existing between the cut of the aprons of maidens and of those of
married women. I had been incredulous, and she suggested that I put the
matter to the test by asking the first married woman whom we should see.
We found a pretty woman, with beautiful brown eyes and exquisite teeth
(whose whiteness and soundness are said to be the result of the sour
black bread which the peasants eat exclusively), standing at the door of
her cottage.
"Here's your chance!"
"Show me your window, please," I said.
She laughed, and turned her back to me. There was the "window," sure
enough. The peasant apron, which is fastened under the armpits, is
pretty evenly distributed as to fullness all the way round, and in the
case of a maiden falls in straight lines in the back. But the married
woman makes hers with a semicircular opening a few inches below the
band. The points of the opening are connected by a loop of fringe, a
couple of cords not always tied, or anything that comes handy,
apparently for ornament. Now, when the husband feels moved to
demonstrate his affection for his spouse by administering a beating, he
is not obliged to fumble and grope among those straight folds for the
awkward triangular little opening, quite unsuited to accommodate his
fist. He can grasp her promptly by the neck of her chemise and this
comfortable semicircle, and not force her to doubt his love by delay and
hesitation in expression. I asked the pretty woman if her husband found
it very useful. "Sometimes," she answered nonchalantly. The Russian
peasant theory is: "No beating, no jealousy; no jealousy, no love."
She offered to sell us a new petticoat similar to the one which she
wore. It was of homespun, hard-twisted wool _etamine_ very durable, of a
sort which is made, with slight variations, in several governments.
Ordinarily, in this district, it is of a bright scarlet plaided off with
lines of white and yellow. A breadth of dark blue cotton is always
inserted in the left side. When a woman is in mourning, the same plaid
on a dark blue foundation is used. Married women wear coarse chemises
and aprons of homespun linen; and their braided hair coiled on top of
the head imparts a coronet shape to the gay cotton kerchief which is
folded across the brow and knotted at the nape of the neck.
Young girls wear cotton chemises and aprons and print dresses, all
purchased, not home made. It is considered that if a girl performs her
due share of the house and field work she will not have time to weave
more than enough linen for her wedding outfit, and the purchase of what
is needed before that unhappy event is regarded as a certificate of
industry. I call it an unhappy event because from the moment of her
betrothal the prospective bride wears mourning garments. Black beads for
the neck are the height of fashion here.
The girl's gown, called a _sarafan_, is plaited straight and full into a
narrow band, and suspended just below the armpits by cross-bands over
the shoulders. She prefers for it plain scarlet cotton (_kumatch_), or
scarlet printed in designs of yellow, white, and green. Her head
kerchief matches in style. Her betrothal gown and kerchief have a dark
blue or black ground with colored figures.
The bargain for the petticoat was closed at two rubles, its real worth,
subject to "sister's approbation,"--an afterthought on the part of the
pretty woman. When she brought it to us at the house, a couple of hours
later, modestly concealed under her apron, and with sister's blessing,
she demanded half a ruble more, because we had not beaten her down, and
perhaps also as an equivalent for sister's consent.
She showed us her cottage, which was luxurious, since it had a brick
half for winter use, exactly corresponding to the summer half of logs.
Behind, in a wattled inclosure, were the animals and farming implements.
It was not a cheerful dwelling, with its tiny windows, wall benches to
serve as seats and beds, pine table, images in the corner, great
whitewashed oven, in which the cooking was done, and on which, near the
ceiling, they could sleep, and sheepskin coats as well as other garments
lying about.
Practically, a small Russian village consists of one street, since those
peasants who live on the occasional parallel or side lanes are "no
account folks," and not in fashion. It seemed inconsistent that ranks
and degrees should exist in peasant villages; but human nature is much
the same in the country as in capitals, even in the village of the man
who advocates absolute equality of poverty, and despite the views of my
merry _izvostchik_ Alexei.
The aged mother of the woman to whom the count's daughter was carrying a
gift of a new kerchief was at home, and bestowed some smacking kisses in
thanks. The old woman even ran after us to discharge another volley of
gratitude on the young countess's pretty cheeks.
In the evening we set out once more for the village, to see the choral
dances and hear the songs with which the peasants celebrate their
holidays. A dozen or so of small peasant girls, pupils of the count's
daughter, who had invited themselves to swing on the Giant Steps on the
lawn opposite the count's study windows, abandoned their amusement and
accompanied us down the avenue, fairly howling an endless song in shrill
voices that went through one's nerves.
As we emerged from the shadows of the avenue and proceeded up the broad,
grassy village street to the place of assembly, the children dispersed.
A crowd was collected at a fairly level spot ready for the dancing. All
wore their gayest clothes. The full moon, with brilliant Jupiter close
beside her, furnished an ideally picturesque light, and displayed the
scene to the greatest advantage. Low gray cottages framed the whole.
It was a grand occasion. One of the count's sons had brought his violin,
his cousin had a _balalaika_, a triangular peasant guitar, and one of
the lackeys had his harmonica, to play for the dancing. The young men
sat on a rough improvised bench; the servant stood beside them. The
peasants seemed shy. They hesitated and argued a good deal over
beginning each song. Finally they joined hands and circled slowly to the
tones of the generally monotonous airs. Some of the melodies were lively
and pleasing, but the Great Russian peasant woman's voice is undeniably
shrill. The dancing, when some bold peasant ventured to enter the
circle, after much urging and pushing, was far tamer and more unvarying
than I had seen elsewhere. We felt very grateful to our maid, Tatiana,
for stepping forward with spirit and giving us a touch of the genuine
thing.
Alas! the fruits of Tatiana's civilization were but too visible in her
gown of yellow print flounced to the waist and with a tight-fitting
bodice. The peasant costume suits the dance far better. Her partner was
unworthy of her, and did not perform the squat-and-leap step in proper
form. She needed Fomitch, the butler, who had been obliged to stay at
home and serve tea; to his regret, no doubt, since we were informed that
"he danced as though he had ten devils in his body." As we saw no
prospect of any devils at all,--and they are very necessary for the
proper dash in Russian dancing,--we strolled home, past the pond where
the women were wont to wash their clothes, and up the dark avenue.
Perhaps the requisite demons arrived after our departure. It was a
characteristic scene, and one not readily to be forgotten.
One of the most enjoyable incidents of the evening was the rehearsal of
the maid's coquettish steps and graces given by one of our young
hostesses for the benefit of those members of the family who had not
been present. It reminded us of the scene in "War and Peace" after the
hunt, when charming young Countess Natalya Ilinitchna astonishes her old
relative by her artistic performance of the Russian dance, which she
must have inherited with the traditions of her native land, since she
had never learned it.
Balalaika duets were one of the joys of our evenings under the trees,
after dinner. The young men played extremely well, and the popular airs
were fascinating. Our favorite was the "_Barynya-Sudarynya_," which
invariably brings out volleys of laughter and plaudits when it is sung
on the stage. Even a person who hears it played for the first time and
is ignorant of the words is constrained to laughter by the merry air. In
the evenings there were also hare-and-hounds hunts through the meadows
and forests, bonfires over which the younger members of the family
jumped in peasant fashion, and other amusements.
In consequence of vegetarian indiscretions and of trifling with his
health in other ways during the exceptionally hot weather then
prevailing, the count fell ill. When he got about a little he delighted
to talk of death. He said he felt that he was not going to live long,
and was glad of it. He asked what we thought of death and the other
world, declaring that the future life must be far better than this,
though in what it consisted he could not feel any certainty. Naturally
he did not agree with our view, that for the lucky ones this world
provides a very fair idea of heaven, because his ideal was not happiness
for all, but misery for all. He will be forced to revise this ideal if
he ever really comes to believe in heaven.
During this illness I persuaded him to read "Looking Backward," which I
had received as I was leaving Moscow. When I presented it to him, he
promised to examine it "some time;" but when I give books I like to hear
the opinion of the recipient in detail, and I had had experience when I
gave him "Robert Elsmere." Especially in this case was I anxious to
discuss the work.
At first he was very favorably impressed, and said that he would
translate the book into Russian. He believed that this was the true way:
that people should have, literally, all things in common, and so on. I
replied that matters would never arrive at the state described unless
this planet were visited by another deluge, and neither Noah nor any
other animal endowed with the present human attributes saved to continue
this selfish species. I declared that nothing short of a new planet,
Utopia, and a newly created, selected, and combined race of Utopian
angels, would ever get as far as the personages in that book, not to
speak of remaining in equilibrium on that dizzy point when it should
have been once attained. He disagreed with me, and an argument royal
ensued. In the course of it he said that his only objection lay in the
degree of luxury in which the characters of the new perfection lived.
"What harm is there in comfort and luxury to any extent," I asked,
"provided that all enjoy it?"
"Luxury is all wrong," he answered severely. "You perceive the sinful
luxury in which I live," waving his hand toward the excessively plain
furniture, and animadverting with special bitterness on the silver forks
and spoons. "It is all a fallacy that we can raise those below us by
remaining above them. We must descend to their level in habits,
intelligence, and life; then all will rise together."
"Even bread must have yeast; and if we all make ourselves exactly alike,
who is to act as yeast? Are we to adopt all vices of the lower classes?
That would be the speediest way of putting ourselves on a complete
equality with them. But if some of us do not remain yeast, we shall all
turn out the flattest sort of dough."
"We certainly cannot change the position of a thing unless we go close
enough to grasp it, unless we are on the same plane with it."
"Perhaps not; but being on the same plane does not always answer. Did
you ever see an acrobat try that trick? He puts one leg on the table,
then tries to lift his whole body by grasping the other leg and putting
it on a level to begin with. Logically, it ought to succeed and carry
the body with it, if your theory is correct. However, it remains merely
a curious and amusing experiment, likely to result in a broken neck to
any one not skilled in gymnastics, and certain to end in a tumble even
for the one who is thus skilled."
He reiterated his arguments. I retorted that human beings were not moral
kangaroos, who could proceed by leaps, and that even the kangaroo is
obliged to allow the tip of his tail to follow his paws. I said that in
the moral as well as in the physical world it is simply a choice between
standing still and putting one foot before the other; that one cannot
get upstairs by remaining on the bottom step; one member of the body
must rise first.
We were obliged to agree to disagree, as usual, but I fancy that he may
have changed to my opinion of the book and the subject by this time. I
have already noted that he is open to influence.
One evening, as we sat on the steps of the uncovered terrace outside his
study, the conversation fell on the book which he was then engaged upon,
and which the countess had shown us that she was copying for the fourth
time. He had been busy on it for two years. Neither of them went into
details nor mentioned the plot, but I had heard on my arrival in Russia,
twenty months previously, that it related to the murder of a woman by
her husband, and had a railway scene in it. I did not interrogate them,
and when the count said that he hoped I would translate the book when it
should be finished I accepted the proposal with alacrity. I inquired
whether I was to read it then.
"You may if you wish," was the reply, "but I shall probably make some
changes, and I should prefer that you would wait; but that shall be as
you please."
His wife said that he might suddenly take a fancy to view the subject
from an entirely different point, and write the book all over.
I declined to anticipate my future pleasure by even glancing at it, and
I asked no questions. Neither did I ask to see "The Fruits of
Civilization," which was already written and named, I was not there to
exploit their hospitality.
The count and his wife differed as to what ought to be the fate of the
coming volume. He wished to give it to the world (that is, to some
publisher) for nothing. She argued that some one, the publisher at
least, would make money out of it; then why not let his own family have
the profit, as was just? He insisted that it was wrong, inconsistent, in
the same strain as he discusses the subject of his writings in "What to
Do?" But she urged him, in case he would not consent to justice, to
leave the manuscript with her, unpublished, so that the family could use
it after his death. (When the book was ready it was named "The Kreutzer
Sonata.")
I think that every one must side with the countess in her view of this
matter and in her management of the family. It is owing solely to her
that the younger members of the family are receiving that education to
fit them for their struggle with life which her husband bestowed upon
the elder members voluntarily. It is due to her alone, also, that her
husband is still alive. It is not an easy task to protect the count
against himself. One adds to one's admiration for the count's literary
genius an admiration for the countess's talent and good sense by an
extended acquaintance with this family.
More than one community has been organized for the express purpose of
carrying out the life of toil which Count Tolstoy has advocated at
times. One of these communities, of which I had direct information,
purchased an estate of a landed proprietor, including the manor house,
and began to work. This acquisition of an estate by them, while the
count would like to give away his as sinful to retain, does not strike
one as a good beginning. However, they did not use the manor house, but
lived in one small peasant hut. "They all slept on the floor and
benches, men and women," said a Russian to me. A wealthy man had sold
his property to join this community against the wishes of his wife, who
accompanied him, nevertheless. When her baby came, they allowed her to
occupy a room in the mansion and required no work from her, since she
had the care of the child. "They never swept or scrubbed anything, and
they propagated every insect known to man, and probably a few new ones."
But the count has never preached this doctrine, or that an indefinite
number of persons should occupy a single cottage. Thus do his too
enthusiastic disciples discredit him by running into excesses.
So far as he is concerned, there is not the slightest doubt that he
would gladly attempt the life which he advocates. But if he were to take
up his residence in a peasant's cottage, and try to support himself on
what his labors brought in exclusively, he would be dead in less than a
month. He suffers from liver disease; he has not been used to hard labor
from early youth; he cannot, at his age, accustom himself to it any more
than he can compel his stomach to accept a purely vegetable diet in
place of the meat diet on which he has been brought up. He strives
conscientiously to do it. Even the fits of illness caused by his severe
treatment of himself do not break his spirit. He exercises not the
slightest calculation or forethought in the care of his health, either
before it breaks down or afterwards. For example: about five years ago
he bruised his leg seriously against the wheel of a peasant cart.
Instead of resting it, he persisted in working. Erysipelas developed.
The Tula doctor paid him numerous visits, at fifteen rubles a visit.
Then gangrene threatened, and a doctor was sent for from Moscow. He was
a celebrity; price three hundred and fifty rubles. This was penny wise
and pound foolish, of course. But in all probability the count feels the
responsibility of exerting his will in this matter of labor all the more
because it does not come easy to him, and he attributes to weakness of
will power what a peasant would recognize as simple physical exhaustion.
The peasant would not hesitate to climb to the top of his oven and stay
there until his illness was over, with not a thought whether the work
were done or not; and yet the peasant would work far beyond the bounds
of what one would suppose that a man could endure. But Count Tolstoy
overrates his powers of endurance, and, having exhausted his forces in
one desperate spurt, he is naturally obliged to spend more than a
corresponding amount of time in recuperating, even if no serious
complication intervenes; and this gives rise to the accusation of
laziness and insincerity from those who chance to see him in one of
these intervals of rest.
Another point which is too often lost sight of by people who disapprove
of his labor theories is that, while he advocates living in all respects
like a peasant, descending to that level in mind as well as in body,
which doctrine seems to include the incessant toil of the masses, he has
also announced his theory that men should divide their time each day
between (1) hard labor unto perspiration and callosities; (2) the
exercise of some useful handicraft; (3) exercise of the brain in writing
and reading; (4) social intercourse; sixteen hours in all. This is not a
programme which a peasant could follow out. In summer, during the
"suffering" season, the peasant toils in the fields for nearly the whole
of the twenty-four hours instead of the four thus allotted. In winter,
when no field labor is possible, he is likely to spend much more than
four hours at whatever remunerative handicraft he may be acquainted
with, or in intercourse with his fellow-men (detrimental as likely as
not), and a good deal less in reading at any season of the year, for
lack of instruction, interest, or books. On the other hand, this
reasonable _regime_ is not practicable for many men of other than
peasant rank. It happens to be perfectly practicable for Count Tolstoy
when his health permits. But as he has also said much about doing
everything for one's self, earning in some form of common labor all that
one spends, those who remember this only, and who know how little can be
earned by a whole day's toil in Russia, not to mention toil divided
between two branches, which agriculture does not permit, are not
altogether to blame for jumping to the conclusion that the count makes
no effort to practice what he preaches. He does what he can. He is
reproached with having made over his property to his wife and with
living as before. It is really difficult to see what other course is
open to him. An unmarried man, under obligations to no one but himself,
may reasonably be blamed for not carrying out the doctrine which he
volunteers to teach the world. A married man can only be blamed for
volunteering the doctrine. No blame can possibly attach to the wife who
defends the interest of the family to the extent of working havoc with
his doctrines.
Even if Count Tolstoy were able to support himself, he certainly could
not support a wife and the nine living children out of sixteen which he
has had. There is no justice in expecting the adult members of the
family to accept and practice his doctrines. They do not compel him to
accept theirs, though they are in the majority. The little ones could
not feed themselves, even were they ideal peasant children. It would be
nearer the truth to say that the countess has taken possession of the
property; she administers it wisely and economically, for the good of
the family and her husband. She issued, about five years ago, a cheaper
edition of her husband's works, the only edition available hitherto
having been very expensive. The wisdom of her step was proved by the
large profits derived from it in the course of three years,--fifty
thousand dollars,--all of which was applied to the needs of the
family.
The count is not the only one at Yasnaya Polyana to deny himself. For
the past two winters the whole family have remained on the estate, and
have not gone to Moscow, with the exception of one who is in business at
the capital, one member who is at his studies, and one who is married
and resides on another estate. This is because the income did not amount
to a certain sum, a very moderate sum in American eyes, without which a
stay in town would have been imprudent.
The question naturally follows: If the countess holds the property, and
the count continues to get the good of it, in a modest way; if the count
does not do everything for himself, and earn his daily bread by manual
toil, is not he mentally unbalanced to proclaim his theories to the
world, and to change his mind so often on other points?
The answer is: No. Undoubtedly the count, when he attained to his
convictions on the subject of poverty and labor, hoped to carry his
family with him. The countess, like a brave woman, like a devoted wife
and mother, refused to adopt his views. She is willing to shoulder the
responsibility of her refusal, and her conduct is an honor to her. As
for his changes of doctrine, we are all very much like him in the matter
of inconsistency. Only, as very few of us enjoy the renown or the
authority of Count Tolstoy, it rarely occurs to us to proclaim our
progressive opinions to the world; at most, one or two experiences cure
us of that weakness, even if any one thinks it worth while to notice
them in the slightest degree. Very few of us are so deeply rooted in our
convictions, or so impressed with their importance to the world as
principles, that we will raise a finger to defend them. We alternately
know that we shall never change them again, and suspect that we may see
something better at any moment; and we refrain from committing ourselves
unnecessarily in any form which can be brought up against us hereafter.
The case is precisely the reverse with Count Tolstoy. He is so full of
the missionary spirit, so persuaded of the truth and value of his
beliefs, that he rushes into print with them instantly. There they are,
all ready for those who do not sympathize with him to use as missiles
when he gets a new inspiration. Change of opinion is generally progress.
Continuity, an absolute lack of change, means stagnation and death in
the mental as well as in the physical world. As the count is impressible
and reads much, his reading and meditation are fruitful of novelties,
which he bravely submits to the judgment of the world without pausing to
consider whether they coincide with his other utterances or not. That he
does not always express his abstract ideas clearly is the inevitable
result of the lack of philosophical training.