cannot even tell them apart, so it would be a waste of labour to write
further about them. But the four men who make up the Karamazov family,
the father and the three sons, are one of the greatest family parties
in the history of fiction. Then the idiotic and epileptic
Smerdakov--for Dostoevski must have his idiot and his fits, and they
make an effective combination--is an absolutely original character out
of whose mouth come from time to time the words of truth and
soberness. The old monk at the head of the chapter is marvellous; he
would find a natural place in one of Ibsen's early historical dramas,
for he is a colossal pontifical figure, and has about him the ancient
air of authority. If one really doubted the genius of Dostoevski, one
would merely need to contemplate the men in this extraordinary story,
and listen to their talk. Then if any one continued to doubt
Dostoevski's greatness as a novelist, he could no longer doubt his
greatness as a man.
The criminal psychology of this novel and the scenes at the trial are
more interesting than those in "Crime and Punishment," for the
prisoner is a much more interesting man than Raskolnikov, and by an
exceedingly clever trick the reader is completely deceived. The
discovery of the murder is as harsh a piece of realism as the most
difficult realist could desire. The corpse lies on its back on the
floor, its silk nightgown covered with blood. The faithful old
servant, smitten down and bleeding copiously, is faintly crying for
help. Close at hand is the epileptic, in the midst of a fearful
convulsion. There are some dramatic moments!
But the story, as nearly always in Dostoevski, is a mere easel for the
portraits. From the loins of the father--a man of tremendous force of
character, all turned hellward, for he is a selfish, sensual
beast--proceed three sons, men of powerful individualities, bound
together by fraternal affection. Mitia is in many respects like his
father, but it is wonderful how we love him in the closing scenes;
Ivan is the sceptic, whose final conviction that he is morally
responsible for his father's murder shows his inability to escape from
the domination of moral ideas; Alosha, the priestly third brother, has
all the family force of character, but in him it finds its only outlet
in love to God and love to man. He has a remarkably subtle mind, but
he is as innocent, as harmless, as sincere, and as pure in heart as a
little child. He invariably returns for injury, not pardon, but active
kindness. No one can be offended in him for long, and his cheerful
conversation and beautiful, upright life are a living witness to his
religious faith, known and read of all men. Angry, sneering, and
selfish folk come to regard him with an affection akin to holy awe.
But he is not in the least a prig or a stuffed curiosity. He is
essentially a reasonable, kind-hearted man, who goes about doing good.
Every one confides in him, all go to him for advice and solace. He is
a multitudinous blessing, with masculine virility and shrewd insight,
along with the sensitiveness and tenderness of a good woman. Seeing
six boys attacking one, he attempts to rescue the solitary fighter,
when to his surprise the gamin turns on him, insults him, strikes him
with a stone, and bites him. Alosha, wrapping up his injured hand,
after one involuntary scream of pain, looks affectionately at the
young scoundrel, and quietly asks, "Tell me, what have I done to you?"
The boy looks at him in amazement. Alosha continues: "I don't know
you, but of course I must have injured you in some way since you treat
me so. Tell me exactly where I have been wrong." The child bursts into
tears, and what no violence of punishment has been able to accomplish,
Alosha's kindness has done in a few moments. Here is a boy who would
gladly die for him.
The conversations in this book have often quite unexpected turns of
humour, and are filled with oversubtle questions of casuistry and
curious reasonings. From one point of view the novel is a huge,
commonplace book, into which Dostoevski put all sorts of whimsies,
queries, and vagaries. Smerdakov, the epileptic, is a thorn in the
side of those who endeavour to instruct him, for he asks questions and
raises unforeseen difficulties that perplex those who regard
themselves as his superiors. No one but Dostoevski would ever have
conceived of such a character, or have imagined such ideas.
If one reads "Poor Folk," "Crime and Punishment," "Memoirs of the
House of the Dead," "The Idiot," and "The Karamazov Brothers," one
will have a complete idea of Dostoevski's genius and of his faults as
a writer, and will see clearly his attitude toward life. In his story
called "Devils" one may learn something about his political opinions;
but these are of slight interest; for a man's opinions on politics are
his views on something of temporary and transient importance, and like
a railway time-table, they are subject to change without notice. But
the ideas of a great man on Religion, Humanity, and Art take hold on
something eternal, and sometimes borrow eternity from the object.
No doubt Dostoevski realised the sad inequalities of his work, and the
great blunders due to haste in composition. He wrote side by side with
Turgenev and Tolstoi, and could not escape the annual comparison in
production. Indeed, he was always measuring himself with these two
men, and they were never long out of his mind. Nor was his soul
without bitterness when he reflected on their fortunate circumstances
which enabled them to write, correct, and polish at leisure, and give
to the public only the last refinement of their work. In the novel
"Downtrodden and Oppressed" Natasha asks the young writer if he has
finished his composition. On being told that it is all done, she says:
"God be praised! But haven't you hurried it too much? Haven't you
spoiled anything?" "Oh, I don't think so," he replied; "when I have a
work that demands a particular tension of the mind, I am in a state of
extraordinary nervous excitement; images are clearer, my senses are
more alert, and for the form, why, the style is plastic, and steadily
becomes better in proportion as the tension becomes stronger." She
sighed, and added: "You are exhausting yourself and you will ruin your
health. Just look at S. He spent two years in writing one short story;
but how he has worked at it and chiselled it down! not the least thing
to revise; no one can detect a blemish." To this stricture the poor
fellow rejoined, "Ah, but those fellows have their income assured,
they are never compelled to publish at a fixed date, while I, why, I
am only a cabhorse!"
Although Dostoevski's sins against art were black and many, it was a
supreme compliment to the Novel as an art-form that such a man should
have chosen it as the channel of his ideas. For he was certainly one
of the most profound thinkers of modern times. His thought dives below
and soars above the regions where even notable philosophers live out
their intellectual lives. He never dodged the ugly facts in the world,
nor even winced before them. Nor did he defy them. The vast knowledge
that he had of the very worst of life's conditions, and of the extreme
limits of sin of which humanity is capable, seemed only to deepen and
strengthen his love of this world, his love of all the creatures on
it, and his intense religious passion. For the religion of Dostoevski
is thrilling in its clairvoyance and in its fervour. That so
experienced and unprejudiced a man, gifted with such a power of subtle
and profound reflection, should have found in the Christian religion
the only solution of the riddle of existence, and the best rule for
daily conduct, is in itself valuable evidence that the Christian
religion is true.
Dostoevski has been surpassed in many things by other novelists. The
deficiencies and the excrescences of his art are glaring. But of all
the masters of fiction, both in Russia and elsewhere, he is the most
truly spiritual.
V
TOLSTOI
On the 6 September 1852, signed only with initials, appeared in a
Russian periodical the first work of Count Leo Tolstoi--"Childhood."
By 1867, his name was just barely known outside of Russia, for in that
year the American diplomat, Eugene Schuyler, in the preface to his
translation of "Fathers and Sons," said, "The success of Gogol brought
out a large number of romance-writers, who abandoned all imitation of
German, French, and English novelists, and have founded a truly
national school of romance." Besides Turgenev, "easily their chief,"
he mentioned five Russian writers, all but one of whom are now unknown
or forgotten in America. The second in his list was "the Count
Tolstoi, a writer chiefly of military novels." During the seventies,
the English scholar Ralston published in a review some paraphrases of
Tolstoi, because, as he said, "Tolstoi will probably never be
translated into English." To-day the works of Tolstoi are translated
into forty-five languages, and in the original Russian the sales have
gone into many millions. During the last ten years of his life he held
an absolutely unchallenged position as the greatest living writer in
the world, there being not a single contemporary worthy to be named in
the same breath.
Tolstoi himself, at the end of the century, divided his life into four
periods:* the innocent, joyous, and poetic time of childhood, from
earliest recollection up to the age of fourteen; the "terrible
twenties," full of ambition, vanity, and licentiousness, lasting till
his marriage at the age of thirty-four; the third period of eighteen
years, when he was honest and pure in family life, but a thorough
egoist; the fourth period, which he hoped would be the last, dating
from his Christian conversion, and during which he tried to shape his
life in accordance with the Sermon on the Mount.
*His own "Memoirs," edited by Birukov, are now the authority for
biographical detail. They are still in process of publication.
He was born at Yasnaya Polyana, in south central Russia, not far from
the birthplace of Turgenev, on the 28 August 1828. His mother died
when he was a baby, his father when he was only nine. An aunt, to whom
he was devotedly attached, and whom he called "Grandmother," had the
main supervision of his education. In 1836 the family went to live at
Moscow, where the boy formed that habit of omnivorous reading which
characterised his whole life. Up to his fourteenth year, the books
that chiefly influenced him were the Old Testament, the "Arabian
Nights," Pushkin, and popular Russian legends. It was intended that he
should follow a diplomatic career, and in preparation for the
University of Kazan, he studied Oriental languages. In 1844 he failed
to pass his entrance examinations, but was admitted some months later.
He left the University in 1847. From his fourteenth to his
twenty-first year the books that he read with the most profit were
Sterne's "Sentimental Journey," under the influence of which he wrote
his first story, Pushkin, Schiller's "Robbers," Lermontov, Gogol,
Turgenev's "A Sportsman's Sketches;" and to a less degree he was
affected by the New Testament, Rousseau, Dickens's "David
Copperfield," and the historical works of the American Prescott. Like
all Russian boys, he of course read the romances of Fenimore Cooper.
On leaving the University, he meant to take up a permanent residence
in 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 the
autumn of 1847, where he entered the University in the department of
law. During all this time he had the habit of almost morbid
introspection, and like so many young people, he wrote resolutions and
kept a diary. In 1851 he went with his brother to the Caucasus, and
entered the military service, as described in his novel, "The
Cossacks." Here he indulged in dissipation, cards, and women, like the
other soldiers. In the midst of his life there he wrote to his aunt,
in French, the language of most of their correspondence, "You recall
some advice you once gave me--to write novels: well, I am of your
opinion, and I am doing literary work. I do not know whether what I
write 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." He
noted at this time that the three passions which obstructed the moral
way were gambling, sensuality, and vanity. And he further wrote in his
journal, "There is something in me which makes me think that I was not
born to be just like everybody else." Again: "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!"
He finished his first novel, "Childhood," sent it to a Russian review,
and experienced the most naive delight when the letter of acceptance
arrived. "It made me happy to the limit of stupidity," he wrote in his
diary. The letter was indeed flattering. The publisher recognised the
young author's talent, and was impressed with his "simplicity and
reality," as well he might be, for they became the cardinal qualities
of all Tolstoi's books. It attracted little attention, however, and no
criticism of it appeared for two years. But a little later, when
Dostoevski obtained in Siberia the two numbers of the periodical
containing "Childhood" and "Boyhood," he was deeply moved, and wrote
to a friend, asking, Who is this mysterious L. N. T.? But for a long
time 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 all
the horrors of warfare, as described in "Sevastopol." Still, he found
time somehow for literary work, wrote "Boyhood," and read Dickens in
English. About this time he decided to substitute the Lord's Prayer in
his private devotions for all other petitions, saying that "Thy will
be done on earth as it is in Heaven" included everything. On the 5
March 1855 he wrote in his diary a curious prophecy of his present
attitude toward religion: "My conversations on divinity and faith have
led me to a great idea, for the realisation of which I am ready to
devote my whole life. This idea is the founding of a new religion,
corresponding to the level of human development, the religion of
Christ, but purified of all dogmas and mysteries, a practical religion
not promising a blessed future life, but bestowing happiness here on
earth."
In this same year he wrote the book which was the first absolute proof
of his genius, and with the publication of which his reputation
began--"Sevastopol in December." This was printed in the same review
that had accepted his first work, was greeted with enthusiasm by
Turgenev 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 found
himself famous.
It was evident that a man so absorbed in religious ideas and so
sensitive to the hideous wholesale murder of war, could not remain for
long in the army. He arrived at Petersburg on the 21 November 1855,
and had a warm reception from the distinguished group of writers who
were at that time contributors to the "Sovremennik* (The Contemporary
Review)," which had published Tolstoi's work. This review had been
founded by Pushkin in 1836, was now edited by Nekrassov, who had
accepted Tolstoi's first article, "Childhood," and had enlisted the
foremost writers of Russia, prominent among whom was, of course,
Turgenev. The books which Tolstoi read with the most profit during
this period were Goethe, Hugo's "Notre-Dame," Plato in French, and
Homer 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 already
certain that a great writer had appeared in Russia. Writing to a
friend from Paris, in 1856, he said, "When this new wine is ripened
there will be a drink fit for the gods." In 1857, after Tolstoi had
visited him in Paris, Turgenev wrote, "This man will go far and will
leave behind him a profound influence." But the two authors had little
in common, and it was evident that there could never be perfect
harmony between them. Explaining why he could not feel wholly at ease
with Tolstoi, he said, "We are made of different clay."
In January 1857, Tolstoi left Moscow for Warsaw by sledge, and from
there travelled by rail for Paris. In March, accompanied by Turgenev,
he went to Dijon, and saw a man executed by the guillotine. He was
deeply impressed both by the horror and by the absurdity of capital
punishment, and, as he said, the affair "pursued" him for a long time.
He travelled on through Switzerland, and at Lucerne he felt the
contrast between the great natural beauty of the scenery and the
artificiality of the English snobs in the hotel. He journeyed on down
the Rhine, and returned to Russia from Berlin. During all these months
of travel, his journal expresses the constant religious fermentation
of his mind, and his intense democratic sentiments. They were the same
ideas held by the Tolstoi of 1900.
On the 3 July 1860, he left Petersburg by steamer, once more to visit
southern Europe. He visited schools, universities, and studied the
German methods of education. He also spent some time in the south of
France, and wrote part of "The Cossacks" there. In Paris he once more
visited Turgenev, and then crossed over to London, where he saw the
great Russian critic Herzen almost every day. Herzen was not at all
impressed by Tolstoi's philosophical views, finding them both weak and
vague. The little daughter of Herzen begged her father for the
privilege of meeting the young and famous author. She expected to see
a philosopher, who would speak of weighty matters: what was her
disappointment when Count Tolstoi appeared, dressed in the latest
English style, looking exactly like a fashionable man of the world,
and talking with great enthusiasm of a cock-fight he had just
witnessed!
After nine months' absence, Tolstoi returned to Russia in April 1861.
He soon went to his home at Yasnaya Polyana, established a school for
the peasants, and devoted himself to the arduous labour of their
education. Here he had a chance to put into practice all the theories
that he had acquired from his observations in Germany and England. He
worked so hard that he injured his health, and in a few months was
forced to travel and rest. In this same year he lost a thousand rubles
playing billiards with Katkov, the well-known editor of the "Russian
Messenger." Not being able to pay cash, he gave Katkov the manuscript
of his novel, "The Cossacks," which was accordingly printed in the
review in January 1863.
On the 23 September 1862, he was married. A short time before this
event he gave his fiancee his diary, which contained a frank and free
account of all the sins of his bachelor life. She was overwhelmed, and
thought of breaking off the engagement. After many nights spent in
wakeful weeping, she returned the journal to him, with a full pardon,
and assurance of complete affection. It was fortunate for him that
this young girl was large-hearted enough to forgive his sins, for she
became an ideal wife, and shared in all his work, copying in her own
hand his manuscripts again and again. In all her relations with the
difficult temperament of her husband, she exhibited the utmost
devotion, and that uncommon quality which we call common sense.
Shortly after the marriage, Tolstoi began the composition of a
leviathan in historical fiction, "War and Peace." While composing it,
he wrote: "If one could only accomplish the hundredth part of what one
conceives, but one cannot even do a millionth part! Still, the
consciousness of Power is what brings happiness to a literary man. I
have felt this power particularly during this year." He suffered,
however, from many paroxysms of despair, and constantly corrected what
he wrote. This made it necessary for his wife to copy out the
manuscript; and it is said that she wrote in her own hand the whole
manuscript of this enormous work seven times!
The publication of the novel began in the "Russki Viesinik (Russian
Messenger)" for January 1865, and the final chapters did not appear
till 1869. It attracted constant attention during the process of
publication, and despite considerable hostile criticism, established
the reputation of its author.
During its composition Tolstoi read all kinds of books, "Pickwick
Papers," Anthony Trollope, whom he greatly admired, and Schopenhauer,
who for a time fascinated him. In 1869 he learned Greek, and was proud
of being able to read the "Anabasis" in a few months. He interested
himself in social problems, and fought hard with the authorities to
save a man from capital punishment. To various schemes of education,
and to the general amelioration of the condition of the peasants, he
gave 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. Several
years were spent in its composition and publication. Despite the power
of 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 I
return again to this tiresome and vulgar "Anna Karenina," with the
sole wish of getting it done as soon as possible, in order that I may
have time for other work." It was published in the "Russian
Messenger," and the separate numbers drew the attention of critics
everywhere, not merely in Russia, but all over Europe.
The printing began in 1874. All went well enough for two years, as we
see by a letter of the Countess Tolstoi, in December 1876. "At last we
are writing "Anna Karenina comme il faut," that is, without
interruptions. Leo, full of animation, writes an entire chapter every
day, and I copy it off as fast as possible; even now, under this
letter, there are the pages of the new chapter that he wrote
yesterday. Katkov telegraphed day before yesterday to send some
chapters for the December number." But, just before the completion of
the work, Tolstoi and the editor, Katkov, had an irreconcilable
quarrel. The war with Turkey was imminent. Tolstoi was naturally
vehemently opposed to it, while Katkov did everything in his power to
inflame public opinion in favour of the war party; and he felt that
Vronsky's departure for the war, after the death of Anna, with Levin's
comments thereupon, were written in an unpatriotic manner. Ridiculous
as it now seems to give this great masterpiece a political twist, or
to judge it from that point of view, it was for a time the sole
question that agitated the critics. Katkov insisted that Tolstoi
"soften" the objectionable passages. Tolstoi naturally refused, editor
and author quarrelled, and Tolstoi was forced to publish the last
portion of the work in a separate pamphlet. In the number of May 1877,
Katkov printed a footnote to the instalment of the novel, which shows
how little he understood its significance, although the majority of
contemporary Russian critics understood the book no better than he.
"In our last number, at the foot of the novel "Anna Karenina," we
printed, 'Conclusion in the next issue.' But with the death of the
heroine the real story ends. According to the plan of the author,
there will be a short epilogue, in which the reader will learn that
Vronsky, overwhelmed by the death of Anna, will depart for Servia as a
volunteer; that all the other characters remain alive and well; that
Levin lives on his estates and fumes against the Slavonic party and
the volunteers. Perhaps the author will develop this chapter in a
special edition of his novel."