not ride even more than they do, it is because we have not these
thousands of delightful and cheap carriages and sledges. And how are
people to get about, how are burdens to be carried, how is the day long
enough, if one goes everywhere on foot? Are the horses to be left to
people the earth, along with the animals which we now eat and which we
must give up eating?"
"That will regulate itself. It is only those who have nothing to do who
have no time to do it in, and must be carried, in all haste, from place
to place. Busy people always have time for everything." And the count
proceeded to develop this argument. The foundation, of course, was the
same as for his other doctrines,--the dependence on one's self,
freeing others from bondage to his wants and whims. The principle is
excellent; but it would be easier for most of us to resist the
temptation to do otherwise on a desert island, than to lead such a
Robinson Crusoe and physical encyclopedic existence in a city of today.
This is almost the only argument which I felt capable of offering in
opposition.
Thus we discussed, as we walked along the streets of China Town. When
the sidewalk was narrow, the count took to the gutter. And so we came to
the old wall and the place where there is a perennial market, which
bears various names,--the Pushing Market, the Louse Market, and so on,
--and which is said to be the resort of thieves and receivers of stolen
goods. Strangers always hit upon it the first thing. We had ventured
into its borders alone, had chatted with a cobbler, inspected the
complete workshop on the sidewalk, priced the work,--"real, artistic,
high-priced jobs were worth thirty to forty kopeks,"--had promised to
fetch our boots to be repaired with tacks and whipcord,--"when they
needed it,"--and had received an unblushing appeal for a bottle of
_vodka_ in which to drink the health of ourselves and the cobblers. With
true feminine faith in the efficacy of a man's presence, we now enjoyed
the prospect of going through the middle of it, for its entire length. I
related the cobbler episode to explain why I did not give the count a
job, and the count seemed to find no little difficulty in not laughing
outright.
Imagine a very broad street, extending for several blocks, flanked on
one side by respectable buildings, on the other by the old, battlemented
city wall, crowned with straggling bushes, into which are built tiny
houses with a frontage of two or three windows, and the two stories so
low that one fancies that he could easily touch their roofs. These last
are the real old Moscow merchant houses of two or three hundred years
ago. They still serve as shops and residences, the lower floor being
crammed with cheap goods and old clothes of wondrous hues and patterns,
which overflow upon the very curbstone. The signs of the fur stores,
with their odd pictures of peasant coats and fashionable mantles, add an
advertisement of black sheepskins which precisely resemble rudely
painted turtles. In the broad, place-like street surged a motley, but
silent and respectful crowd. A Russian crowd always is a marvel of
quietness,--as far down as the elbows, no farther! Along the middle of
the place stood rows of rough tables, boxes, and all sorts of
receptacles, containing every variety of bread and indescribable meats
and sausages. Men strolled about with huge brass teapots of _sbiten_ (a
drink of honey, laurel leaves, spices, etc.), steaming hot. Men with
trays suspended by straps from their necks offered "delicious" snacks,
meat patties kept hot in hot-water boxes, served in a gaudy saucer and
flooded with hot bouillon from a brass flask attached to their girdles
behind; or sandwiches made from a roll, split, buttered, and clapped
upon a slice of very red, raw-looking sausage, fresh from the water-box.
But we did not feel hungry just then, or thirsty.
"There are but two genuine Russian titles," said the count, as we walked
among the merchants, where the women were dressed like the men in
sheepskin coats, and distinguished only by a brief scrap of gay
petticoat, and a gay kerchief instead of a cap on the head, while some
of the dealers in clothing indulged in overcoats and flat caps with
visors, of dark blue cloth. "Now, if I address one of these men, he will
call me _batiushka_, and he will call you _matushka_."*
* A respectfully affectionate diminutive, equivalent to _dear little
father, dear little mother_.
We began to price shoes, new and old, and so forth, with the result
which the count had predicted.
"You can get very good clothing here," the count remarked, as a man
passed us, his arm passed through the armholes of a pile of new vests.
"These mittens," exhibiting the coarse, white-fingered mittens which he
wore, piles of the same and stockings to match being beside us, "are
very stout and warm. They cost only thirty kopeks. And the other day, I
bought a capital shirt here, for a man, at fifty kopeks" (about
twenty-five cents).
I magnanimously refrained from applying to that shirt the argument which
had been used against my suggestion in regard to giving bread. This
market goes on every day in the year, hot or cold, rain, sun, or shine.
It is a model of neatness. Roofs improvised from scraps of canvas
protect the delicate (?) eatables during inclement weather. In very
severe weather the throng is smaller, the first to beat a retreat being,
apparently, the Tatars in their odd _kaftans_ "cut goring," as old women
say, who deal in old clothes, lambskins, and "beggars' lace." Otherwise,
it is always the same.
Our publisher's shop proved to be closed, in accordance with the law,
which permits trading--in buildings--only between twelve and three
o'clock on Sundays. On our way home the count expressed his regret at
the rapid decline of the republican idea in America, and the surprising
growth of the baneful "aristocratic"--not to say snobbish--sense.
His deductions were drawn from articles in various recent periodical
publications, and from the general tone of the American works which had
come under his observation. I have heard a good deal from other Russians
about the snobbishness of Americans; but they generally speak of it with
aversion, not, as did Count Tolstoy, with regret at a splendid
opportunity missed by a whole nation.
I am sorry to say that we never got our expedition to the Old Believers'
Church, or the others that were planned. Two days later, the count was
taken with an attack of liver complaint, dyspepsia,--caused, I am
sure, by too much pedestrian exercise on a vegetable diet, which does
not agree with him,--and a bad cold. We attended Christmas Eve service
in the magnificent new Cathedral of the Saviour, and left Moscow before
the count was able to go out-of-doors again, though not without seeing
him once more.
I am aware that it has become customary of late to call Count Tolstoy
"crazy," or "not quite right in the head," etc. The inevitable
conclusion of any one who talks much with him is that he is nothing of
the sort; but simply a man with a hobby, or an idea. His idea happens to
be one which, granting that it ought to be adopted by everybody, is
still one which is very difficult of adoption by anybody,--peculiarly
difficult in his own case. And it is an uncomfortable theory of
self-denial which very few people like to have preached to them in any
form. Add to this that his philosophical expositions of his theory lack
the clearness which generally--not always--results from a course of
strict preparatory training, and we have more than sufficient foundation
for the reports of his mental aberration. On personal acquaintance he
proves to be a remarkably earnest, thoroughly convinced, and winning
man, although he does not deliberately do or say anything to attract
one. His very earnestness is provocative of argument.*
* From _The Independent_.
VIII.
COUNT TOLSTOY AT HOME.
On one winter's day in Moscow, the Countess Tolstoy said to us: "You
must come and visit us at Yasnaya Polyana next summer. You should see
Russian country life, and you will see it with us. Our house is not
elegant, but you will find it plain, clean, and comfortable."
Such an invitation was not to be resisted. When summer came, the family
wrote to say that they would meet us at the nearest station, where no
carriages were to be had by casual travelers, if we would notify them of
our arrival. But the weather had been too bad for country visits, and we
were afraid to give Fate a hint of our intentions by announcing our
movements; moreover, all the trains seemed to reach that station at a
very late hour of the night. We decided to make our appearance from
another quarter, in our own conveyance, on a fair day, and long before
any meal. If it should prove inconvenient for the family to receive us,
they would not be occasioned even momentary awkwardness, and our retreat
would be secured. We had seen enough of the charmingly easy Russian
hospitality to feel sure of our ground otherwise.
Accordingly, we set out for Tula on a June day that was dazzling with
sunshine and heat, after the autumnal chill of the recent rains. As we
progressed southward from Moscow the country was more varied than north
of it, with ever-changing vistas of gently sloping hills and verdant
valleys, well cultivated, and dotted with thatched cottages which stood
flatter on the ground here than where wood is more plentiful.
The train was besieged at every station, during the long halts customary
on Russian railways, by hordes of peasant children with bottles of rich
cream and dishes of fragrant wild strawberries. The strawberries cost
from three to four cents a pound,--not enough to pay for picking,--
and the cream from three to five cents a bottle.
Halfway to Tula the train crosses the river Oka, which makes so fine a
show when it enters the Volga at Nizhni Novgorod, and which even here is
imposing in breadth and busy with steamers. It was not far from here
that an acquaintance of mine one day overtook a wayfarer. He was
weather-beaten and travel-stained, dressed like a peasant, and carried
his boots slung over his shoulder. But there was something about him
which, to her woman's eye, seemed out of keeping with his garb. She
invited him to take advantage of her carriage. He accepted gladly, and
conversed agreeably. It appeared that it was Count Tolstoy making the
journey between his estate and Moscow. His utterances produced such an
effect upon her young son that the lad insisted upon making his next
journey on foot also.
We reached Tula late in the evening. The guidebook says, in that amusing
German fashion on which a chapter might be written, that "the town lies
fifteen minutes distant from the station." Ordinarily, that would mean
twice or thrice fifteen minutes. But we had a touch of our usual luck in
an eccentric cabman. Vanka--that is, Johnny--set out almost before
we had taken our seats; we clutched his belt for support, and away we
flew through the inky darkness and fathomless dust, outstripping
everything on the road. We came to a bridge; one wheel skimmed along
high on the side rail, the loose boards rattled ominously beneath the
other. There are no regulations for slow driving on Russian bridges
beyond those contained in admonitory proverbs and popular legends. One's
eyes usually supply sufficient warning by day. But Vanka was wedded to
the true Russian principle, and proceeded in his headlong course _na
avos_ (on chance). In vain I cried, "This is not an obstacle race!" He
replied cheerfully, "It is the horse!"
We were forced to conclude that we had stumbled upon the hero of Count
Tolstoy's story, Kholstomir, in that gaunt old horse, racing thus by
inspiration, and looking not unlike the portrait of Kholstomir in his
sad old age, from the hand of the finest animal-painter in Russia,
which, with its companion piece, Kholstomir in his proud youth, hangs on
the wall in the count's Moscow house.
Our mad career ended at what Vanka declared to be the best hotel; the
one recommended by the guidebook had been closed for years, he said. I,
who had not found the guide-book infallible, believed him, until he
landed us at one which looked well enough, but whose chief furnishing
was smells of such potency that I fled, handkerchief clapped to nose,
while the limp waiter, with his jaw bound up like a figure from a German
picture-book, called after me that "perhaps the drains _were_ a little
out of order." Thrifty Vanka, in hopes of a commission, or bent upon
paying off a grudge, still obstinately refused to take us to the hotel
recommended; but a hint of application to the police decided him to
deposit us at another door. This proved to be really the best house in
town, though it does not grace the printed list. It was on the usual
plan of inns in Russian country towns. There was the large, airy
dining-room, with clean lace curtains, polished floor, and table set
with foliage plants in fancy pots; the bedrooms, with single iron beds,
reservoir washstands, and no bed linen or towels without extra charge.
The next morning we devoted to the few sights of the town. The Kremlin,
on flat ground and not of imposing size, makes very little impression
after the Moscow Kremlin; but its churches exhibit some charming new
fancies in onion-shaped cupolas which we had not noticed elsewhere, and
its cathedral contains frescoes of a novel sort. In subject they are
pretty equally divided between the Song of Solomon and the Ecumenical
Councils, with a certain number of saints, of course, though these are
fewer than usual. The artist was evidently a man who enjoyed rich stuffs
of flowered patterns, and beautiful women.
The Imperial Firearms Factory we did not see. We had omitted to obtain
from the Minister of War that permission without which no foreigner of
either sex can enter, though Russians may do so freely, and we did not
care enough about it to await the reply to a telegram. We contented
ourselves with assuring the officer in charge that we were utter
simpletons in the matter of firearms, afraid of guns even when they were
not loaded,--I presume he did not understand that allusion,--and
that it was pure curiosity of travelers which had led us to invade his
office.
However, there was no dearth of shops where we could inspect all the
wares in metal for which this Russian Birmingham has been celebrated
ever since the industry was founded by men from Holland, in the
sixteenth century. In the matter of _samovars_, especially, there is a
wide range of choice in this cradle of "the portable domestic hearth,"
although there are only two or three among the myriad manufacturers
whose goods are famed for that solidity of brass and tin which insures
against dents, fractures, and poisoning.
During the morning we ordered round a _troika_ from the posting-house.
It did not arrive. Probably it was asleep, like most other things on
that warm day. It was too far off to invite investigation, and sallying
forth after breakfast to hire an _izvostchik_, I became a blessed
windfall to a couple of bored policemen, who waked up a cabman for me
and took a kindly interest in the inevitable bargaining which ensued.
While this was in progress, up came two dusty and tattered
"pilgrims,"--"religious tramps" will designate their character with
perfect accuracy,--who were sufficiently wide awake to beg. I
positively had not a kopek in change; but not even a Russian beggar
would believe that. I parried the attack.
"I'm not an Orthodox Christian, my good men. I am sure that you do not
want money from a heretic."
"Never mind; I'm a bachelor," replied one of them bravely and
consolingly.
When we had all somewhat recovered from this, the policemen, catching
the spirit of the occasion, explained to the men that I and my money
were extremely dangerous to the Orthodox, both families and bachelors,
especially to pious pilgrims to the shrines, such as they were, and they
gently but firmly compelled the men to move on, despite their vehement
protestations that they were willing to run the risk and accept the
largest sort of change from the heretic. But I was obdurate. I knew from
experience that for five kopeks, or less, I should receive thanks,
reverences to the waist or even to the ground; but that the gift of more
than five kopeks would result in a thankless, suspicious stare, which
would make me feel guilty of some enormous undefined crime. This was
Count Tolstoy's experience also. We devoted ourselves to cabby once
more.
Such a winning fellow as that Vanka was, from the very start! After I
had concluded the bargain for an extra horse and an apron which his
carriage lacked, he persuaded me that one horse was enough--at the
price of two. To save time I yielded, deducting twenty-five cents only
from the sum agreed on, lest I should appear too easily cheated. That
sense of being ridiculed as an inexperienced simpleton, when I had
merely paid my interlocutor the compliment of trusting him, never ceased
to be a pain and a terror to me.
The friendly policemen smiled impartially upon Vanka and us, as they
helped to pack us in the drosky.
Tula as we saw it on our way out, and as we had seen it during our
morning stroll, did not look like a town of sixty-four thousand
inhabitants, or an interesting place of residence. It was a good type of
the provincial Russian town. There were the broad unpaved, or badly
paved, dusty streets. There were the stone official buildings, glaring
white in the sun, interspersed with wooden houses, ranging from the
pretentious dwelling to the humble shelter of logs.
For fifteen versts (ten miles) after we had left all these behind us, we
drove through a lovely rolling country, on a fine macadamized highway
leading to the south and to Kieff. The views were wide, fresh, and fair.
Hayfields, plowed fields, fields of green oats, yellowing rye,
blue-flowered flax, with birch and leaf trees in small groves near at
hand, and forests in the distance, varied the scene. Evergreens were
rarer here, and oak-trees more plentiful, than north of Moscow. The
grass by the roadside was sown thickly with wild flowers: Canterbury
bells, campanulas, yarrow pink and white, willow-weed (good to
adulterate tea), yellow daisies, spiraea, pinks, corn-flowers, melilot,
honey-sweet galium, yellow everlasting, huge deep-crimson crane's-bill,
and hosts of others.
Throughout this sweet drive my merry _izvostchik_ delighted me with his
discourse. It began thus. I asked, "Did he know Count Tolstoy?"
"Did he know Count Tolstoy? Everybody knew him. He was the first
gentleman in the empire [!]. There was not another such man in all the
land."
"Could he read? Had he read the count's 'Tales'?"
"Yes. He had read every one of the count's books that he could lay his
hands on. Did I mean the little books with the colored covers and the
pictures on the outside?" (He alluded to the little peasant "Tales" in
their original cheap form, costing two or three cents apiece.)
"Unfortunately they were forbidden, or not to be had at the Tula shops,
and though there were libraries which had them, they were not for such
as he."*
* At this time, in Moscow, the sidewalk bookstalls, such as this man
would have been likely to patronize, could not furnish a full set of the
_Tales_ in the cheap form. The venders said that they were "forbidden;"
but since they openly displayed and sold such as they had, and since any
number of complete sets could be obtained at the publishers' hard by,
the prohibition evidently extended only to the issue of a fresh edition.
Meanwhile, the _Tales_ complete in one volume were not forbidden. This
volume, one of the set of the author's works published by his wife, cost
fifty kopeks (about twenty-five cents), not materially more than the
other sort. As there was a profit to the family on this edition, and
none on the cheap edition, the withdrawal of the latter may have been
merely a private business arrangement, to be expected under the
circumstances, and the cry of "prohibition" may have been employed as a
satisfactory and unanswerable tradesman's excuse for not being supplied
with the goods desired.
"How had they affected him? Why, he had learned to love all the world
better. He knew that if he had a bit of bread he must share it with his
neighbor, even if he did find it hard work to support his wife and four
small children. Had such a need arisen? Yes; and he had given his
children's bread to others." (He pretended not to hear when I inquired
why he had not given his own share of the bread.) "Was he a more honest
man than before? Oh, yes, yes, indeed! He would not take a kopek from
any one unless he were justly entitled to it."
"And Count Tolstoy! A fine man, that! The Emperor had conferred upon him
the right to release prisoners from the jail,--had I noticed the big
jail, on the left hand as we drove out of town?" (I took the liberty to
doubt this legend, in strict privacy.) "Tula was a very bad place; there
were many prisoners. Men went to the bad there from the lack of
something to do." (This man was a philosopher, it seemed.)
So he ran on enthusiastically, twisting round in his seat, letting his
horse do as it would, and talking in that soft, gentle, charming way to
which a dozen adjectives would fail to do justice, and which appears to
be the heritage of almost every Russian, high or low. It was an
uncomfortable attitude for us, because it left us nowhere to put our
smiles, and we would not for the world have had him suspect that he
amused us.
But the gem of his discourse dropped from his lips when I asked him
what, in his opinion, would be the result if Count Tolstoy could
reconstruct the world on his plan.
"Why, naturally," he replied, "if all men were equal, I should not be
driving you, for example. I should have my own horse and cow and
property, and I should do no work!"
I must say that, on reflection, I was not surprised that he should have
reached this rather astonishing conclusion. I have no doubt that all of
his kind--and it is not a stupid kind, by any means--think the same.
I tried to tell him about America, where we were all equals in theory (I
omitted "theory"), and yet where some of us still "drive other people,"
figuratively speaking. But he only laughed and shook his head, and said
he did not believe that all men were equal in such a land any more than
they were in Russia. That was the sort of wall against which I was
always being brought up, with a more or less painful bump, when I
attempted to elucidate the institutions of this land of liberty. He
seemed to have it firmly fixed in his brain that, although Count Tolstoy
worked in the fields "like one of us poor brethren," he really did no
work whatever.
Thus did I obtain a foretaste of the views held by the peasant class
upon the subject of Count Tolstoy's scheme of reformation, since this
man was a peasant himself from one of the neighboring villages, and an
average representative of their modes of thought.
At last we reached the stone gateposts which mark the entrance to the
park of Yasnaya Polyana (Clearfield), and drove up the formerly splendid
and still beautiful avenue of huge white birch-trees, from whose ranks
many had fallen or been felled. The avenue terminated near the house in
hedges of lilacs and acacias.
Most of the family were away in the fields, or bathing in the river. But
we were cordially received, assured that our visit was well timed and
that there were no guests, and were installed in the room of the count's
eldest son, who was at his business in St. Petersburg.
Then I paid and dismissed the beaming Vanka, whose name chanced to be
Alexei, adding liberal "tea-money" for his charming manners and
conversation. My sympathy with the hardship of being unable to procure
books had moved me so deeply that I had already asked the man for his
address, and had promised to send him a complete set of the count's
"Tales" from Moscow.