1. I have stated in the first lecture that the soul of man ever strives
onward and upward; that its goal is the establishment of the kingdom of
heaven, which consists in reverence before God above, and in love
towards man here below. I have stated that of this journey of the soul
heavenward, literature is the record; that the various phases of
literary development are only so many mile-posts on the road; that after
the voices of the singer, of the protester, of the warrior, are hushed,
there must be heard what must remain forever the loftiest voice in
letters,--the voice of the preacher, the prophet, the inspirer. And I
have stated that just as Pushkin is the singer, Gogol the protester, and
Turgenef the fighter, so is Tolstoy in Russian literature the preacher,
the inspirer.
2. But just because he is the prophet, the uplifter, the proclaimer,
Tolstoy is no longer the _merely_ Russian writer. Pushkin is the
_Russian_ singer, Gogol is the _Russian_ protester, and Turgenef is the
_Russian_ fighter; but Tolstoy is not the inspirer of Russia alone, but
of all mankind. Tolstoy has the least of the Russian in him, because he
has the most of the man in him; he has the least of the son of the Slav
in him, because he has the most of the Son of God in him. The voice of
Leo Tolstoy is not the voice of the nineteenth century, but of all
centuries; the voice of Leo Tolstoy is not the voice of one land, but of
all lands; for the voice of Leo Tolstoy, in short, is the voice of God
speaking through man.
3. For, O my friends, there _is_ a God in heaven, even though the voices
of pessimism and agnosticism be raised never so high against him. There
is a God who ruleth over the heavens and over the earth; and he is
boundless with space, and everlasting with time; and he is sublime with
the sky, and he twinkleth with the star; and he smileth with the sun,
and he beameth with the moon; and he floateth with the cloud, and he
saileth with the wind; he flasheth with the lightning, and resoundeth
with the thunder, he heaveth with the sea, and he dasheth with the surf;
he floweth with the river, and he rusheth with the torrent; he babbleth
with the brook, and he sparkleth with the dew-drop; he reposeth with the
landscape, and he laugheth with the meadow; he waveth with the tree, and
he quivereth with the leaf; he singeth with the bird, and he buzzeth
with the bee; he roareth with the lion, and he pranceth with the steed;
he crawleth with the worm, and he soareth with the eagle; he darteth
with the porpoise, and he diveth with the fish; he dwelleth with the
loving, and he pleadeth with the hating; he shineth with the merciful,
and he aspireth with the prayerful. He is ever nigh unto men,--he, the
Prince of Light!
4. And I say unto ye that the Lord God hath not hid himself from the
hearts of men; he that spake unto Moses and the prophets, and through
them,--he is still nigh. He that spake unto Jesus and the Apostles, and
through them,--he is still nigh. He that spake to Mohammed and Luther,
and through them,--he is still nigh. He recently spake through Carlyle
and through Emerson, and their voices are not yet hushed. And he still
speaketh, my friends, through Ruskin in England and through Tolstoy in
Russia, as he ever shall speak through all earnest souls who love him
with all their heart because they know him, who seek him with all their
heart because they know him not. Think not therefore the Lord God hath
ceased to speak unto men through men; verily, if men but see to it that
there be enough inspired, God will see to it that there be enough
inspirers.
5. And of these Heaven-sent inspirers, Tolstoy is the latest. But do not
believe that in saying that he is Heaven-sent I attempt to explain
aught. The highest is ever inexplicable, and it is the bane of modern
science that it is ever ready to explain what cannot be explained.
Before the highest we can only stand dumb; and this has been the feeling
of the greatest, because of the humblest, of spirits. The Greek painter,
therefore, when about to depict the highest grief of a father, gives up
in despair, and veils the father's face; and Meyer von Bremen's
grandmother, when confronted with the question from the children whence
came that sweet babe in her arms, can only reply, "The storks brought
it;" and so I can say to you only, Tolstoy is sent unto men from Heaven.
6. I say he is Heaven-sent, because he came to proclaim not what is
ephemeral and perishing, but what is permanent and everlasting. He came
to proclaim not the latest theory of gravitation, of molecular
vibration, of modes of heat and manners of cold, nor of struggle for
existence, nor of supply and demand, nay, not even of scientific
charity. He came to proclaim that which was as true in the days of Jesus
as it is true in the days of Darwin,--that the life of man can have no
meaning, unless when guided by obedience to God and love to man.
Gravitation, struggle for existence! The earth has been spinning round
its parent for ages before man's brain-kin made the marvellous discovery
that God's mysterious impulse which set the earth whirling through the
abysses of space is explained in right scientific fashion by labelling
it gravitation. This green earth has rolled on, this green earth will
roll on, label or no label; and the mystery of God men knew not before
gravitation, nor do they know it now with gravitation. Men have for ages
been multiplying under the blessing of God, and loving one another, long
before that marvellous discovery was made that man, sprung from a
monkey, and bred in struggle for existence, is destined at last, under
fine progress of species, to become brutalized with Malthusian law as a
cannibal living on the flesh of his brother, with self-respect and
scientific charity in most abundant supply and demand. Tolstoy came to
proclaim not the new gospel of death, but the old gospel of life; not
the new gospel of struggle for existence, but the old gospel of
helpfulness for existence; not the new gospel of competition, but the
old gospel of brotherhood. Tolstoy came to proclaim the gospel of God,
the gospel of man, the gospel of Christ, the gospel of Socrates, the
gospel of Epictetus, of Aurelius, of Carlyle, of Emerson,--the gospel of
reverence before God and love to man, which is indeed ever old, but
which, alas! the sons of Darkness see to it that it remain forever new.
7. These, then, are the men among whom Tolstoy belongs: which of these
the greater, which of these the less? My friends, when we arrive at
these, we are no longer among the measurable planets, but among the
immeasurable fixed stars. Sirius flashes indeed with greater splendor
than Vega, and Vega than Arcturus, and Arcturus than Capella, and
Capella flashes with greater splendor than Aldebaran; but who shall
undertake to say which of these suns is the greater, which is the less?
The difference of splendor is not in the stars themselves, but in our
eyes. And at this our immeasurable distance from these souls who are
nighest unto the throne of the Most High, it is not for me, the worm, as
I stand before you, to presume to measure which is the greater, which
is the less. Rather than spending our time in profitless weighing and
measuring, let me beseech you to bow your heads in awe and gratitude,
praising God for the mercy which sendeth now and then unto men the
living voice, the helping voice.
8. Tolstoy, therefore, is one of those spirits whom I cannot approach
with the dissecting-knife, as the critic does the author, in order to
"account" for him. To do this, that total freedom from sentiment is
required which was possessed by the enterprising reporter who on the
death of a prominent citizen forthwith requested an interview with
"corpse's uncle." In an age when sentiment has become a byword of
impotence, and the heart has become a mere force-pump for the blood; in
an age when charity has to be put in swaddling-clothes lest it injure a
brother by helping him; when the poor are preached to by their rich
visiting friends, not to make a home for themselves when their love for
a mate is born in the heart, but only when it is born in the purse,--in
such an age that reporter's freedom from sentiment is indeed a most
valuable acquisition; but I, alas! as yet possess it not! I shall
therefore neither judge the preacher Tolstoy, nor measure him. I shall
only point out to you to-day wherein he differs, as he must needs
differ, from the rest of that noble band of the chosen messengers of God
to which he belongs.
9. And the first striking difference is that Tolstoy is a consummate
artist, a creator, in addition to the great preacher. For Marcus
Aurelius is no artist. He is merely a speaker; he delivers his message
in plain tongue, unadorned, often even unpolished. Epictetus, equally
simple, equally direct with Marcus Aurelius, comes, however, already
adorned with a certain humor which now and then sparkles through his
serious pages. Ruskin brings with him quite a respectable load of
artistic baggage; he brings an incisiveness, a sarcasm, often a piquancy
with him, which makes him entertaining besides inspiring. Emerson and
Carlyle bring with them much that, as artistic work; might, under more
favorable auspices, have been worth saving for its own sake: the one
brings a grace, a sportiveness, and a brilliancy which fascinates, the
other a fervor, an imagination, a grim-humor, a lightning-flashing,
which dazzles. But none of these live in letters because of their art.
Were they to depend on this alone, they would quickly perish. They live
because of the spirit which worketh through them; so that were you to
take the Jeremiah out of Carlyle, the John the Baptist out of Ruskin,
and the Solomon out of Emerson, you would deprive them of their literary
life. Tolstoy, however, even though the preacher be gone from him, still
remains a mighty power in letters because of his art. For not only are
his works filled with the highest purpose,--they are also created with
the highest art. And I cannot show you this difference any better than
by quoting two passages, one from Carlyle, the other from Tolstoy, both
treating of the soul's well-nigh noblest emotion,--Repentance.
"On the whole, we make too much of faults. Faults? The greatest of
faults, I should say, is to be conscious of none. Readers of the
Bible, above all, one would think, might know better. Who is called
there 'the man according to God's own heart'? David, the Hebrew
king, had fallen into sins enough; blackest crimes; there was no
want of sins. And therefore the unbelievers sneer, and ask, 'Is this
the man according to God's own heart?' The sneer, I must say, seems
to be but a shallow one.
"What are faults, what are the outward details of a life, if the
inner secret of it, the remorse, temptations, true, often-battled,
never-ending struggle of it be forgotten? 'It is not in man that
walketh to direct his steps.' Of all acts, is not, for a man,
_repentance_ the most divine? The deadliest sin, I say, were the
same supercilious consciousness of no sin; that is death; the heart
so conscious is divorced from sincerity, humility, and fact,--is
dead; it is 'pure,' as dead dry sand is pure.
"David's life and history, as written for us in those Psalms of his,
I consider to be the truest emblem ever given of man's moral
progress and warfare here below. All earnest men will ever discern
in it the faithful struggle of an earnest human soul toward what is
good and best. Struggle often baffled, sore battled, down as into
entire wreck; yet a struggle never ended; ever with tears,
repentance, true unconquerable purpose begun anew. Poor human
nature! Is not a man's walking, in truth, always that,--'a
succession of falls'? Man can do no other. In this wild element of
Life, he has to struggle onward; now fallen, deep abased; and ever
with tears, repentance, with bleeding heart, he has to rise again,
struggle again still onward. That his struggle _be_ a faithful,
unconquerable one; that is the question of questions. We will put up
with many sad details, if the soul of it were true. Details by
themselves will never teach us what it is."
10. Powerful as this passage is, I cannot help feeling that Tolstoy has
treated the same subject more artistically than Carlyle, by embodying
his lesson in objective shape, where Carlyle treats it subjectively. And
now listen to Tolstoy:--