On the 6 September 1852, signed only with initials, appeared in aRussian periodical the first work of Count Leo Tolstoi--"Childhood."By 1867, his name was just barely known outside of Russia, for in thatyear the American diplomat, Eugene Schuyler, in the preface to histranslation of "Fathers and Sons," said, "The success of Gogol broughtout a large number of romance-writers, who abandoned all imitation ofGerman, French, and English novelists, and have founded a trulynational school of romance." Besides Turgenev, "easily their chief,"he mentioned five Russian writers, all but one of whom are now unknownor forgotten in America. The second in his list was "the CountTolstoi, a writer chiefly of military novels." During the seventies,the English scholar Ralston published in a review some paraphrases ofTolstoi, because, as he said, "Tolstoi will probably never betranslated into English." To-day the works of Tolstoi are translatedinto forty-five languages, and in the original Russian the sales havegone into many millions. During the last ten years of his life he heldan absolutely unchallenged position as the greatest living writer inthe world, there being not a single contemporary worthy to be named inthe same breath.
Tolstoi himself, at the end of the century, divided his life into fourperiods:* the innocent, joyous, and poetic time of childhood, fromearliest recollection up to the age of fourteen; the "terribletwenties," full of ambition, vanity, and licentiousness, lasting tillhis marriage at the age of thirty-four; the third period of eighteenyears, when he was honest and pure in family life, but a thoroughegoist; the fourth period, which he hoped would be the last, datingfrom his Christian conversion, and during which he tried to shape hislife in accordance with the Sermon on the Mount.
*His own "Memoirs," edited by Birukov, are now the authority forbiographical detail. They are still in process of publication.
He was born at Yasnaya Polyana, in south central Russia, not far fromthe birthplace of Turgenev, on the 28 August 1828. His mother diedwhen he was a baby, his father when he was only nine. An aunt, to whomhe was devotedly attached, and whom he called "Grandmother," had themain supervision of his education. In 1836 the family went to live atMoscow, where the boy formed that habit of omnivorous reading whichcharacterised his whole life. Up to his fourteenth year, the booksthat chiefly influenced him were the Old Testament, the "ArabianNights," Pushkin, and popular Russian legends. It was intended that heshould follow a diplomatic career, and in preparation for theUniversity of Kazan, he studied Oriental languages. In 1844 he failedto pass his entrance examinations, but was admitted some months later.He left the University in 1847. From his fourteenth to histwenty-first year the books that he read with the most profit wereSterne's "Sentimental Journey," under the influence of which he wrotehis first story, Pushkin, Schiller's "Robbers," Lermontov, Gogol,Turgenev's "A Sportsman's Sketches;" and to a less degree he wasaffected by the New Testament, Rousseau, Dickens's "DavidCopperfield," and the historical works of the American Prescott. Likeall Russian boys, he of course read the romances of Fenimore Cooper.
On leaving the University, he meant to take up a permanent residencein the country; but this enthusiasm waned at the close of the summer,as it does with nearly everybody, and he went to St. Petersburg in theautumn of 1847, where he entered the University in the department oflaw. During all this time he had the habit of almost morbidintrospection, and like so many young people, he wrote resolutions andkept a diary. In 1851 he went with his brother to the Caucasus, andentered the military service, as described in his novel, "TheCossacks." Here he indulged in dissipation, cards, and women, like theother soldiers. In the midst of his life there he wrote to his aunt,in French, the language of most of their correspondence, "You recallsome advice you once gave me--to write novels: well, I am of youropinion, and I am doing literary work. I do not know whether what Iwrite will ever appear in the world, but it is work that amuses me,and in which I have persevered for too long a time to give it up." Henoted at this time that the three passions which obstructed the moralway were gambling, sensuality, and vanity. And he further wrote in hisjournal, "There is something in me which makes me think that I was notborn to be just like everybody else." Again: "The man who has no othergoal than his own happiness is a bad man. He whose goal is the goodopinion of others is a weak man. He whose goal is the happiness ofothers is a virtuous man. He whose goal is God is a great man!"
He finished his first novel, "Childhood," sent it to a Russian review,and experienced the most naive delight when the letter of acceptancearrived. "It made me happy to the limit of stupidity," he wrote in hisdiary. The letter was indeed flattering. The publisher recognised theyoung author's talent, and was impressed with his "simplicity andreality," as well he might be, for they became the cardinal qualitiesof all Tolstoi's books. It attracted little attention, however, and nocriticism of it appeared for two years. But a little later, whenDostoevski obtained in Siberia the two numbers of the periodicalcontaining "Childhood" and "Boyhood," he was deeply moved, and wroteto a friend, asking, Who is this mysterious L. N. T.? But for a longtime Tolstoi refused to let his name be known.
Tolstoi took part in the Crimean war, not as a spectator or reporter,but as an officer. He was repeatedly in imminent danger, and saw allthe horrors of warfare, as described in "Sevastopol." Still, he foundtime somehow for literary work, wrote "Boyhood," and read Dickens inEnglish. About this time he decided to substitute the Lord's Prayer inhis private devotions for all other petitions, saying that "Thy willbe done on earth as it is in Heaven" included everything. On the 5March 1855 he wrote in his diary a curious prophecy of his presentattitude toward religion: "My conversations on divinity and faith haveled me to a great idea, for the realisation of which I am ready todevote my whole life. This idea is the founding of a new religion,corresponding to the level of human development, the religion ofChrist, but purified of all dogmas and mysteries, a practical religionnot promising a blessed future life, but bestowing happiness here onearth."
In this same year he wrote the book which was the first absolute proofof his genius, and with the publication of which his reputationbegan--"Sevastopol in December." This was printed in the same reviewthat had accepted his first work, was greeted with enthusiasm byTurgenev and the literary circles at Petersburg, was read by the Tsar,and translated into French at the imperial command. It was followed by"Sevastopol in May" and "Sevastopol in August," and Tolstoi foundhimself famous.
It was evident that a man so absorbed in religious ideas and sosensitive to the hideous wholesale murder of war, could not remain forlong in the army. He arrived at Petersburg on the 21 November 1855,and had a warm reception from the distinguished group of writers whowere at that time contributors to the "Sovremennik* (The ContemporaryReview)," which had published Tolstoi's work. This review had beenfounded by Pushkin in 1836, was now edited by Nekrassov, who hadaccepted Tolstoi's first article, "Childhood," and had enlisted theforemost writers of Russia, prominent among whom was, of course,Turgenev. The books which Tolstoi read with the most profit duringthis period were Goethe, Hugo's "Notre-Dame," Plato in French, andHomer in Russian.
*An amusing caricature of the time represents Turgenev, Ovstrovski,and Tolstoi bringing rolls of manuscripts to the editors.
Turgenev had a fixed faith in the future of Tolstoi; he was alreadycertain that a great writer had appeared in Russia. Writing to afriend from Paris, in 1856, he said, "When this new wine is ripenedthere will be a drink fit for the gods." In 1857, after Tolstoi hadvisited him in Paris, Turgenev wrote, "This man will go far and willleave behind him a profound influence." But the two authors had littlein common, and it was evident that there could never be perfectharmony between them. Explaining why he could not feel wholly at easewith Tolstoi, he said, "We are made of different clay."
In January 1857, Tolstoi left Moscow for Warsaw by sledge, and fromthere travelled by rail for Paris. In March, accompanied by Turgenev,he went to Dijon, and saw a man executed by the guillotine. He wasdeeply impressed both by the horror and by the absurdity of capitalpunishment, and, as he said, the affair "pursued" him
for a long time.He travelled on through Switzerland, and at Lucerne he felt thecontrast between the great natural beauty of the scenery and theartificiality of the English snobs in the hotel. He journeyed on downthe Rhine, and returned to Russia from Berlin. During all these monthsof travel, his journal expresses the constant religious fermentationof his mind, and his intense democratic sentiments. They were the sameideas held by the Tolstoi of 1900.
On the 3 July 1860, he left Petersburg by steamer, once more to visitsouthern Europe. He visited schools, universities, and studied theGerman methods of education. He also spent some time in the south ofFrance, and wrote part of "The Cossacks" there. In Paris he once morevisited Turgenev, and then crossed over to London, where he saw thegreat Russian critic Herzen almost every day. Herzen was not at allimpressed by Tolstoi's philosophical views, finding them both weak andvague. The little daughter of Herzen begged her father for theprivilege of meeting the young and famous author. She expected to seea philosopher, who would speak of weighty matters: what was herdisappointment when Count Tolstoi appeared, dressed in the latestEnglish style, looking exactly like a fashionable man of the world,and talking with great enthusiasm of a cock-fight he had justwitnessed!
After nine months' absence, Tolstoi returned to Russia in April 1861.He soon went to his home at Yasnaya Polyana, established a school forthe peasants, and devoted himself to the arduous labour of theireducation. Here he had a chance to put into practice all the theoriesthat he had acquired from his observations in Germany and England. Heworked so hard that he injured his health, and in a few months wasforced to travel and rest. In this same year he lost a thousand rublesplaying billiards with Katkov, the well-known editor of the "RussianMessenger." Not being able to pay cash, he gave Katkov the manuscriptof his novel, "The Cossacks," which was accordingly printed in thereview in January 1863.
On the 23 September 1862, he was married. A short time before thisevent he gave his fiancee his diary, which contained a frank and freeaccount of all the sins of his bachelor life. She was overwhelmed, andthought of breaking off the engagement. After many nights spent inwakeful weeping, she returned the journal to him, with a full pardon,and assurance of complete affection. It was fortunate for him thatthis young girl was large-hearted enough to forgive his sins, for shebecame an ideal wife, and shared in all his work, copying in her ownhand his manuscripts again and again. In all her relations with thedifficult temperament of her husband, she exhibited the utmostdevotion, and that uncommon quality which we call common sense.
Shortly after the marriage, Tolstoi began the composition of aleviathan in historical fiction, "War and Peace." While composing it,he wrote: "If one could only accomplish the hundredth part of what oneconceives, but one cannot even do a millionth part! Still, theconsciousness of Power is what brings happiness to a literary man. Ihave felt this power particularly during this year." He suffered,however, from many paroxysms of despair, and constantly corrected whathe wrote. This made it necessary for his wife to copy out themanuscript; and it is said that she wrote in her own hand the wholemanuscript of this enormous work seven times!
The publication of the novel began in the "Russki Viesinik (RussianMessenger)" for January 1865, and the final chapters did not appeartill 1869. It attracted constant attention during the process ofpublication, and despite considerable hostile criticism, establishedthe reputation of its author.
During its composition Tolstoi read all kinds of books, "PickwickPapers," Anthony Trollope, whom he greatly admired, and Schopenhauer,who for a time fascinated him. In 1869 he learned Greek, and was proudof being able to read the "Anabasis" in a few months. He interestedhimself in social problems, and fought hard with the authorities tosave a man from capital punishment. To various schemes of education,and to the general amelioration of the condition of the peasants, hegave all the tremendous energy of his mind.
On the 19 March 1873, he began the composition of "Anna Karenina,"which was to give him his greatest fame outside of Russia. Severalyears were spent in its composition and publication. Despite the powerof genius displayed in this masterpiece, he did not enjoy writing it,and seemed to be unaware of its splendid qualities. In 1875 he wrote,"For two months I have not soiled my fingers with ink, but now Ireturn again to this tiresome and vulgar "Anna Karenina," with thesole wish of getting it done as soon as possible, in order that I mayhave time for other work." It was published in the "RussianMessenger," and the separate numbers drew the attention of criticseverywhere, not merely in Russia, but all over Europe.
The printing began in 1874. All went well enough for two years, as wesee by a letter of the Countess Tolstoi, in December 1876. "At last weare writing "Anna Karenina comme il faut," that is, withoutinterruptions. Leo, full of animation, writes an entire chapter everyday, and I copy it off as fast as possible; even now, under thisletter, there are the pages of the new chapter that he wroteyesterday. Katkov telegraphed day before yesterday to send somechapters for the December number." But, just before the completion ofthe work, Tolstoi and the editor, Katkov, had an irreconcilablequarrel. The war with Turkey was imminent. Tolstoi was naturallyvehemently opposed to it, while Katkov did everything in his power toinflame public opinion in favour of the war party; and he felt thatVronsky's departure for the war, after the death of Anna, with Levin'scomments thereupon, were written in an unpatriotic manner. Ridiculousas it now seems to give this great masterpiece a political twist, orto judge it from that point of view, it was for a time the solequestion that agitated the critics. Katkov insisted that Tolstoi"soften" the objectionable passages. Tolstoi naturally refused, editorand author quarrelled, and Tolstoi was forced to publish the lastportion of the work in a separate pamphlet. In the number of May 1877,Katkov printed a footnote to the instalment of the novel, which showshow little he understood its significance, although the majority ofcontemporary Russian critics understood the book no better than he.
"In our last number, at the foot of the novel "Anna Karenina," weprinted, 'Conclusion in the next issue.' But with the death of theheroine the real story ends. According to the plan of the author,there will be a short epilogue, in which the reader will learn thatVronsky, overwhelmed by the death of Anna, will depart for Servia as avolunteer; that all the other characters remain alive and well; thatLevin lives on his estates and fumes against the Slavonic party andthe volunteers. Perhaps the author will develop this chapter in aspecial edition of his novel."
Levin's conversation with the peasant, toward the close of "AnnaKarenina," indicates clearly the religious attitude of Tolstoi, andprepares us for the crisis that followed. From 1877 to 1879 he passedthrough a spiritual struggle, read the New Testament constantly, andbecame completely converted to the practical teachings of the Gospel.Then followed his well-known work, "My Religion," the abandonment ofhis former way of life, and his attempts to live like a peasant, indaily manual labour. Since that time he wrote a vast number ofreligious, political, and social tracts, dealing with war, marriage,law-courts, imprisonment, etc. Many of the religious tracts belong toliterature by the beauty and simple directness of their style. Twoshort stories and one long novel, all written with a didactic purpose,are of this period, and added to their author's reputation: "The Deathof Ivan Ilyich, The Kreuzer Sonata," and "Resurrection."
One cannot but admire the courage of Tolstoi in attempting to live inaccordance with his convictions, just as we admire Milton for hismotives in abandoning poetry for politics. But our unspeakable regretat the loss to the world in both instances, when its greatest livingauthor devotes himself to things done much better by men destitute oftalent, makes us heartily sympathise with the attitude of theCountess, who hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry. In a letter toher husband, written in October 1884, and filled with terms ofaffectionate tenderness, she said: "Yesterday I received your letter,and it has made me very sad. I see that you have remained at Yasnayanot for intellectual work, which I place above everything, but to play'Robinson.' You have let the cook go . . . and from morning to nightyou give yoursel
f up to manual toil fit only for young men. . . . Youwill say, of course, that this manner of life conforms to yourprinciples and that it does you good. That's another matter. I canonly say, 'Rejoice and take your pleasure,' and at the same time Ifeel sad to think that such an intellectual force as yours shouldexpend itself in cutting wood, heating the samovar, and sewing boots.That is all very well as a change of work, but not for an occupation.Well, enough of this subject. If I had not written this, it would haverankled in me, and now it has passed and I feel like laughing. I cancalm myself only by this Russian proverb: 'Let the child amusehimself, no matter how, provided he doesn't cry."
In the last few weeks of his life, the differences of opinion betweenthe aged couple became so acute that Tolstoi fled from his home, andrefused to see the Countess again. This flight brought on a suddenillness, and the great writer died early in the morning of the 20November 1910. He was buried under an oak tree at Yasnaya Polyana.
Although Count Tolstoi divided his life into four distinct periods,and although critics have often insisted on the great differencebetween his earlier and his later work, these differences fade away ona close scrutiny of the man's whole production, from "Childhood" to"Resurrection."
"Souls alter not, and mine must still advance," said Browning. This isparticularly true of Tolstoi. He progressed, but did not change; andhe progressed along the path already clearly marked in his firstbooks. The author of "Sevastopol" and "The Cossacks" was the same manmentally and spiritually who wrote "Anna Karenina," "Ivan Ilyich,""The Kreuzer Sonata," and "Resurrection." Indeed, few great authorshave steered so straight a course as he. No such change took place inhim as occurred with Bjornson. The teaching of the later books is moreevident, the didactic purpose is more obvious, but that is somethingthat happens to almost all writers as they descend into the vale ofyears. The seed planted in the early novels simply came to a perfectlynatural and logical fruition.
Not only do the early novels indicate the direction that Tolstoi'swhole life was bound to assume, but his diary and letters show thesame thing. The extracts from these that I have given above aresubstantial proof of this--he saw the truth just as clearly in 1855 ashe saw it in 1885, or in 1905. The difference between the early andlater Tolstoi is not, then, a difference in mental viewpoint, it is adifference in conduct and action.* The eternal moral law ofself-sacrifice was revealed to him in letters of fire when he wrote"The Cossacks" and "Sevastopol;" everything that he wrote after was amere amplification and additional emphasis. But he was young then; andalthough he saw the light, he preferred the darkness. He knew then,just as clearly as he knew later, that the life in accordance with NewTestament teaching was a better life than that spent in following hisanimal instincts; but his knowledge did not save him.
*For a very unfavourable view of Tolstoi's later conduct, the"Tolstoi legend," see Merezhkovski, Tolstoi as Man and Artist.
Even the revolutionary views on art, which he expressed toward the endof the century in his book, "What is Art?" were by no means a suddendiscovery, nor do they reveal a change in his attitude. Theaccomplished translator, Mr. Maude, said in his preface, "Thefundamental thought expressed in this book leads inevitably toconclusions so new, so unexpected, and so contrary to what is usuallymaintained in literary and artistic circles," etc. But while theconclusions seemed new (and absurd) to many artists, they were not atall new to Tolstoi. So early as 1872 he practically held these views.In a letter to Strakov, expressing his contempt for modern Russianliterature and the language of the great poets and novelists, he said:"Pushkin himself appears to me ridiculous. The language of the people,on the contrary, has sounds to express everything that the poet isable to say, and it is very dear to me." In the same letter he wrote,"'Poor Lisa' drew tears and received homage, but no one reads her anymore, while popular songs and tales, and folk-lore ballads will liveas long as the Russian language."
In his views of art, in his views of morals, in his views of religion,Tolstoi developed, but he did not change. He simply followed his ideasto their farthest possible extreme, so that many Anglo-Saxonssuspected him even of madness. In reality, the method of his thoughtis characteristically and purely Russian. An Englishman may be in lovewith an idea, and start out bravely to follow it; but if he finds itleading him into a position contrary to the experience of humanity,then he pulls up, and decides that the idea must be false, even if hecan detect no flaw in it; not so the Russian; the idea is right, andhumanity is wrong.
No author ever told us so much about himself as Tolstoi. Not only dowe now possess his letters and journals, in which he revealed hisinner life with the utmost clarity of detail, but all his novels, eventhose that seem the most objective, are really part of hisautobiography. Through the persons of different characters he isalways talking about himself, always introspective. That is one reasonwhy his novels seem so amazingly true to life. They seem true becausethey are true.
Some one said of John Stuart Mill, "Analysis is the king of hisintellect." This remark is also true of most Russian novelists, andparticularly true of Tolstoi. In all his work, historical romance,realistic novels, religious tracts, his greatest power was shown inthe correct analysis of mental states. And he took all human naturefor his province. Strictly speaking, there are no minor characters inhis books. The same pains are taken with persons who have littleinfluence on the course of the story, as with the chief actors. Thenormal interests him even more than the abnormal, which is the greatdifference between his work and that of Gorki and Andreev, as it wasthe most striking difference between Shakespeare and his latercontemporaries. To reveal ordinary people just as they reallyare,--sometimes in terrific excitement, sometimes in humdrumroutine,--this was his aim. Natural scenery is occasionallyintroduced, like the mountains in "The Cossacks," to show how thespectacle affects the mind of the person who is looking at it. It isseldom made use of for a background. Mere description occupied a verysmall place in Tolstoi's method. The intense fidelity to detail in theportrayal of character, whether obsessed by a mighty passion, orplaying with a trivial caprice, is the chief glory of his work. Thisis why, after the reading of Tolstoi, so many other "realistic" novelsseem utterly untrue and absurd.
The three stories, "Childhood, Boyhood, Youth," now generallypublished as one novel, are the work of a genius, but not a work ofgenius. They are interesting in the light of their author's laterbooks, and they are valuable as autobiography. The fact that hehimself repudiated them, was ashamed of having written them, anddeclared that their style was unnatural, means little or much,according to one's viewpoint. But the undoubted power revealed hereand there in their pages is immature, a mere suggestion of what was tofollow. They are exercises in composition. He learned how to write inwriting these. But the intention of their author is clear enough. His"stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul." There isnot a single unusual or sensational event in the whole narrative, nordid the hero grow up in any strange or remarkable environment. Theinterest therefore is not in what happened, but wholly in the ripeningcharacter of the child. The circumstances are partly true of Tolstoi'sown boyhood, partly not; he purposely mixed his own and his friends'experiences. But mentally the boy is Tolstoi himself, revealed in allthe awkwardness, self-consciousness, and morbidity of youth. The boy'spride, vanity, and curious mixture of timidity and conceit do not forma very attractive picture, and were not intended to. Tolstoi himselfas a young man had little charm, and his numerous portraits allplainly indicate the fact. His Satanic pride made frank friendshipwith him almost an impossibility. Despite our immense respect for hisliterary power, despite the enormous influence for good that his laterbooks have effected, it must be said that of all the great Russianwriters, Tolstoi was the most unlovely.
These three sketches, taken as one, are grounded on moral ideas--thesame ideas that later completely dominated the author's life. We feelhis hatred of dissipation and of artificiality. The chapter on Love,in "Youth," might also form a part of the "Kreuzer Sonata," so fullydoes it harmonise with the
teaching of the later work.
"I do not speak of the love of a young man for a young girl, and hersfor him; I fear these tendernesses, and I have been so unfortunate inlife as never to have seen a single spark of truth in this species oflove, but only a lie, in which sentiment, connubial relations, money,a desire to bind or to unbind one's hands, have to such an extentconfused the feeling itself, that it has been impossible todisentangle it. I am speaking of the love for man."*
*Translated by Isabel Hapgood.
Throughout this book, as in all Tolstoi's work, is the eternalquestion WHY? For what purpose is life, and to what end am I living?What is the real meaning of human ambition and human effort?
Tolstoi's reputation as an artist quite rightly began with thepublication of the three Sevastopol stories, "Sevastopol in December"[1854], "Sevastopol in May, Sevastopol in August." This is the work,not of a promising youth, but of a master. There is not a weak or asuperfluous paragraph. Maurice Hewlett has cleverly turned the chargethat those 'who oppose war are sentimentalists, by risposting that thebelievers in war are the real sentimentalists: "they do not see themurder beneath the khaki and the flags." Tolstoi was one of the firstnovelists to strip war of its glamour, and portray its dull,commonplace filth, and its unspeakable horror. In reading thatmasterpiece "La Debacle," and every one who believes in war ought toread it, one feels that Zola must have learned something from Tolstoi.The Russian novelist stood in the midst of the flying shells, and howlittle did any one then realise that his own escape from death was anevent of far greater importance to the world than the outcome of thewar!
There is little patriotic feeling in "Sevastopol," and its success wasartistic rather than political. Of course Russian courage is praised,but so is the courage of the French. In spite of the fact that Tolstoiwas a Russian officer, actively fighting for his country, he shows asingular aloofness from party passion in all his descriptions. Theonly partisan statement is in the half sentence, "it is a comfort tothink that it was not we who began this war, that we are onlydefending our own country," which might profitably be read by thosewho believe in "just" wars, along with Tennyson's "Maud," published atthe same time. Tennyson was cock-sure that the English were God's ownpeople, and in all this bloodshed were doing the blessed work of theirFather in heaven.
"God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant liar."
Throughout the heat of the conflict, Tolstoi felt its utter absurdity,really holding the same views of war that he held as an old man. "Andwhy do not Christian people," he wrote in "Sevastopol in May," "whoprofess the one great law of love and self-sacrifice, when they beholdwhat they have wrought, fall in repentance upon their knees before Himwho, when He gave them life, implanted in the soul of each of them,together with the fear of death, a love of the good and beautiful,and, with tears of joy and happiness, embrace each other likebrothers?"
Together with the fear of death-this fear is analysed by Tolstoi inall its manifestations. The fear of the young officer, as he exchangesthe enthusiastic departure from Petersburg for the grim reality of thebastions; the fear of the still sound and healthy man as he enters theimprovised hospitals; the fear as the men watch the point ofapproaching light that means a shell; the fear of the men lying on theground, waiting with closed eyes for the shell to burst. It is thevery psychology of death. In reading the account of Praskukhin'ssensations just before death, one feels, as one does in reading thethoughts of Anna Karenina under the train, that Tolstoi himself musthave died in some previous existence, in order to analyse death soclearly. And all these officers, who walk in the Valley of the Shadow,have their selfish ambitions, their absurd social distinctions, andtheir overweening, egotistical vanity.
At the end of the middle sketch, "Sevastopol in May," Tolstoi wroteout the only creed to which he remained consistently true all hislife, the creed of Art.
"Who is the villain, who the hero? All are good and all are evil.
"The hero of my tale, whom I love with all the strength of my soul,whom I have tried to set forth in all his beauty, and who has alwaysbeen, is, and always will be most beautiful, is--the truth."
The next important book, "The Cossacks," is not a great novel. Tolstoihimself grew tired of it, and never finished it. It is interesting asan excellent picture of an interesting community, and it isinteresting as a diary, for the chief character, Olenin, is none otherthan Leo Tolstoi. He departed for the Caucasus in much the same manneras the young writer, and his observations and reflections there areTolstoi's own. The triple contrast in the book is powerfully shown:first, the contrast between the majesty of the mountains and thepettiness of man; second, the contrast between the noble simplicity ofthe Cossack women and the artificiality of the padded shapes ofsociety females; third, the contrast between the two ways of life,that which Olenin recognises as right, the Christian law ofself-denial, but which he does not follow, and the almost sublimepagan bodily joy of old Uncle Yeroshka, who lives in exact harmonywith his creed. Yeroshka is a living force, a real character, andmight have been created by Gogol.
Olenin, who is young Tolstoi, and not very much of a man, soliloquisesin language that was echoed word for word by the Tolstoi of thetwentieth century.
"Happiness consists in living for others. This also is clear. Man isendowed with a craving for happiness; therefore it must be legitimate.If he satisfies it egotistically,--that is, if he bends his energiestoward acquiring wealth, fame, physical comforts, love, it may happenthat circumstances will make it impossible to satisfy this craving. Infact, these cravings are illegitimate, but the craving for happinessis not illegitimate. What cravings can always be satisfiedindependently of external conditions? Love, self-denial."*
*Translated by Isabel Hapgood.
His later glorification of physical labour, as the way of salvationfor irresolute and overeducated Russians, is as emphatically stated in"The Cossacks" as it is in the "Kreuzer Sonata."
"The constant hard field labour, and the duties intrusted to them,give a peculiarly independent, masculine character to the Grebenwomen, and have served to develop in them, to a remarkable degree,physical powers, healthy minds, decision and stability of character."
The chief difference between Turgenev and Tolstoi is that Turgenev wasalways an artist; Tolstoi always a moralist. It was not necessary forhim to abandon novels, and write tracts; for in every novel his moralteaching was abundantly clear.
With the possible exception of "Taras Bulba," "War and Peace" is thegreatest historical romance in the Russian language, perhaps thegreatest in any language. It is not illumined by the humour of anysuch character as Zagloba, who brightens the great chronicles ofSienkiewicz; for if Tolstoi had had an accurate sense of humour, orthe power to create great comic personages, he would never have beenled into the final extremes of doctrine. But although this long bookis unrelieved by mirth, and although as an objective historicalpanorama it does not surpass "The Deluge," it is nevertheless agreater book. It is greater because its psychological analysis is moreprofound and more cunning. It is not so much a study of war, or thestudy of a vital period in the earth's history, as it is a revelationof all phases of human nature in a time of terrible stress. It isfilled with individual portraits, amazingly distinct.
Professors of history and military experts have differed widely--as itis the especial privilege of scholars and experts to differ--concerningthe accuracy of "War and Peace" as a truthful narrative of events. Butthis is really a matter of no importance. Shakespeare is the greatestwriter the world has ever seen; but he is not an authority on history;he is an authority on man. When we wish to study the Wars of the Roses,we do not turn to his pages, brilliant as they are. Despite all thegeographical and historical research that Tolstoi imposed on himselfas a preliminary to the writing of "War and Peace," he did not writethe history of that epoch, nor would a genuine student quote him as inauthority. He created a prose epic, a splendid historical panorama,vitalised by a marvellous imagination, where the creatures of his fancyare more alive than Napole
on and Alexander. Underneath all the march ofarmies, the spiritual purpose of the author is clear. The real greatnessof man consists not in fame or pride of place, but in simplicity andpurity of heart. Once more he gives us the contrast between artificialityand reality.
This novel, like all of Tolstoi's, is by no means a perfect work ofart. Its outline is irregular and ragged; its development devious. Itcontains many excrescences, superfluities, digressions. But it is adictionary of life, where one may look up any passion, any emotion,any ambition, any weakness, and find its meaning. Strakov called it acomplete picture of the Russia of that time, and a complete picture ofhumanity.
Its astonishing inequalities make the reader at times angrilyimpatient, and at other times inspired. One easily understands thevarying emotions of Turgenev, who read the story piecemeal, in thecourse of its publication. "The second part of 1805 is weak. How pettyand artificial all that is! . . . where are the real features of theepoch? where is the historical colour?" Again: "I have just finishedreading the fourth volume. It contains things that are intolerable andthings that are astounding; these latter are the things that dominatethe work, and they are so admirable that never has a Russian writtenanything better; I do not believe there has ever been written anythingso good." Again: "How tormenting are his obstinate repetitions of thesame thing: the down on the upper lip of the Princess Bolkonsky. Butwith all that, there are in this novel passages that no man in Europeexcept Tolstoi could have written, things which put me into a frenzyof enthusiasm."
Tolstoi's genius reached its climax in "Anna Karenina." Greatly as Iadmire some of his other books, I would go so far as to say that if aforced choice had to be made, I had rather have "Anna Karenina" thanall the rest of his works put together. Leave that out, and hisposition in the history of fiction diminishes at once. It is surelythe most powerful novel written by any man of our time, and it wouldbe difficult to name a novel of any period that surpasses it instrength. I well remember the excitement with which we Americanundergraduates in the eighties read the poor and clipped Englishtranslation of this book. Twenty years' contemplation of it makes itseem steadily greater.
Yet its composition was begun by a mere freak, by something analogousto a sporting proposition. He was thinking of writing a historicalromance of the times of Peter the Great, but the task seemedformidable, and he felt no well of inspiration. One evening, the 19March 1873, he entered a room where his ten-year-old boy had beenreading aloud from a story by Pushkin. Tolstoi picked up the book andread the first sentence: "On the eve of the fete the guests began toarrive." He was charmed by the abrupt opening, and cried: "That's theway to begin a book! The reader is immediately taken into the action.Another writer would have begun by a description, but Pushkin, he goesstraight to his goal." Some one in the room suggested playfully toTolstoi that he try a similar commencement and write a novel. Heimmediately withdrew, and wrote the first sentence of Anna Karenina.The next day the Countess said in a letter to her sister: "YesterdayLeo all of a sudden began to write a novel of contemporary life. Thesubject: the unfaithful wife and the whole resulting tragedy. I amvery happy."
The suicide of the heroine was taken almost literally from an eventthat happened in January 1872. We learn this by a letter of theCountess, written on the 10 January in that year: "We have justlearned of a very dramatic story. You remember, at Bibikov's, AnnaStepanova? Well, this Anna Stepanova was jealous of all thegovernesses at Bibikov's house. She displayed her jealousy so muchthat finally Bibikov became angry and quarrelled with her; then AnnaStepanova left him and went to Tula. For three days no one knew whereshe was. At last, on the third day, she appeared at Yassenky, at fiveo'clock in the afternoon, with a little parcel. At the railway stationshe gave the coachman a letter for Bibikov, and gave him a ruble for atip. Bibikov would not take the letter, and when the coachman returnedto the station, he learned that Anna Stepanova had thrown herselfunder the train and was crushed to death. She had certainly done itintentionally. The judge came, and they read him the letter. It said:'You are my murderer: be happy, if assassins can be. If you care to,you can see my corpse on the rails, at Yassenky.' Leo and Uncle Kostiahave gone to the autopsy."
Most of the prominent characters in the book are taken from life, andthe description of the death of Levin's brother is a recollection ofthe time when Tolstoi's own brother died in his arms.
Levin is, of course, Tolstoi himself; and all his eternal doubts andquestionings, his total dissatisfaction and condemnation of artificialsocial life in the cities, his spiritual despair, and his finalrelease from suffering at the magic word of the peasant are strictlyautobiographical. When the muzhik told Levin that one man lived forhis belly, and another for his soul, he became greatly excited, andeagerly demanded further knowledge of his humble teacher. He was oncemore told that man must live according to God--according to truth. Hissoul was immediately filled, says Tolstoi, with brilliant light. Hewas indeed relieved of his burden, like Christian at the sight of theCross. Now Tolstoi's subsequent doctrinal works are all amplificationsof the conversation between Levin and the peasant, which in itselfcontains the real significance of the whole novel.
Even "Anna Karenina," with all its titanic power, is not an artisticmodel of a story. It contains much superfluous matter, and thebalancing off of the two couples, Levin and Kitty, with Vronsky andAnna, is too obviously arranged by the author. One Russian critic wasso disgusted with the book that he announced the plan of acontinuation of the novel where Levin was to fall in love with hiscow, and Kitty's resulting jealousy was to be depicted.
It has no organic plot--simply a succession of pictures. The plot doesnot develop--but the characters do, thus resembling our own individualhuman lives. It has no true unity, such as that shown, for example, bythe "Scarlet Letter." Our interest is largely concentrated in Anna,but besides the parallel story of Kitty, we have many other incidentsand characters which often contribute nothing to the progress of thenovel. They are a part of life, however, so Tolstoi includes them. Onemight say there is an attempt at unity, in the person of that sleekegotist, Stepan--his relation by blood and marriage to both Anna andKitty makes him in some sense a link between the two couples. But heis more successful as a personage than as the keystone of an arch. Thenovel would really lose nothing by considerable cancellation. Theauthor might have omitted Levin's two brothers, the whole Kitty andLevin history could have been liberally abbreviated, and many of theconversations on philosophy and politics would never be missed. Yes,the work could be shortened, but it would take a Turgenev to do it.
Although we may not always find Art in the book, we always find Life.No novel in my recollection combines wider range with greaterintensity. It is extensive and intensive--broad and deep. Thesimplicity of the style in the most impressive scenes is so startlingthat it seems as if there were somehow no style and no language there;nothing whatever between the life in the book and the reader's mind;not only no impenetrable wall of style, such as Meredith and Jamespile up with curious mosaic, so that one cannot see the characters inthe story through the exquisite and opaque structure,--but really nomedium at all, transparent or otherwise. The emotional life of the menand women enter into our emotions with no let or hindrance, and thatperfect condition of communication is realised which Browning believedwould characterise the future life, when spirits would somehowconverse without the slow, troublesome, and inaccurate means oflanguage.
I believe that the average man can learn more about life by reading"Anna Karenina" than he can by his own observation and experience. Onelearns much about Russian life in city and country, much about humannature, and much about one's self, not all of which is flattering, butperhaps profitable for instruction.
This is the true realism--external and internal. The surface of things,clothes, habits of speech, manners and fashions, the way people entera drawing-room, the way one inhales a cigarette,--everything is truthfullyreported. Then there is the true internal realism, which dives belowall appearances and reveals the dawn of a new pas
sion, the first faintstir of an ambition, the slow and cruel advance of the poison of jealousy,the ineradicable egotism, the absolute darkness of unspeakable remorse.No caprice is too trivial, no passion too colossal, to be beyond thereach of the author of this book.
Some novels have attained a wide circulation by means of one scene. Inrecollecting "Anna Karenina," powerful scenes crowd into thememory--introspective and analytic as it is, it is filled withdramatic climaxes. The sheer force of some of these scenes is almostterrifying. The first meeting of Anna and Vronsky at the railwaystation, the midnight interview in the storm on the way back toPetersburg, the awful dialogue between them after she has fallen(omitted from the first American translation), the fearful excitementof the horse race, the sickness of Anna, Karenin's forgiveness, thehumiliation of Vronsky, the latter's attempt at suicide, the steadilyincreasing scenes of jealousy with the shadow of death coming nearer,the clairvoyant power of the author in describing the death of Anna,and the departure of Vronsky, where the railway station reminds himwith intrusive agony of the contrast between his first and last viewof the woman he loved. No one but Tolstoi would ever have given histragic character a toothache at that particular time; but thetoothache, added to the heartache, gives the last touch of reality. Noreader has ever forgotten Vronsky, as he stands for the last time bythe train, his heart torn by the vulture of Memory, and his facetwisted by the steady pain in his tooth.
Every character in the book, major and minor, is a living human being.Stepan, with his healthy, pampered body, and his inane smile atDolly's reproachful face; Dolly, absolutely commonplace and absolutelyreal; Yashvin, the typical officer; the English trainer, Cord; Betsy,always cheerful, always heartless, probably the worst character in thewhole book, Satan's own spawn; Karenin himself, not ridiculous, likean English Restoration husband, but with an overwhelming power ofcreating ennui, in which he lives and moves and has his being.
From the first day of his acquaintance with Anna, Vronsky steadilyrises, and Anna steadily falls. This is in accordance with thefundamental, inexorable moral law. Vronsky, a handsome man with nopurpose in life, who has had immoral relations with a large variety ofwomen, now falls for the first time really in love, and his love forone woman strengthens his mind and heart, gives him an object in life,and concentrates the hitherto scattered energies of his soul. Hisdevelopment as a man, his rise in dignity and force of character, isone of the notable features of the whole book. When we first see him,he is colourless, a mere fashionable type; he constantly becomes moreinteresting, and when we last see him, he has not only our profoundsympathy, but our cordial respect. He was a figure in a uniform, andhas become a man. Devotion to one woman has raised him far abovetrivialities.
The woman pays for all this. Never again, not even in the transportsof passion, will she be so happy as when we first see her on thatbright winter day. She grows in intelligence by the fruit of the tree,and sinks in moral worth and in peace of mind. Never, since the timeof Helen, has there been a woman in literature of more physical charm.Tolstoi, whose understanding of the body is almost supernatural, hascreated in Anna a woman, quite ordinary from the mental and spiritualpoint of view, but who leaves on every reader an indelible vision ofsurpassing loveliness. One is not surprised at Vronsky's instant andtotal surrender.
As a study of sin, the moral force of the story is tremendous. At theend, the words of Paul come irresistibly into the mind. To be carnallyminded is death; to be spiritually minded is life and peace.
One can understand Tolstoi's enthusiasm for the Gospel in his lateryears, and also the prodigious influence of his parables andevangelistic narratives, by remembering that the Russian mind, which,as Gogol said, is more capable than any other of receiving theChristian religion, had been starved for centuries. The OrthodoxChurch of Russia seems to have been and to be as remote from the lifeof the people as the political bureaucracy. The hungry sheep looked upand were not fed. The Christian religion is the dominating force inthe works of Gogol, Tolstoi, and Dostoevski. How eager the Russianpeople are for the simple Gospel, and with what amazing joy they nowreceive it, remind one of the Apostolic age. Accurate testimony tothis fact has lately been given by a dispassionate German observer:--
"In the second half of the nineteenth century the Bible followed inthe track of the knowledge of reading and writing in the Russianvillage. It worked, and works, far more powerfully than all theNihilists, and if the Holy Synod wishes to be consistent in its policyof spiritual enslavement, it must begin by checking the distributionof the Bible. The origin of the 'Stunde,' from the prayer hour of theGerman Menonites and other evangelical colonist meetings, is wellknown. The religious sense of the Russian, brooding for centuries overempty forms, combined with the equally repressed longing for spirituallife,--these quickly seized upon the power of a simple and practicalliving religious doctrine, and the 'Stundist' movement spread rapidlyover the whole south of the Empire. Wherever a Bible in the Russianlanguage is to be found in the village, there a circle rapidly formsaround its learned owner; he is listened to eagerly, and the Word hasits effect. . .
"Pashkov, a colonel of the Guards, who died in Paris at the beginningof 1902, started in the 'eighties' a movement in St. Petersburg, whichwas essentially evangelical, with a methodistical tinge, and whichsoon seized upon all the strata of the population in the capital.Substantially it was a religious revival from the dry-as-dust Greekchurch similar to that which in the sixteenth century turned againstthe Romish church in Germany and in Switzerland. The Gospel was toPashkov himself new, good tidings, and as such he carried it into thedistinguished circles which he assembled at his palace on the Neva,and as such he brought it amongst the crowds of cabmen, labourers,laundresses, etc., whom he called from the streets to hear the news.Pashkov's name was known by the last crossing-sweeper, and manythousands blessed him, some because they had been moved by thereligious spirit which glowed in him, others because they knew of themany charitable institutions which he had founded with his own meansand with the help of rich men and women friends. I myself shall neverforget the few hours which I spent in conversation with this man,simple in spirit as in education, but so rich in religious feeling andin true humility. To me he could offer nothing new, for all that tohim was new I, the son of Lutheran parents, had known from mychildhood days. But what was new to me was the phenomenon of a man whohad belonged for fifty years to a Christian Church and had only nowdiscovered as something new what is familiar to every member of anevangelical community as the sum and substance of Christian teaching.To him the Gospel itself was something new, a revelation.
"This has been the case of many thousands in the Russian Empire whenthey opened the Bible for the first time. The spark flew from villageto village and took fire, because the people were thirsting for aspiritual, religious life, because it brought comfort in theirmaterial misery, and food for their minds. Holy Vladimir, with hisByzantine priests, brought no living Christianity into the land, andthe common Russian had not been brought into contact with it duringthe nine hundred years which have elapsed since. Wherever itpenetrates to-day with the Bible, there its effect is apparent. It issuch as the best Government could not accomplish by worldly meansalone. But it is diametrically opposed to the State Church; it leadsto secession from orthodoxy, and the State has entered upon a crusadeagainst it."*
*"Russia of To-day," by Baron E. von der Bruggen. Translated by M.Sandwith, London, 1904. Pages 165-167.
In "The Power of Darkness, "Ivan Ilyich," and the "Kreuzer Sonata."Tolstoi has shown the way of Death. In "Resurrection" he has shown theway of Life. The most sensational of all his books is the "KreuzerSonata;" it was generally misunderstood, and from that time some ofhis friends walked no more with him. By a curious freak of the powersof this world, it was for a time taboo in the United States, and itspassage by post was forbidden; then the matter was taken to thecourts, and a certain upright judge declared that so far from the bookbeing vicious, it condemned vice and immorality on every page. He notonly removed the ba
n, but recommended its wider circulation. Thecircumstances that gave rise to its composition are described in anexceedingly interesting article in the New York "Sun" for 10 October1909, "A Visit to Count Leo Tolstoi in 1887," by Madame Nadine Helbig.The whole article should be read for the charming picture it gives ofthe patriarchal happiness at Yasnaya Polyana, and while she sawclearly the real comfort enjoyed by Tolstoi, which aroused the fiercewrath of Merezhkovski, she proved also how much good was accomplishedby the old novelist in the course of a single average day.
"Never shall I forget the evening when the young Polish violinist,whom I have already mentioned, asked me to play with him Beethoven'ssonata for piano and violin, dedicated to Kreuzer, his favouritepiece, which he had long been unable to play for want of a good pianoplayer.
"Tolstoi listened with growing attention. He had the first movementplayed again, and after the last note of the sonata he went outquietly without saying, as usual, good night to his family and guests.
"That night was created the 'Kreuzer Sonata' in all its wild force.Shortly afterward he sent me in Rome the manuscript of it. Tolstoi wasthe best listener whom I have ever had the luck to play to. He forgothimself and his surroundings. His expression changed with the music.Tears ran down his cheeks at some beautiful adagio, and he would say,'Tania, just give me a fresh handkerchief; I must have got a coldto-day.' I had to play generally Beethoven and Schumann to him. He didnot approve of Bach, and on the other hand you could make him ravingmad with Liszt, and still more with Wagner."
Many hundreds of amateur players have struggled through the music ofthe "Kreuzer Sonata," trying vainly to see in it what Tolstoi declaredit means. Of course the significance attached to it by Tolstoi existedonly in his vivid imagination, Beethoven being the healthiest of allgreat composers. If the novelist had really wished to describe sensualmusic, he would have made a much more felicitous choice of "Tristanund Isolde."
Although his own married life was until the last years happy as mancould wish, Tolstoi introduced into the "Kreuzer Sonata" passages fromhis own existence. When Posdnichev is engaged, he gives his fianceehis memoirs, containing a truthful account of his various liaisons.She is in utter despair, and for a time thinks of breaking off theengagement. All this was literally true of the author himself. When aboy, the hero was led to a house of ill-fame by a friend of hisbrother, "a very gay student, one of those who are called goodfellows." This reminds us of a precisely similar attempt described byTolstoi in "Youth." Furthermore, Posdnichev's self-righteousness inthe fact that although he had been dissipated, he determined to befaithful to his wife, was literally and psychologically true inTolstoi's own life.
The "Kreuzer Sonata" shows no diminution of Tolstoi's realistic power:the opening scenes on the train, the analysis of the hero's mindduring the early years of his married life, and especially the murder,all betray the familiar power of simplicity and fidelity to detail.The passage of the blade through the corset and then into somethingsoft has that sensual realism so characteristic of all Tolstoi'sdescriptions of bodily sensations. The book is a work of art, andcontains many reflections and bitter accusations against society thatare founded on the truth.
The moral significance of the story is perfectly clear--that men whoare constantly immoral before marriage need not expect happiness inmarried life. It is a great pity that Tolstoi did not let the powerfullittle novel speak for itself, and that he allowed himself to begoaded into an explanatory and defensive commentary by the thousandsof enquiring letters from foolish readers. Much of the commentarycontains sound advice, but it leads off into that reductio ad absurdumso characteristic of Russian thought.
Many of the tracts and parables that Tolstoi wrote are true works ofart, with a Biblical directness and simplicity of style. Their effectoutside of Russia is caused fully as much by their literary style asby their teaching. I remember an undergraduate, who, reading "WhereLove is there God is Also," said that he was tremendously excited whenthe old shoemaker lost his spectacles, and had no peace of mind tillhe found them again. This is unconscious testimony to Tolstoi's powerof making trivial events seem real.
The long novel, "Resurrection," is, as Mr. Maude, the Englishtranslator, shows, not merely a story, but a general summary of allthe final conclusions about life reached by its author. The Englishvolume actually has an "Index to Social Questions, Types," etc.,giving the pages where the author's views on all such topics areexpressed in the book. Apart from the great transformation wrought inthe character of the hero, which is the motive of the work, there arecountless passages which show the genius of the author, still burningbrightly in his old age. The difference between the Easter kiss andthe kiss of lust is one of the most powerful instances of analysis,and may be taken as a symbol of the whole work. And the depiction ofthe sportsman's feelings when he brings down a wounded bird, halfshame and half rage, will startle and impress every man who hascarried a gun.
"Resurrection" teaches directly what Tolstoi always taught--what hetaught less directly, but with even greater art, in "Anna Karenina."
In reading this work of his old age, we cannot help thinking of whatCarlyle said of the octogenarian Goethe: "See how in that great mind,beaming in mildest mellow splendour, beaming, if also trembling, likea great sun on the verge of the horizon, near now to its longfarewell, all these things were illuminated and illustrated."
VI
GORKI
Essays on Russian Novelists Page 5
