
Russians.

" Sept. Tolstoy returns to Petersburg.

1856 Jan. _Sevastopol in August_ published.

" Jan. (end) Death of Demetrius Tolstoy.

" March Russia concludes peace with England, France, and
Turkey.

1856 March _The Snow Storm_ published.

" May _Two Hussars_ published.

" Summer Engagement with V. V. A.

" Nov. Grand Duke Michael displeased about Soldiers' Song.

" 26 Nov. =Tolstoy leaves the army.=

" Dec. _Meeting a Moscow Acquaintance in the Detachment_
published.

" Dec. _A Squire's Morning_ published.

1857 Jan. _Youth_ published.

" 10 Feb. (N.S.) Leaves Moscow for Paris.

" April Visits Switzerland.

" July Stays at Lucerne.

" Aug. Returns to Yásnaya Polyána.

" Sept. _Lucerne_ published.

1858 Jan. Writes _Three Deaths_.

" March Visits Petersburg. Helps to found Moscow Musical
Society.

" Aug. _Albert_ published.

" Sept. Signs Resolution of Nobles concerning Emancipation.

" 22 Dec. Nearly killed by bear.

1859 Jan. _Three Deaths_ published.

" 4 Feb. Speaks on Art to Society of Lovers of Russian
Literature.

" April _Family Happiness_ published.

" Winter =Organises School at Yásnaya.=

1860 15 July Leaves Petersburg for Berlin.

" " Visits Auerbach in Dresden.

" July and Aug. At Kissingen for his health.

" 20 Sept. =Nicholas Tolstoy dies= at Hyères.

" Winter Visits Florence, Rome, Naples, Marseilles.

1861 Jan. Revisits Paris.

" Feb. Visits London.

" 5 May Re-enters Russia.

1861 26 May =Challenges Tourgénef.=

" Commences work as =Arbiter of the Peace=.

1861-2 Winter =Occupied with his school.=

1862 Feb. =_Yásnaya Polyána_ magazine appears.=

" May Discharged from office of Arbiter of the Peace 'on
ground of ill-health.'

" May and Takes koumýs cure in Samára Government.
June

" =Police raid on Yásnaya Polyána.=

" 17 Sept. Proposes to Miss S. A. Behrs.

" 23 " =Marries.=

" 3 Oct. Minister of Interior disapprove of _Yásnaya Polyána_
magazine.

" 15 " School abandoned.

1863 Jan. =_The Cossacks_ published.=

" Feb. _Polikoúshka_ published.

" 28 June Eldest son, Sergius, born.

1864 _War and Peace_ commenced.

" Sept. Dislocates arm while hunting.

" " Collected edition of Tolstoy's works published.

" 4 Oct. Birth of daughter, Tatiána.

1865 Jan. and Feb. =First part of _War and Peace_ published.=

" Autumn Visits battlefield of Borodinó.

1866 May Second son, Ilyá, born.

" June =Defends soldier at court-martial.=

1867 Summer Treated by Zahárin for indigestion.

1868 Publication of _War and Peace_ continued.

1869 20 May Third son Leo, born.

" Nov. =_War and Peace_ completed.=

1869-70 Studies the drama.

1870-1 Winter Studies Greek.

1871 Works at _ABC_ Book.

" 12 Feb. Birth of daughter, Mary.

" June-July Koumýs cure in Samára.

1872 Jan. Re-starts school.

=_A Prisoner in the Caucasus_ published.=

" Feb. _God Sees the Truth_ published.

" 13 June Son, Peter, born.

" Sept. Confined to Yásnaya by Investigating Magistrate.

" Nov. =_ABC_ Book published.=

1872-3 Winter Prepares to write novel of Peter the Great's time.

1873 May Goes with family to Samára.

" 17 Aug. =Samára Famine; Tolstoy's appeal.=

" Sept. Kramskóy paints his portrait.

" 9 Nov. Death of son, Peter.

1874 15 Jan. =Speaks on Learning to Read.=

" 22 April Son, Nicholas, born.

" 20 June Death of Aunt Tatiána.

" Sept. Publishes article, _On Popular Education_.

1875 20 Feb. Death of son, Nicholas.

" _New ABC_ Book published.

" Jan.-April =First Installment of _Anna Karénina_ published.=

" Summer Horse races at Samára.

" 1 Nov. Baby daughter, Varvára, born and died.

" Dec. Death of Pelagéya I. Úshkof.

1876 Jan.-April Further instalments of _Anna Karénina_.
and Dec.

" Observes Church rites and fasts.

" Sept. Visit to Samára and Orenbourg.

1877 Jan.-April =Final Installments of _Anna Karénina_ published.=

" Rupture with Katkóf.

1877 6 Dec. Son, Andrew, born.

1878 March Visits Petropávlof Fortress.

" Abandons _The Decembrists_.

" May =Reconciliation with Tourgénef.=

" 7 Aug. Tourgénef at Yásnaya Polyána.

INDEX

_ABC_ Book, 339, 341, 342, 344-348, 359, 360.

----Tourgénef's comment on, 347.

Active service, military, 86, 99, 110, 119.

Aim when writing novels, 430.

Aksákof, S. T., 175, 310.

_Albert_, 52, 166.

Alexander II, Tsar, 180, 287, 379.

Alexándra Fédorovna, Empress, 111.

Alexéyef, V. G., 395, 396.

Alexis, Tolstoy's servant, 32, 111, 284, 285.

----Tsarévitch, 2, 349.

Algebra, 355.

Ambrose, Father, 384.

Anarchism, peaceful, 58, 139.

Ancestry, 1-7, 14.

Animals, kindness to, 28, 307.

_Anna Karénina_, 289, 349, 357, 360, 361, 371, 372, 381, 438-445.

----characters in, 289, 349.

----impression produced in Russia by, 441.

----Matthew Arnold's comments on, 438-440.

----W. D. Howells' comments on, 440, 441, 445-447.

----Kropótkin's comments on, 441-443.

----Tourgénef's comments on, 361.

Ant Brotherhood, 18, 19.

Appearance, personal, 7, 26, 64.

Arbiter of the Peace, 211, 226-229, 283.

Arboúzof's _Recollections_, 370.

Arithmetic in _ABC_ Book, 341, 359.

Arm dislocated, 302, 303.

Army, enters the, 65, 76.

----leaves, 152.

----becomes an officer in, 91.

Arnold, Matthew: comments on _Anna Karénina_, 438-440.

Art, talk with peasant boys about, 257, 258.

----thoughts on, 186, 275-277, 296, 333, 377, 405.

----what is it? 260.

Artistic capacity of peasants, 275.

----element in Literature, speech on the, 185.

Artists, Tolstoy's criticism of, 163, 164.

Astronomy, studies, 341.

Auerbach, B., 194, 212.

Aunt Tatiána. See _Tatiána_.

Austria's pressure on Russia, 97.

Authors, Tolstoy's criticism of the, 162-165.

Autobiographical, 10, 14, 17, 18, 20, 21, 24, 26, 28, 31, 34, 39-50,
53, 54, 59-77, 81-84, 89, 90, 95-104, 106-111, 128, 130, 148, 150,
152, 153-155, 160, 161, 162, 167-173, 175, 177-180, 182, 189, 192,
198, 200, 202, 212, 214, 224, 228, 252, 254, 263, 269, 272, 282-284,
286, 288, 291, 293, 294, 296, 298, 300, 303, 304, 325-327, 333, 337,
359, 365, 383, _and whole of chap._ xi.

BÆDEKER, preacher, 413.

_Bárstchina_ explained, 225.

Baryatínsky, General, 65.

Bashkírs, Tolstoy and the, 335-337.

Bastion, the Fourth, 110, 113, 114, 117.

Bastions, clears Fifth and Sixth, 121.