TOLSTOI, ARTIST AND PREACHER

As a man of letters, Lyoff Nikolaievitch, Count Tolstoi, holds undisputed place in the first rank; as a philosophical preacher of reform, his position is much less secure. And it is sadly ironical that one who was so ready to lay aside those fictional laurels which all men yielded to him readily, has not been accorded the preëminence among moralists which he held to be of so much greater worth.

The last twenty years of his abundant life disclosed in this greatest of all Russians that which was always really present—the single eye, with its gaze constantly set upon ethical ideals. Even a swift survey of his life and its so closely interpenetrating work will bear out this estimate—perhaps surprisingly.

In 1828, on September 9—August 28, old style—Tolstoi was born at Yasnaia Polyana, in the government of Tula, Russia. For several centuries his wealthy and noble family was distinguished in military and state affairs as well as in literature, one of his ancestors, Peter Tolstoi, having been the intimate of Peter the Great. Lyoff’s father, Nikolai, and his mother, the Princess Volkhonsky, died while he was yet alad, leaving him in charge of an aunt. He inherited a rich estate which his father had succeeded in thriftily disencumbering from the debts of extravagance contracted by his own father.

The future author was educated at home, spent some time (1843-44) at the University of Kazan, did further private work at home, for a while studied law in St. Petersburg, alternated between his estates and the social life of the great cities, and eventually entered the army in 1851. It was during this period that he gathered much of the material for his early stories, notably “The Cossacks,” a short novel of unmistakable power and insight; and the rambling autobiographical stories, “Childhood,” “Boyhood,” and “Youth,” generally combined under the first title. When the Crimean War broke out, in 1853, Tolstoi was transferred to the army of the Danube, and distinguished himself for bravery before Sevastopol—as well as by his three notable sketches which bear the name of this great siege, “Sevastopol in December,” “Sevastopol in May,” and “Sevastopol in August.”

Tolstoi’s life as a soldier was that of a rake—in which he differed not at all from the young noblemen of the period. But this wild career does not seem to have interfered with his fondness for moralizing, nor with his conviction that he wasthe spiritual Moses, divinely commissioned to lead the Russian people out of the wilderness. His youthful diary confesses that the three passions to which he yielded, gambling, sensuality, and vanity, were moral stumbling-blocks; and with naïve premonition he wrote: “There is something in me which makes me think that I was not born to be just like everybody else.” But the most remarkable youthful forecast is found in the words which Professor Phelps quotes from Tolstoi’s journal of this period: “The man who has no other goal than his own happiness is a bad man. He whose goal is the good opinion of others is a weak man. He whose goal is the happiness of others is a virtuous man. He whose goal is God is a great man.” In these cumulative epigrams we have a summary of Tolstoi’s creed. However far afield he wandered in middle years, distressed by doubts and confused by jangling voices, the sturdy seeking-soul of him followed this great light with the single eye of an honest man, and this altruistic doctrine he preached with increasing loftiness, through excommunication and charges of insanity, down to the very end. That so extreme a theory should lead him often into blind avenues, and that the phantoms of many inconsistencies should challenge his way, was inevitable; yet Tolstoi stands before theworld today as a good man and an earnest one, who never lay upon a couch of down while he preached abnegation for others.

An insatiable psychological curiosity possessed the Russian master from youth to the close of his fiction-writing years. In the exercise of this minute observing power, he is as amazing a realist as was Balzac, and when he confines his examinations to humans he is quite as profoundly interesting, but rather tiresome when he records the numberless details of inanimate nature.

A character so given to scrutiny would naturally be introspective, so that his novels are markedly autobiographical. And it is always the struggling, set-upon, brooding character which the novelist chooses through which to depict his own nature. How different from the romantic self-exploitation of Byron! In “Childhood,”Nikolenkais Tolstoi himself, asOlénineis in “The Cossacks.” So too inLevineof “Anna Karenina,”Pozdnichev, of “The Kreutzer Sonata,” andNekhlioudov, of “Resurrection” (his final creed-summary), we have pictures of the self-recognized characteristics and beliefs of the author.

Each of these distinguished novels exhibits the same loosely-knit, diffuse, and digressive literary method, and the same marvellous perfectionof character analysis and description. Each, also, advances a step toward that morbid idealism which was always seeking a new expression for a philosophy which was never finally set, but remained a shifting formulary to the last.

“War and Peace” is a huge study of the times of Napoleon and Alexander, brilliant and tedious by turns, and requiring leisure for its reading—in the last analysis, a really great novel. “Anna Karenina” treats with great frankness and high moral purpose contemporaneous Russian society. Both these remarkable books abound in striking comparisons, witty comments, well differentiated character work, and convincing pictures of their times.

Shortly after finishing these works, Tolstoi emerged from his groping, pessimistic, skeptical, nihilistic philosophy and “discovered” the Sermon on the Mount. Thenceforward he was the Preacher. It is true that, as his devoted wife playfully said, he changed his views every two years, yet his devotion to his altruistic creed—the creed of his youth, as we have seen—was so firm that neither the dying adjurations of his friend Turgenev nor the clamors of the forty-five peoples into whose separate languages his writings have been translated could induce him to return to fiction—he felt that the mantle of anew spiritual leadership was upon his shoulders, and thenceforward the story-teller’s art, when exercised at all, was to be merely a means to the ulterior end of teaching.

A great number of didactic essays wearing the transparent gauze of fiction came from Tolstoi’s pen in this period, as well as many religious and ethical treatises, besides one astounding, ideal-smashing discussion, “What is Art?” Radicalism is the native air of reform, and our author was fond of drastic measures in practice and in theory. The communism of his middle period found new emphasis in the later long essay, “What, Then, Must be Done?” Yet his was a directly contrary individualism of personal philosophy. Contradictory again was his abandonment of the city and adoption of the peasant life on his own estates. Indeed, one looks in vain for consistency in the working-out of his whole career; and yet, while the general course swerved startlingly time and again, no one could doubt the naïve sincerity of this sophisticated, simple mind, this nobleman peasant, this iconoclastic gentle man, this nihilistic Christian, this pessimistic idealist, this contradictory soul of single purpose, this incarnation of selfish unselfishness. For there can be no doubt that Tolstoi’s character was greater than his confused system of ethics, just as his intellectwas greater than his philosophy. Think of the supreme selfless egoism that could permit a wife with whom he lived as with a sister for years—probably ever since he propounded his extreme marital theories in “The Kreutzer Sonata”—to copy as often as ten times the myriad pages of his works, all laboriously by hand! And yet, because his followers demanded that he should exemplify his doctrines, and partly also because this eighty-two-year-old father of ten children could not live peacefully under stress of the divided beliefs of the home, he broke the heart of this devoted woman by leaving home secretly by night, and died thus in retreat shortly after, November 20 (O. S. Nov. 7), 1910. For four days the Countess Sophia was beneath the roof where her husband lay ill, yet only at the last did she venture to come into his room, drop on her knees by his bedside, and kiss the hand that for conscience’ sake had smitten her! Strange contradiction of human life when this idealizer of family love, this apostle of gentleness, this generous soul who could withhold nothing from the needy, make over his estate to his family years before he died, refuse to receive royalties from his books, beg the public to forget his masterpieces of fiction and read only his tractates, labor in the fields and eat peasant bread—when thisgreat soul could love-starve the aged helpmeet who had been his strength for three-score years!

In the midst of so many vague and divergent expressions throughout his whole literary career, and especially in “My Religion” and “Resurrection,” it is difficult to crystallize what Tolstoi taught. But this seems to me to be the gist:

We have two natures: the animal nature, which decays and dies, and the spiritual, which lives forever. Life consists in doing those things which gratify our desires, and thus bring happiness. But when we attempt to live and gain happiness by the gratification of our animal natures we meet only disappointment, for animal desires can never be really satisfied. Therefore we need to be regenerated, which is nothing more than the enthronement of our spiritual natures and the denying or casting-out of our animal natures. The gratification of our spiritual selves is found in Love, the only good, and the essence of love consists not in self-pleasing but in seeking our happiness in the happiness and well-being of others. Thus do we obey the law of God and become one with Him. In the exercise of our desires for the well-being of others we will not only deny ourselves all carnal desires, but never oppose force by force—love will be sufficient toovercome all enemies. We must not even flee from suffering, danger, or death, but accept each as good, whereupon it will cease to have power to harm us. This life of love is opposed to all selfish acquisition of property. To be truly happy, we must get back to the soil, abandon the artificialities of city life, labor for our food, and give to others.

Though Tolstoi turned so often, and finally without backsliding, to the peasant class, he did not so much champion their cause as he gemmed a crown for the obscure life as such. He could not pity those whose ways were laborious, because to him no other career than bodily toil could bring the highest good. The outbursting, fiercely passionate soul of all his later years was for the pitiable masses who still chose swords rather than plowshares, who preferred a lawsuit to a loss, who loved the city more than the country, who saw joy in the factory and none in the farm.

Those who have only a shivering admiration for the terrors of Russian fiction in general will find in Tolstoi’s short-stories much that is sweet and gentle; yet, being the most Russian of all Russian fiction-writers, he could but cry aloud with the pity of his people. But greater than his pity was his passion for preaching.

Sermons big and little lurk in every corner of his stories to fix you with their relentless eyes. Even when the tale is not clearly didactic, a swift vision of moral relations is sure to come to him who reads. For an instance, take “My Dream,” the story of a Russian prince whose daughter runs away with a married man and bears him a child. At length the sister-in-law of the prince pleads with him to forgive his daughter. Here is his severe reply:

“I have suffered enough. I have now but one desire, and that is to put her in such a position that she will be independent of others, and that she shall have no further need of communicating with me. Then she can live her own life, and my family and I need know nothing more about her. That is all I can do.”

But the woman-heart crystallizes the teaching of the story when she replies:

“Michael, you say nothing but ‘I.’ She too is ‘I.’”

There is a fine, high spirit, too, in “Where Love is, There God is Also.”

Martin Andyeeich was an honest Russian cobbler whose wife and children had died, leaving him with but one child, a small boy, upon whom he had set his heart. But that child also died, and Martin reproached God. At length a pilgrimmonk directed him to the gospels, and the cobbler became a devout follower of their teachings.

One day he heard a Voice which bade him look tomorrow into the street, for Christ would come to him. The Lord did not appear, however, and for a long while the only one with whom Martin conversed was a chilled old snow-sweeper, to whom the cobbler gave hot tea to drink, as he explained to him the gospel; after which the grateful old man left. Martin continued to look for Christ, but He did not come—though he did see a poorly clad woman with a little child. These he fed and warmed, hearing her story and bestowing an old jacket to cover her thin summer garments. He next acted as mediator between an old woman and a mischievous boy who had stolen her apples; and to her also he expounded the new truth which had possessed him—the doctrine of love. Thus all day long he had looked for the Christ and had not seen him. But now as he returned to his cellar a Presence declared itself as He who had said, “Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.” “And Martin then understood that his dream had not deceived him, and that the Saviour had really come to him that day, and he had really received Him.”

One of the stories in Tolstoi’s earlier style is “A Prisoner in the Caucasus.”

Zhilin was an officer in the Caucasus in wartime. His aged mother persuaded him to come home once more to see her, and to marry the girl she had chosen to be his bride. The roads were impassable. The Tartars killed or carried into the mountains all Russians they captured. For this reason a military escort passed twice a week from fortress to fortress. Travelling thus, Zhilin became impatient at delays and decided to ride on alone. Kostuilin, another mounted officer, decided to go with him. They had not gone far when they were taken by the Tartars, bound, and held in a Tartar village for ransom. After many weeks, they escaped, only to be retaken and brought back to the village. And now the hut in which they were thrown and their food were worse than before. Again, after many weeks, Zhilin, with the aid of a Tartar maid, escaped, and finally reached the fortress. “You see,” he told his comrades, “I was going home to be married. But no; that is evidently not to be my fate.” Eventually he and his comrades ransomed Kostuilin for five thousand rubles.

I relate this perfectly plotless tale to show how on a slender thread of actual incident Tolstoi could hang a tremendous weight, for this story,with its naked truth-telling as to conditions, forced the government to act, by the sheer force of public opinion, and this is a miracle in Russia.

Another plotless story whose ten thousand words pile up a tremendous impression of character is “An Old Acquaintance.” The narrative, told in the first person by Prince Nelshiludof, is of how, during an expedition in the Caucasus, he met an acquaintance from Moscow. The splendor of the night in the open and the recreations of the officers are given in gems of description.

During a game of skittles, Guskof, a cashiered officer who now lives with the adjutant, comes to the prince, who seems faintly to recollect having met him before. After some general conversation, the officers retire for either sleep or gambling, leaving the prince and Guskof alone. Upon being asked if they had not met before, Guskof reminds the prince of their having met at the home of Guskof’s sister in Moscow, and this leads to further reminiscences.

During a long walk that night, Guskof, who constantly by his own story exhibits his weakness of character, tells how he once was of the highest society of St. Petersburg, but had been—through a liaison and a resulting duel—put underarrest and later cashiered. But this weakness is further shown when he goes on to lament his treatment at the hands of other officers with whom he comes in contact. He expresses a feeling of great disgust at their mode of spending their leisure hours. He admits that he is a moral coward—which is proven later. At length, after further conversation, which inspires a mixed feeling of disgust and pity in the prince, Guskof borrows from him some money. Suddenly, the bursting of a shell causes Guskof to cringe in abject terror, and in the confusion he disappears, but later is seen by the prince in a tent offering in a maudlin voice the money which he had borrowed, and boasting of how “his friend the prince” was rich, and how he had just gotten ten rubles from him.

Perhaps the pity of life, and the tragic results of its sins, are nowhere more piercingly set forth than in Tolstoi’s short-story “Korney Vasiliev”—structurally, his most perfect little fiction, for generally situation rather than plot makes the stronger appeal to our author.

Korney, a well-to-do merchant, after a temporary absence, is returning to his home. While en route, Kuzma, his driver, tells him that Martha, Korney’s wife, has taken a new workman in the house—Yevstiquey, her former lover,and that she is again living with him. The affair, says Kuzma, is the talk of the village.

Korney does not know whether to believe the unreliable Kuzma, but on arriving home sets out to find out for himself. He distributes the presents he had brought back with him—one for his little daughter Agatha, one for his son Theodore, one for his wife, and so on. At bedtime, no longer able to restrain himself, he blurts out his suspicions to his wife, who first ridicules them, but finally, under her husband’s blows, admits their truth, and spitefully suggests that little Agatha is not a child of Korney’s, but of Yevstiquey’s. The child, coming into the room, is brutally used by him—her arm being broken. At the end of this violent scene, Korney leaves his home.

After seventeen years, now a broken old man, Korney is returning home, begging his way. After he left his wife he had taken to drink, spent all his money, and, being unreliable, no one would keep him long at work. The idea takes hold of him that it is his wife who has been the cause of all his misery, and his one thought is, before she dies, to go to her and show her what she has made of him. He is very weak, but manages to make his way to a village, where a kindly young peasant woman, seeing his plight, takes him in for thenight and gives him food, drink, and shelter. Noticing that she has a lame arm, he mentions it, and the fact is revealed that she is Agatha, in whose eyes he recognizes Yevstiquey. He breaks down, but does not reveal himself, though in his heart he is sorry for what he did to the girl.

In the morning he trudges on toward his wife’s village. He knocks on the door, and a woman comes out. He recognizes his wife, but how old and haggard she has grown—she who had been so beautiful and so strong! And all the resentment vanishes from his heart, and in its place springs up a terrible pity. Everything else about the place seems also to have undergone change. Even after he says appealingly, “Martha, let us die together!” she still pretends not to recognize him, takes him for a tramp, and tells him to go from the door. However, his son Theodore—an image of his father when he was young—takes pity on the old man, not knowing who he is, and, angry at his mother for her unkindness, brings to the old man some black bread. The father is touched, and, even weaker than he was, drags himself back to Agatha’s village and begs for shelter, which is given him.

In the meantime, Martha’s conscience gives her no peace, and, learning what direction old Korney has taken, she follows. Arrived at herdaughter’s house, she finds a crowd there mourning the old man, who has died, and from his dignified old face she does not know whether he had forgiven her or not.

The story that follows in translation is one of the most representative of all the Russian’s shorter work. It speaks its own praises.

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