the paths were full of weeds and the English garden had long gone to seed. But all the same it was precious to Tolstoy. 'I wouldn't sell the house for anything', he had written to his brother in 1852. 'It's the last thing I'd be prepared to part with.'44 And yet now, to pay his gambling debts, Tolstoy was obliged to sell the house he was born in. He had tried to avoid the inevitable by selling all eleven of his other villages, together with their serfs, their timber stocks and horses, but the sum these had raised was still not quite enough to get him into the black. The house was purchased by a local merchant and dismantled, to be sold in lots.
Tolstoy moved into a smaller house, an annexe of the old Volkonsky manor, and, as if to atone for his sordid game of cards, he set about the task of restoring the estate to a model farm. There had been earlier projects of this kind. In 1847, when he had first arrived as the young landlord, he had set out to become a model farmer, a painter, a musician, a scholar and a writer, with the interests of his peasants close to heart. This was the subject of ALandowner's Morning (1852) - the unfinished draft of what was intended to become a grand novel about a landowner (for which read: Tolstoy) who seeks a life of happiness and justice in the country and learns that it cannot be found in an ideal but in constant labour for the good of others less happy than himself. In that first period Tolstoy had proposed to reduce the dues of the serfs on his estate - but the serfs mistrusted his intentions and had turned his offer down. Tolstoy was annoyed - he had underestimated the gap between nobleman and serf - and he left the country-side for the high life of Moscow, then joined the army in the Caucasus. But by the time of his return in 1856, there was a new spirit of reform in the air. The Tsar had told the gentry to prepare for the liberation of their serfs. With new determination Tolstoy threw himself into the task of living with the peasants in a 'life of truth'. He was disgusted with his former life - the gambling, the whoring, the excessive feasting and drinking, the embarrassment of riches, and the lack of any real work or purpose in his life. Like the Populists with their 'going to the people', he vowed to live a new life, a life of moral truth that was based on peasant labour and the brotherhood of man.
In 1859 Tolstoy set up his first school for the village children in Yasnaya Polyana; by 1862 there were thirteen schools in the locality,
14. Tolstoy's estate at Yasnaya Polyana, late nineteenth century. The huts and fields in the foreground belong to the villagers
the teachers being drawn in the main from those students who had been expelled from their universities for their revolutionary views.45 Tolstoy became a magistrate, appointed by the Tsar to implement the emancipation manifesto, and angered all his colleagues, the leading squires of the Tula area, by siding with the peasants in their claims for land. On his own estate Tolstoy gave the peasants a sizeable proportion of his land - nowhere else in Russia was the manifesto fulfilled in a spirit of such generosity. Tolstoy almost yearned, it seemed, to give away his wealth. He dreamed of abandoning his privileged existence and living like a peasant on the land. For a while he even tried. In 1862 he settled down for good with his new wife, Sonya, at Yasnaya Polyana, dismissed all the stewards, and took charge of the farming by himself. The experiment was a complete failure. Tolstoy did not care for looking after pigs - and ended up deliberately starving them to death. He did not know how to cure hams, how to make butter, when to plough or hoe the fields, and he soon became fed up and ran away to Moscow, or locked himself away in his study, leaving everything to the hired labourers.46
The fantasy, however, would not go away. 'Now let me tell you
what I've just decided,' he would tell the village children at his school. 'I am going to give up my land and my aristocratic way of life and become a peasant. I shall build myself a hut at the edge of the village, marry a country woman, and work the land as you do: mowing, ploughing, and all the rest.' When the children asked what he would do with the estate, Tolstoy said he would divide it up. 'We shall own it all in common, as equals, you and me.' And what, the children asked, if people laughed at him and said he had lost everything: 'Won't you feel ashamed?' 'What do you mean "ashamed"?' the count answered gravely. 'Is it anything to be ashamed of to work for oneself? Have your fathers ever told you they were ashamed to work? They have not. What is there to be ashamed of in a man feeding himself and his family by the sweat of his brow? If anybody laughs at me, here's what I would say: there's nothing to laugh at in a man's working, but there is a great deal of shame and disgrace in his not working, and yet living better than others. That is what I am ashamed of. I eat, drink, ride horseback, play the piano, and still I feel bored. I say to myself: "You're a do-nothing."'47 Did he really mean it? Was he saying this to give the children pride in the life of peasant toil that awaited them or was he really planning to join them? Tolstoy's life was full of contradictions and he never could decide if he should become a peasant or remain a nobleman. On the one hand he embraced the elite culture of the aristocracy. War and Peace is a novel that rejoices in that world. There were times while working on that epic novel - like the day one of the village schools shut down in 1863 - when he gave up on the peasants as a hopeless cause. They were capable neither of being educated nor of being understood. War and Peace would depict only 'princes, counts, ministers, senators and their children', he had promised in an early draft, because, as a nobleman himself, he could no more understand what a peasant might be thinking than he 'could understand what a cow is thinking as it is being milked or what a horse is thinking as it is pulling a barrel'.48 On the other hand, his whole life was a struggle to renounce that elite world of shameful privilege and live 'by the sweat of his own brow'. The quest for a simple life of toil was a constant theme in Tolstoy's works. Take Prince Levin, for example, the peasant-loving squire in Anna Karenina - a character so closely based on Tolstoy's life and dreams that he was virtually autobiographical. Who can forget
that blissful moment when Levin joins the peasant mowers in the field and loses himself in the labour and the team?
After breakfast Levin was not in the same place in the string of mowers as before, but found himself between the old man who had accosted him quizzically, and now invited him to be his neighbour, and a young peasant who had only been married in the autumn and who was mowing this summer for the first time.
The old man, holding himself erect, went in front, moving with long, regular strides, his feet turned out and swinging his scythe as precisely and evenly, and apparently as effortlessly, as a man swings his arms in walking. As if it were child's play, he laid the grass in a high, level ridge. It seemed as if the sharp blade swished of its own accord through the juicy grass.
Behind Levin came the lad Mishka. His pleasant boyish face, with a twist of fresh grass bound round his hair, worked all the time with effort; but whenever anyone looked at him he smiled. He would clearly sooner die than own it was hard work for him.
Levin kept between them. In the very heat of the day the mowing did not seem such hard work. The perspiration with which he was drenched cooled him, while the sun, that burned his back, his head, and his arms, bare to the elbow, gave a vigour and dogged energy to his labour; and more and more often now came those moments of oblivion, when it was possible not to think of what one was doing. The scythe cut of itself. Those were happy moments.49
Tolstoy loved to be among the peasants. He derived intense pleasure - emotional, erotic - from their physical presence. The 'spring-like' smell of their beards would send him into raptures of delight. He loved to kiss the peasant men. The peasant women he found irresistible -sexually attractive and available to him by his 'squire's rights'. Tolstoy's diaries are filled with details of his conquests of the female serfs on his estate - a diary he presented, according to the custom, to his bride Sonya (as Levin does to Kitty) on the eve of their wedding:* '21 April 1858. A wonderful day. Peasant women in the garden and by the well. I'm like a man possessed.'50 Tolstoy was not handsome,
* Similar diaries were presented to their future wives by T
sar Nicholas II, the novelist Vladimir Nabokov and the poet Vladimir Khodasevich.
but he had a huge sex drive and, in addition to the thirteen children Sonya bore, there were at least a dozen other children fathered by him in the villages of his estate.
But there was one peasant woman who represented more than a sexual conquest. Aksinia Bazykina was twenty-two - and married to a serf on his estate - when Tolstoy first saw her in 1858. 'I'm in love as never before in my life', he confessed to his diary. 'Today in the wood. I am a fool. A beast. Her bronze flush and her eyes… Have no other thought.'51 This was more than lust. 'It's no longer the feelings of a stag', he wrote in 1860, 'but of a husband for a wife.'52 Tolstoy, it appears, was seriously considering a new life with Aksinia in some 'hut at the edge of the village'. Turgenev, who saw him often at this time, wrote that Tolstoy was 'in love with a peasant woman and did not want to discuss literature'.53 Turgenev himself had several love affairs with his own serfs (one even bore him two children), so he must have understood what Tolstoy felt.54 In 1862, when Tolstoy married Sonya, he tried to break relations with Aksinia; and in the first years of their marriage, when he was working without rest on War and Peace, it is hard to imagine his wandering off to find Aksinia in the woods. But in the 1870s he began to see her once again. She bore him a son by the name of Timofei, who became a coachman at Yasnaya Polyana. Long after that, Tolstoy continued to have dreams about Aksinia. Even in the final year of his long life, half a century after their first encounter, he recorded his joy, on seeing the 'bare legs' of a peasant girl, 'to think that Aksinia is still alive'.55 This was more than the usual attraction of a squire to a serf. Aksinia was Tolstoy's unofficial 'wife', and he continued to love her well into her old age. Aksinia was not beautiful in any conventional sense, but she had a certain quality, a spiritual strength and liveliness, that made her loved by all the villagers. 'Without her', Tolstoy wrote, 'the khorovod was not a khorovod, the women did not sing, the children did not play'.56 Tolstoy saw her as the personification of everything that was good and beautiful in the Russian peasant woman - she was proud and strong and suffering - and that is how he drew her in a number of his works. She appears, for example, in 'The Devil', which tells the story of his love affair with her both before and after his marriage. It may be
significant that Tolstoy did not know how to end the tale. Two different
conclusions were published: one in which the hero kills the peasant woman, the other where he commits suicide.
Tolstoy's own life story was unresolved as well. In the middle of the 1870s, when the 'going to the people' reached its apogee, Tolstoy experienced a moral crisis that led him, like the students, to seek his salvation in the peasantry. As he recounts in A Confession (1879-80), he had suddenly come to realize that everything which had provided meaning in his life - family happiness and artistic creation - was in fact meaningless. None of the great philosophers brought him any comfort. The Orthodox religion, with its oppressive Church, was unacceptable. He thought of suicide. But suddenly he saw that there was a true religion in which to place his faith - in the suffering, labouring and communal life of the Russian peasantry. 'It has been my whole life', he wrote to his cousin. 'It has been my monastery, the church where I escaped and found refuge from all the anxieties, the doubts and temptations of my life.'57
Yet even after his spiritual crisis Tolstoy was ambivalent: he idealized the peasants and loved to be with them, but for many years he could not bring himself to break from the conventions of society and become one himself. In many ways he only played at being a 'peasant'. When he went out for a walk or rode his horse he put on peasant garb - he was known throughout the world for his peasant shirt and belt, his trousers and bast shoes - but when he went to Moscow, or dined with friends, he dressed in tailored clothes. During the day he would labour in the fields at Yasnaya Polyana - then return to his manor house for a dinner served by waiters in white gloves. The painter Repin visited the writer in 1887 to paint the first in a series of portraits of Tolstoy. A man of genuinely humble origins, Repin was disgusted by the count's behaviour. 'To descend for a day into this darkness of the peasantry's existence and proclaim: "I am with you" - that is just hypocrisy.'58 Nor, it seems, were the peasants taken in. Four years later, at the height of the famine in 1891, Repin visited the count again. Tolstoy insisted on showing him the 'peasant way' to plough a field. 'Several times', Repin recalled, 'some Yasnaya Polyana peasants walked by, doffed their caps, bowed, and then walked on as if taking no notice of the count's exploit. But then another peasant group appears, evidently from the next village. They stop and stare for
a long while. And then a strange thing happens. Never in my life have I seen a clearer expression of irony on a simple peasant's face.'59
Tolstoy was aware of the ambiguity, and for years he agonized. As a writer, and a Russian one at that, he felt the artist's responsibility to provide leadership and enlightenment for the people. This was why he had set up the peasant schools, expended his energy on writing country tales, and started a publishing venture ('The Intermediary') to print the classics (Pushkin, Gogol, Leskov and Chekhov) for the growing mass of readers in the countryside. Yet at the same time he was moving to the view that the peasants were the teachers of society and that neither he nor any other scion of the world's immoral civilizations had anything to give. From his teaching at the village schools, he came to the conclusion that the peasant had a higher moral wisdom than the nobleman - an idea he explained by the peasant's natural and communal way of life. This is what the peasant Karataev teaches Pierre in War and Peace:
Karataev had no attachments, friendships, or love, as Pierre understood them, but he loved and lived affectionately with everything that life brought him in contact with, particularly with man - not any particular man, but those with whom he happened to be… To Pierre he always remained… an unfathomable, rounded, eternal personification of the spirit of simplicity and truth.60
With every passing year, Tolstoy strived to live more and more like a peasant. He learned how to make his own shoes and furniture. He gave up writing and spent his time working in the fields. In a turn from his previous life, he even advocated chastity, and became a vegetarian. Sometimes in the evening he would join the pilgrims walking on the road from Moscow to Kiev, which passed by the estate. He would walk with them for miles, returning barefoot in the early morning hours with a new confirmation of his faith. 'Yes, these people know God,' he would say. 'Despite all their superstitions, their belief in St Nicholas-of-the-spring and St Nicholas-of-the-winter, or the Icon of Three Hands, they are closer to God than we are. They lead moral, working lives, and their simple wisdom is in many ways superior to all the artifices of our culture and philosophy.'61
4
In 1862, Tolstoy married Sofya (Sonya) Behrs, the daughter of Dr Andrei Behrs, the house doctor of the Kremlin Palace in Moscow, in a ceremony at the Kremlin's Cathedral of the Assumption. Tolstoy drew on this event when he came to write the splendid wedding scene between Kitty and Levin in Anna Karenina. As in many gentry weddings of the time, the ceremony combines Orthodox and peasant rituals; and there is an insistence, voiced by Kitty's mother Princess Shcherbatskaya, 'on all the conventions being strictly observed'.62 Indeed, one can read the scene as an ethnographic document about this special aspect of the Russian way of life.
Every Russian knows the verses from Pushkin's Eugene Onegin in which the lovesick Tatiana asks her nurse if she has ever been in love. The peasant woman replies by telling the sad story of how she came to be married, at the age of just thirteen, to an even younger boy she had never seen before:
'Oh, come! Our world was quite another! We'd never heard of love, you see. Why, my good husband's sainted mother Would just have been the death of me!' 'Then how'd you come to marry, nanny?' 'The will of God, I guess… My Danny Was younger still than me, my dear, And I was just thirteen that year. The marriage maker kept on calling For two whole weeks to see my kin, Till father blessed me and gav
e in. I got so scared - my tears kept falling; And weeping, they undid my plait, Then sang me to the churchyard gate.
'And so they took me off to strangers… But you're not even listening, pet.'63
The scene encapsulates the contrast between the two different cultures - the European and the folk - in Russian society. Whereas Tatiana looks at marriage through the prism of romantic literature, her nurse regards it from the viewpoint of a patriarchal culture where individual sentiments or choices about love are foreign luxuries. Tolstoy draws the same contrast in Kitty's wedding scene. During the ceremony Dolly thinks back tearfully to her own romance with Stiva Oblonsky and, 'forgetting the present' (meaning all his sexual infidelities), 'she remembered only her young and innocent love'. Meanwhile, in the entrance to the church stands a group of ordinary women who have come in from the street to 'look on breathless with excitement' as the bridal couple take their marriage vows. We listen to them chattering among themselves:
'Why is her face so tear-stained? Is she being married against her will?' 'Against her will to a fine fellow like that? A prince, isn't he?' 'Is that her sister in the white satin? Now hear how the deacon will roar:
"Wife, obey thy husband!" ' 'Is it the Tchudovsky choir?' 'No, from the Synod.' 'I asked the footman. It seems he's taking her straight to his home in the
country. They say he's awfully rich. That's why she's being married to him.' 'Oh no. They make a very well-matched pair.'
'What a dear little creature the bride is - like a lamb decked for the slaughter. Say what you like, one does feel sorry for the girl.'64
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