THE CAUCASUS
Journey. Russian Conquest. Letters to Aunt Tatiána. Diary. Cossacks. He
volunteers. Enters army. Hádji Mourát. Story of a gaming debt. Sádo.
Dreams for the future. _Childhood._ Shooting. Boúlka. Slow promotion.
_The Raid._ The Censor. Danger. Applies for discharge. Applies to
Gortchakóf. _Memoirs of a Billiard Marker._ Receives his commission.
His retrospect.
1851
THE brothers Nicholas and Leo left Yásnaya Polyána on 20th April
1851, and spent a couple of weeks in Moscow. The frankness of Leo's
intercourse with his Aunt Tatiána is illustrated by the following
letter which he wrote, telling her of a visit he paid to Sokólniki, a
pleasant outskirt of Moscow on the borders of a pine forest, where a
fête is held on May-day.
That he wrote in French is explained by the fact that Tatiána, like
many Russian ladies educated early in the nineteenth century, knew
French better than she did Russian.
[4]J'ai été à la promenade de Sokólniki par un temps détestable,
c'est pourquoi je n'ai rencontré personne des dames de la
société, que j'avais envie de voir. Comme vous prétendez que je
suis un homme à épreuves, je suis allé parmi les plébs, dans les
tentes bohémiennes. Vous pouvez aisément vous figurer le combat
intérieur qui s'engagea là-bas pour et contre. Au reste j'en sortis
victorieux, c.à d. n'ayant rien donné que ma bénédiction aux joyeux
descendants des illustres Pharaons. Nicolas trouve que je suis un
compagnon de voyage très agréable, si ce n'était ma propreté. Il se
fâche de ce que, comme il le dit, je change de linge 12 fois par
jour. Moi je le trouve aussi compagnon très agréable, si ce n'était
sa saleté. Je ne sais lequel de nous a raison.
[4] I went to the fête at Sokólniki in detestable weather,
which was why I did not meet any of the society ladies I
wished to see. As you say I am a man who tests himself, I went
among the plebs in the gipsy tents. You can easily imagine the
inward struggle I there experienced, for and against. However,
I came out victorious: that is to say, having given nothing
but my blessing to the gay descendants of the illustrious
Pharaohs. Nicholas considers me a very agreeable travelling
companion, except for my cleanliness. He is cross because he
says I change my linen 12 times a day. I also find him a very
agreeable companion, except for his dirtiness. I do not know
which of us is right.
On leaving Moscow, instead of travelling to the Caucasus by the usual
route _viâ_ Vorónesh, Nicholas Tolstoy, who liked to do things his own
way, decided that they would drive first to Kazán. Here they stayed a
week, visiting acquaintances, and that was long enough for Leo to fall
in love with a young lady to whom his shyness prevented his expressing
his sentiments. He left for the Caucasus bearing his secret with him,
and we hear no more of the matter.
From Kazán they drove to Sarátof, where they hired a boat large enough
to take their travelling carriage on board, and with a crew of three
men, made their way down the Vólga to Astrakhán, sometimes rowing,
sometimes sailing, and sometimes drifting with the stream.
The scorn of luxury and social distinctions so prominent in Tolstoy's
later philosophy, was at this period more to the taste of his brother
Nicholas. A gentleman drove past them in Kazán leaning on his
walking-stick with ungloved hands, and that was sufficient to cause Leo
to speak of him contemptuously, whereupon Nicholas, in his usual tone
of good-natured irony, wanted to know why a man should be despised for
not wearing gloves.
From Astrakhán they had still to drive some two hundred and seventy
miles to reach Starogládovsk, where Nicholas Tolstoy's battery was
stationed. The whole journey from Moscow, including the stay in Kazán,
took nearly a month.
It may be convenient here to explain why the Russians were then
fighting in the Caucasus. Georgia, situated to the south of the
Caucasian Mountains, had been voluntarily annexed to Russia in 1799 to
escape the oppression of Persia; and it therefore became politically
desirable for Russia to subdue the tribes that separated her from her
newly acquired dependency. During the first half of the nineteenth
century this task proceeded very slowly, but at the time we are
speaking of, Prince Baryatínsky, in command of the Russian forces
stationed on the left bank of the river Térek, which flows into the
Caspian Sea, was undertaking a series of expeditions against the
hostile native tribes. Up to that time the Russians had held hardly
anything south of the Térek and north of the Caucasian Mountains,
except their own forts and encampments; but in less than another
decade, Baryatínsky had captured Shámyl (the famous leader who so long
defied Russia) and had subdued the whole country.
Soon after the brothers Tolstoy arrived at Starogládovsk, Nicholas was
ordered to the fortified camp at Goryatchevódsk ('Hot Springs'), an
advanced post recently established to protect the invalids who availed
themselves of those mineral waters.
Here Leo Tolstoy first saw, and was deeply impressed by, the beauty of
the magnificent mountain range which he has so well described in _The
Cossacks_. In July 1851 he wrote to his Aunt Tatiána:
[5]Nicolas est parti dans une semaine après son arrivée, et moi je
l'y suivis, de sorte que nous sommes presque depuis trois semaines
ici où nous logeons dans une tente. Mais comme le temps est beau et
que je me fais un peu à ce genre de vie, je me trouve très bien.
Ici il y a des coups d'oeil magnifiques, à commencer par l'endroit
où sont les sources. C'est une énorme montagne de pierres l'une sur
l'autre, dont les unes se sont détachées et forment des espèces de
grottes, les autres restent suspendues à une grande hauteur. Elles
sont toutes coupées par les courants d'eau chaude, qui tombent avec
bruit dans quelques endroits et couvrent surtout le matin toute la
partie élevée de la montagne d'une vapeur blanche qui se détache
continuellement de cette eau bouillante. L'eau est tellement chaude
qu'on cuit dedans les oeufs _hard_ en trois minutes. Au milieu
de ce ravin sur le torrent principal il y a trois moulins, l'un
au-dessus de l'autre, qui sont construits d'une manière toute
particulière et très pittoresque. Toute la journée les femmes
tartares ne cessent de venir au-dessus et au-dessous de ces moulins
pour laver leur linge. II faut vous dire qu'elles lavent avec les
pieds. C'est comme une fourmilière toujours remuante. Les femmes
sont pour la plupart belles et bien faites. Les costumes des
femmes orientales malgré leur pauvreté, sont gracieux. Les groupes
pittoresques que forment les femmes, joint à la beauté sauvage de
l'endroit fait un coup d'oeil véritablement admirable. Je reste
très souvent des heures à admirer ce paysage. Puis le coup d'oeil
du haut de la montagne est encore plus beau et tout à fait dans un
autre genre. Mais je crains de vous ennuyer avec mes descriptions.
Je suis très content d'être aux eaux puisque j'en profite. Je
prends des bains ferrugineux et je ne sens plus de douleur aux
pieds.
[5] Nicholas left within a week of his arrival and I have
followed him, so that we have now been almost three weeks
here, lodging in a tent But as the weather is fine and I am
getting accustomed to this kind of life, I feel very well.
There are magnificent views here, beginning where the springs
are situated. It is an enormous mountain of rocks one upon
another, some of which are detached and form, as it were,
grottoes; others remain suspended at a great height. They are
all intersected by torrents of hot water which fall noisily in
certain parts and, especially in the morning, cover the whole
upper part of the mountain with a white vapour which this
boiling water continually gives off. The water is so hot that
one can boil eggs hard in three minutes. In the middle of this
ravine, by the chief torrent, stand three mills one above the
other, built in a quite peculiar and very picturesque manner.
All day long, above and below these mills, Tartar women come
unceasingly to wash clothes. I should mention that they wash
with their feet. It is like an ant-hill, always in motion.
The women, for the most part, are beautiful and well formed.
In spite of their poverty the costumes of Oriental women are
graceful. The picturesque groups formed by the women, added
to the savage beauty of the place, furnish a really admirable
_coup d'oeil_. I very often remain for hours admiring the
view. Then again, in quite a different way, the view from the
top of the mountain is even more beautiful. But I fear to
weary you with my descriptions.
I am very glad to be at the springs, for I benefit by them. I
take ferruginous baths, and no longer have pain in my feet.
As showing how hot these springs were, it may be mentioned that a dog
belonging to Nicholas tumbled into the water and was scalded to death.
The officers Tolstoy met, he found to be men without education, and he
wrote: 'At first many things in this society shocked me, but I have
accustomed myself to them, without however attaching myself to these
gentlemen. I have found a happy mean, in which there is neither pride
nor familiarity.' He was helped by the fact that Nicholas was popular
with every one; and, by adopting the plan of having vódka, wine, and
something to eat always ready for those who dropped in to see him, he
succeeded in keeping on good terms with these men, though he did not
care to know them intimately.
The following extract from his Diary preserves the record of the
rapidly changing moods he experienced in those days. Soon after
reaching the Caucasus he noted:
STARY URT, _11th June 1851_.
Yesterday I hardly slept all night. Having posted up my Diary, I
prayed to God. It is impossible to convey the sweetness of the
feeling I experienced during my prayer. I said the prayers I
usually repeat by heart: 'Our Father,' 'To the Virgin,' etc., and
still remained in prayer. If one defines prayer as a petition or as
thanksgiving, then I did not pray. I desired something supreme and
good; but what, I cannot express, though I was clearly conscious
of what I wanted. I wished to merge into the Universal Being. I
asked Him to pardon my crimes; yet no, I did not ask that, for I
felt that if He had given me this blissful moment, He had pardoned
me. I asked, and at the same time felt that I had nothing to ask,
and that I cannot and do not know how to ask; I thanked Him, but
not with words or thoughts. I combined in one feeling both petition
and gratitude. Fear quite vanished. I could not have separated any
one emotion--faith, hope or love--from the general feeling. No,
this was what I experienced yesterday: it was love of God, lofty
love, uniting in itself all that is good, excluding all that is
bad. How dreadful it was to me to see the trivial and vicious side
of life! I could not understand its having any attraction for me.
How I asked God with a pure heart to accept me into His bosom! I
did not feel the flesh.... But no, the carnal, trivial side again
asserted itself, and before an hour had passed I almost consciously
heard the voice of vice, vanity, and the empty side of life; I knew
whence that voice came, knew it had ruined my bliss! I struggled
against it, and yet yielded to it. I fell asleep thinking of fame
and of women; but it was not my fault, I could not help it.
Again, on 2nd July, after writing down reflections on suffering and
death, he concludes:
How strong I seem to myself to be against all that can happen;
how firm in the conviction that one must expect nothing here but
death; yet a moment later I am thinking with pleasure of a saddle
I have ordered, on which I shall ride dressed in a Cossack cloak,
and of how I shall carry on with the Cossack girls; and I fall into
despair because my left moustache is higher than my right, and for
two hours I straighten it out before the looking-glass.
By August he was back again at Starogládovsk, and, full of energy,
risked his life as a volunteer in expeditions against the Circassians.
Having met Ilyá Tolstoy, an officer and a relation, he was introduced
by him to the Commander-in-Chief, General Baryatínsky. The latter had
noticed Leo Tolstoy during one of the expeditions, and on making his
acquaintance complimented him on his bravery and advised him to enter
the army. Ilyá Tolstoy urged the same advice, and Leo accepted it.
Towards the end of October he went a tiresome but beautiful seven-days'
journey to Tiflis, where he had to pass the examination qualifying him
to become a Junker (Cadet). From there he wrote to his Aunt Tatiána
a letter containing the first intimation of the vocation that was
ultimately to make him far more famous than Baryatínsky himself:
[6]Vous rappelez-vous, bonne tante, un conseil que vous m'avez
donné jadis--celui de faire des romans? Eh bien! je suis votre
conseil et les occupations dont je vous parle consistent à faire
de la littérature. Je ne sais si ce que j'écris paraîtra jamais
dans le monde, mais c'est un travail qui m'amuse et dans lequel je
persévère depuis trop longtemps pour l'abandonner.
[6] Do you remember, dear Aunt, the advice you once gave
me--to write novels? Well, I am following your advice, and
the occupation I mentioned to you consists in producing
literature. I do not know if what I am writing will ever be
published, but it is work that amuses me, and in which I have
persevered too long to abandon it.
For two months he lived in the 'German' suburb of Tiflis, paying Rs. 5
a month (at that time equal to about 16s.) for his two-roomed lodging;
disturbed by no one, writing _Childhood_, and trying to enter the
army--the main obstacle to which was that, as usual, he found himself
without his birth-certificate and other documents. He seldom enjoyed
good health for many consecutive months, and during his stay in Tiflis
he was confined to the house for some weeks by illness. At last, on
23rd December 1851, he was able to write to his brother, Sergius,
announcing that in a few days he expected to receive his appointment as
Junker in the 4th battery of artillery, and that on the day he received
it he would set out for Starogládovsk, and from there go on campaign,
and to the best of his ability 'assist, with the aid of a cannon, in
destroying the predatory and turbulent Asiatics.' He goes on to tell of
hunting. He had been out nine times, and had killed two foxes and about
sixty grey hares. He had also hunted wild boar and deer, but had not
killed any.
In the same letter Tolstoy mentions Hádji Mourát, the hero of a tale
he wrote more than fifty years later, and that has been put aside for
posthumous publication. He says: 'If you wish to show off with news
from the Caucasus, you may recount that a certain Hádji Mourát (the
second in importance to Shámyl himself) surrendered a few days ago to
the Russian Government. He was the leading dare-devil and "brave" in
all Circassia, but was led to commit a mean action.'
1852
A little later, on 6th January 1852, we find him again in Tiflis,
writing to Aunt Tatiána.
[7]Je viens de recevoir votre lettre du 24 Novembre et je vous
y réponds le moment même (comme j'en ai pris l'habitude).
Dernièrement je vous écrivais que votre lettre m'a fait pleurer et
j'accusai ma maladie de cette faiblesse. J'ai eu tort. Toutes vos
lettres me font depuis quelque temps le même effet. J'ai toujours
été _Lyóva-ryóva_ [Leo, Cry-baby]. Avant cette faiblesse me faisait
honte, mais les larmes que je verse en pensant à vous et à votre
amour pour nous, sont tellement douces que je les laisse couler,
sans aucune fausse-honte. Votre lettre est trop pleine de tristesse
pour qu'elle ne produise pas sur moi le même effet. C'est vous qui
toujours m'avez donné des conseils et quoique malheureusement je
ne les aie pas suivis quelquefois, je voudrais toute ma vie n'agir
que d'après vos avis. Permettez-moi pour le moment de vous dire
l'effet qu'a produit sur moi votre lettre et les idées qui me sont
venues en la lisant. Si je vous parle trop franchement je sais que
vous me le pardonnerez en faveur de l'amour que j'ai pour vous. En
disant que c'est votre tour de nous quitter pour aller rejoindre
ceux qui ne sont plus et que vous avez tant aimés, en disant que
vous demandez à Dieu de mettre un terme à votre existence qui vous
semble si insupportable et isolée,--pardon, chère tante, mais il
me paraît qu'en disant cela vous offensez Dieu et moi et nous tous
qui vous aimons tant. Vous demandez à Dieu la mort, c. à dire le
plus grand malheur qui puisse m'arriver (ce n'est pas une phrase,
mais Dieu m'est témoin que les deux plus grands malheurs qui
puissent m'arriver ce serait votre mort ou celle de Nicolas--les
deux personnes que j'aime plus que moi-même). Que resterait-il
pour moi si Dieu exauçait votre prière? Pour faire plaisir à qui,
voudrais-je devenir meilleur, avoir de bonnes qualités, avoir une
bonne réputation dans le monde? Quand je fais des plans de bonheur
pour moi, l'idée que vous partagerez et jouirez de mon bonheur
m'est toujours présente. Quand je fais quelque chose de bon, je
suis content de moi-même, parce que je sais que vous serez contente
de moi. Quand j'agis mal, ce que je crains le plus--c'est de vous
faire du chagrin. Votre amour est tout pour moi, et vous demandez
à Dieu qu'il nous sépare! Je ne puis vous dire le sentiment que
j'ai pour vous, la parole ne suffit pas pour vous l'exprimer et je
crains que vous ne pensiez que j'exagère et cependant je pleure à
chaudes larmes en vous écrivant.
[7] I have just received your letter of 24 November, and I
reply at once (as I have formed the habit of doing). I wrote
you lately that your letter made me cry, and I blamed my
illness for that weakness. I was wrong. For some time past all
your letters have had the same effect on me. I always was Leo
Cry-baby. Formerly I was ashamed of this weakness, but the
tears I shed when thinking of you, and of your love for us,
are so sweet that I let them flow without any false shame.
Your letter is too full of sadness not to produce the same
effect on me. It is you who have always given me counsel, and
though unfortunately I have not always followed it, I should
wish all my life to act only in accord with your advice. For
the moment, permit me to tell you the effect your letter has
had on me, and the thoughts that have come to me while reading
it. If I speak too freely, I know you will forgive it, on
account of the love I have for you. By saying that it is your
turn to leave us, to rejoin those who are no more and whom
you have loved so much, by saying that you ask God to set a
limit to your life which seems to you so insupportable and
isolated--pardon me, dear Aunt, but it seems to me that in so
saying you offend God and me and all of us who love you so
much. You ask God for death, that is to say, for the greatest
misfortune that can happen to me. (This is not a phrase, for
God is my witness that the two greatest misfortunes that could
come to me would be your death and that of Nicholas--the two
persons whom I love more than myself.) What would be left to
me if God granted your prayer? To please whom should I then
wish to become better, to have good qualities and a good
reputation in the world? When I make plans of happiness for
myself, the idea that you will share and enjoy my happiness is
always present. When I do anything good, I am satisfied with
myself because I know you will be satisfied with me. When I
act badly, what I most fear is to cause you grief. Your love
is everything to me, and you ask God to separate us! I cannot
tell you what I feel for you; words do not suffice to express
it. I fear lest you should think I exaggerate, and yet I shed
hot tears while writing to you.
In the same letter he tells of one of those remarkable 'answers to
prayer,' instances of thought-transference, or (if the reader pleases)
simply coincidences, which have played so great a part in the history
of all religious bodies.
[8]Aujourd'hui il m'est arrivé une de ces choses qui m'auraient
fait croire en Dieu, si je n'y croyais déjà fermement depuis
quelque temps.
L'été à Stáry Urt tous les officiers qui y étaient ne faisaient que
jouer et assez gros jeu. Comme en vivant au camp il est impossible
de ne pas se voir souvent, j'ai très souvent assisté au jeu et
malgré les instances qu'on me faisait j'ai tenu bon pendant un
mois; mais un beau jour en plaisantant, j'ai mis un petit enjeu,
j'ai perdu, j'ai recommencé, j'ai encore perdu, la chance en était
mauvaise, la passion du jeu s'est reveillée et en deux jours j'ai
perdu tout ce que j'avais d'argent et celui que Nicolas m'a donné
(à peu près 250 r. argent) et par dessus cela encore 500 r. argent
pour lequel j'ai donné une lettre de change payable au mois de
Janvier 1852.
Il faut vous dire que près du camp il y a un _Aoul_ qu'habitent
les Tchitchéniens. Un jeune garçon (Tchitchénien) Sado venait au
camp et jouait, mais comme il ne savait pas compter et inscrire
il y avait des chenapans qui le trichaient. Je n'ai jamais voulu
jouer pour cette raison contre Sado, et même je lui ai dit qu'il
ne fallait pas qu'il jouât, parce qu'on le trompait et je me
suis proposé de jouer pour lui par procuration. Il m'a été très
reconnaissant pour ceci et m'a fait cadeau d'une bourse. Comme
c'est l'usage de cette nation de se faire des cadeaux mutuels, je
lui ai donné un misérable fusil que j'avais acheté pour 8 rb. Il
faut vous dire que pour devenir _Kounák_, ce qui veut dire ami,
il est d'usage de se faire des cadeaux, et puis de manger dans
la maison du _Kounák_. Après cela, d'après l'ancien usage de ces
peuples (qui n'existe presque plus que par tradition) on devient
ami à la vie et à la mort, c.à d. que si je lui demande tout son
argent, ou sa femme, ou ses armes, ou tout ce qu'il a de plus
précieux, il doit me les donner, et moi aussi je ne dois rien lui
refuser. Sado m'a engagé de venir chez lui et d'être _Kounák_.
J'y suis allé. Après m'avoir régalé à leur manière, il m'a proposé
de choisir dans sa maison tout ce que je voudrais--ses armes, son
cheval ... tout. J'ai voulu choisir ce qu'il y avait de moins cher
et j'ai pris une bride de cheval montée en argent, mais il m'a dit
que je l'offensais et m'a obligé de prendre une _sword_ qui vaut au
moins 100 r. arg.
Son père est un homme assez riche, mais qui a son argent enterré et
ne donne pas le sou à son fils. Le fils pour avoir de l'argent va
voler chez l'ennemi des chevaux, des vaches; quelquefois il expose
20 fois sa vie pour voler une chose qui ne vaut pas 10 r., mais ce
n'est pas par cupidité qu'il le fait, mais par genre. Le plus grand
voleur est très estimé et on l'appelle '_Dzhigit_,' un _Brave_.
Tantôt Sado a 1000 r. arg., tantôt pas le sou. Après une visite
chez lui, je lui ai fait cadeau de la montre d'argent de Nicolas
et nous sommes devenus les plus grands amis du monde. Plusieurs
fois il m'a prouvé son dévouement en s'exposant à des dangers pour
moi, mais ceci pour lui n'est rien--c'est devenu une habitude et un
plaisir.
Quand je suis parti de Stáry Urt et que Nicolas y est resté, Sado
venait chez lui tous les jours et disait qu'il ne savait que
devenir sans moi et qu'il s'ennuyait terriblement. Par une lettre
je faisais connaître à Nicolas, que mon cheval étant malade, je
le priais de m'en trouver un à Stáry Urt; Sado ayant appris cela
n'eut rien de plus pressé que de venir chez moi et de me donner son
cheval, malgré tout ce que j'ai pu faire pour refuser.
Après la bêtise que j'ai fait de jouer à Stáry Urt, je n'ai plus
repris les cartes en mains, et je faisais continuellement la morale
à Sado qui a la passion du jeu et quoiqu'il ne connaisse pas le
jeu, a toujours un bonheur étonnant. Hier soir je me suis occupé à
penser à mes affaires pécuniaires, à mes dettes; je pensais comment
je ferais pour les payer. Ayant longtemps pensé à ces choses, j'ai
vu que si je ne dépense pas trop d'argent, toutes mes dettes ne
m'embarrasseront pas et pourront petit à petit être payées dans
2 ou 3 ans; mais les 500 rbs., que je devais payer ce mois, me
mettaient au désespoir. Il m'était impossible de les payer et pour
le moment ils m'embarrassaient beaucoup plus que ne l'avaient
fait autrefois les 4000 d'Ogaryéff. Cette bêtise d'avoir fait les
dettes que j'avais en Russie et de venir en faire de nouvelles ici
me mettait au désespoir. Le soir en faisant ma prière, j'ai prié
Dieu qu'il me tire de cette désagréable position et avec beaucoup
de ferveur. 'Mais comment est-ce que je puis me tirer de cette
affaire?' pensai-je en me couchant. 'Il ne peut rien arriver qui me
donne la possibilité d'acquitter cette dette.' Je me représentais
déjà tous les désagréments que j'avais à essuyer à cause de cela:
how when he presents the note for collection, the authorities will
demand an explanation as to why I did not pay, etc. 'Lord, help
me!' said I, and fell asleep.
Le lendemain je reçois une lettre de Nicolas à laquelle était
jointe la votre et plusieurs autres--il m'écrit:
The other day Sádo came to see me. He has won your notes-of-hand
from Knorring, and has brought them to me. He was so pleased to
have won them, and asked me so often, 'What do you think? Will your
brother be glad that I have done this?' that I have grown very fond
of him. That man is really attached to you.
N'est-ce pas étonnant que de voir ses voeux aussi exaucés le
lendemain même? C. à d., qu'il n'y a rien d'aussi étonnant que la
bonté divine pour un être qui la mérite si peu que moi. Et n'est-ce
pas que le trait de dévouement de Sado est admirable? Il sait que
j'ai un frère Serge, qui aime les chevaux et comme je lui ai promis
de le prendre en Russie quand j'y irai, il m'a dit, que dût-il lui
en coûter 100 fois la vie, il volera le meilleur cheval qu'il y ait
dans les montagnes, et qu'il le lui amènera.
Faites, je vous prie, acheter à Toúla un _6-barrelled pistol_ et un
_musical-box_, si cela ne coûte pas trop cher. Ce sont des choses
qui lui feront beaucoup de plaisir.
[8] To-day one of those things happened to me which would have
made me believe in God, if I had not for some time past firmly
believed in Him.
In summer, at Stáry Urt, all the officers who were there did
nothing but play, and play rather high. As, living in camp,
one has to meet frequently, I was very often present at play,
but in spite of persuasions I kept steady for a month; but
one fine day for fun I put down a small stake. I lost, staked
again, and lost again. I was in bad luck; the passion for play
reawoke in me, and in two days I had lost all the money I had,
and what Nicholas gave me (about Rs. 250) and another Rs. 500
besides, for which I gave a note-of-hand payable in January
1852.
I should tell you that near the camp there is an Aoul
[native village] inhabited by Circassians. A young fellow (a
Circassian) named Sádo used to come to the camp and play; but
as he could neither reckon nor write, there were scamps who
cheated him. For that reason I never wished to play against
Sádo, and I even told him that he ought not to play, because
he was being cheated; and I offered to play for him. He was
very grateful to me for this, and presented me with a purse;
and as it is the custom of that nation to exchange presents, I
gave him a wretched gun I had bought for Rs. 8. I should tell
you that to become a _Kounák_, that is to say, a _friend_,
it is customary to exchange presents, and afterwards to eat
in the house of one's _Kounák_. After that, according to the
ancient custom of these peoples (which hardly exists now
except as a tradition) you become friends for life and death:
that is to say, if I asked of him all his money, or his wife,
or his weapons, or all the most precious things he has, he
must give them to me, and I also must not refuse him anything.
Sádo made me promise to come to his house and become his
Kounák. I went. After having regaled me in their fashion, he
asked me to choose anything in his house that I liked: his
weapons, his horse--anything. I wished to choose what was of
least value, and took a horse's bridle with silver mountings;
but he said I was offending him, and obliged me to take a
sword worth at least Rs. 100.
His father is a rather rich man, but keeps his money buried,
and does not give his son a cent. The son, to have money, goes
and steals horses and cows from the enemy. Sometimes he risks
his life 20 times to steal something not worth Rs. 10, but he
does it not from greed, but because it is 'the thing.' The
greatest robber is most esteemed, and is called _Dzhigit_, 'a
_Brave_.' Sometimes Sádo has Rs. 1000, sometimes not a cent.
After one visit to him, I gave him Nicholas's silver watch,
and we became the greatest friends in the world. He has proved
his devotion several times by exposing himself to danger for
my sake; but that is nothing to him--it has become a habit and
a pleasure.
When I left Stáry Urt and Nicholas remained there, Sádo used
to go to him every day, saying that he did not know how to
get on without me, and that he felt terribly dull. I wrote to
Nicholas saying that as my horse was ill I begged him to find
me one at Stáry Urt. Sádo having learnt this, must needs come
to me and give me his horse, in spite of all I could do to
refuse it.
After the folly I committed in playing at Stáry Urt, I did not
touch a card again, and I was always lecturing Sádo, who is
devoted to gambling and, though he does not know how to play,
always has astonishing luck. Yesterday evening I was engaged
in considering my money matters and my debts, and thinking
how I was to pay them. Having long thought of these things,
I saw that if I do not spend too much, all my debts will not
embarrass me, but can be paid off little by little in 2 or 3
years; but the Rs. 500 that I had to pay this month, threw me
into despair. It was impossible for me to pay it, and at the
moment it embarrassed me much more than did previously the
4000 of Ogaryóf. The stupidity, after having contracted those
debts in Russia, of coming here and adding fresh ones, made
me despair. In the evening while saying my prayers, I asked
God--and very fervently--to get me out of this disagreeable
scrape. 'But how can I get out of this scrape?' thought I, as
I lay down. 'Nothing can happen that will make it possible for
me to meet that debt.' I already pictured to myself all the
unpleasantnesses I should have to go through because of it.
(See English sentence in the French text, above.)
Next day I received a letter from Nicholas enclosing yours
and several others. He wrote me: (See English sentence in the
French text, above).
Is it not astonishing to see one's petitions granted like
this the very next day? That is to say, there is nothing
so wonderful as the divine goodness to one who merits it
so little as I. And is not the trait of Sádo's devotion
admirable? He knows I have a brother Sergius, who loves
horses, and as I have promised to take him to Russia when I
go, he tells me that, if it costs him his life 100 times over,
he will steal the best horse to be found in the mountains, and
will take it to him.
Please, have a 6-barrelled pistol bought in Toúla and sent to
me, and also a musical-box, if that does not cost too much.
These are things which will give him much pleasure.
In explanation of this letter one has to mention that Sádo was a
'peaceful' Circassian, that is, one friendly to Russia (though his
tribe in general were hostile), and further, that the passages printed
in English in the midst of the French text, are in the original written
in Russian.
A few days later we find Tolstoy on his way back to Starogládovsk,
stopping (probably for post-horses) at the post-station Mozdók, and
again writing his aunt a long letter in which he says:
[9]La religion et l'expérience que j'ai de la vie (quelque petite
qu'elle soit) m'ont appris que la vie est une épreuve. Dans moi
elle est plus qu'une épreuve, c'est encore l'expiation de mes
fautes.
J'ai dans l'idée que l'idée si frivole que j'ai eu d'aller faire
un voyage au Caucase--est une idée qui m'a été inspirée d'en haut.
C'est la main de Dieu qui m'a guidé--je ne cesse de l'en remercier.
Je sens que je suis devenu meilleur ici (et ce n'est pas beaucoup
dire puisque j'ai été très mauvais) et je suis fermement persuadé
que tout ce qui peut m'arriver ici ne sera que pour mon bien,
puisque c'est Dieu lui-même qui l'a voulu ainsi. Peut-être c'est
une idée bien hardie, néanmoins j'ai cette conviction. C'est pour
cela que je supporte les fatigues et les privations physiques dont
je parle (ce ne sont pas des privations physiques--il n'y en a pas
pour un garçon de 23 ans qui se porte bien) sans les ressentir,
même avec une espèce de plaisir en pensant au bonheur qui m'attend.
Voilà comment je le représente:
Après un nombre indéterminé d'années, ni jeune, ni vieux, je suis
à Yásnaya; mes affaires sont en ordre, je n'ai pas d'inquiétudes,
ni de tracasseries. Vous habitez Yásnaya aussi. Vous avez un peu
vieillie, mais êtes encore fraîche et bien portante. Nous menons
la vie que nous avons menée,--je travaille le matin, mais nous
nous voyons presque toute la journée. Nous dînons. Le soir je fais
une lecture qui ne vous ennuie pas, puis nous causons--moi je vous
raconte ma vie au Caucase, vous me parlez de vos souvenirs--de mon
père, de ma mère, vous me contez des '_terrible tales_' que jadis
nous écoutions les yeux effrayés et la bouche béante. Nous nous
rappelons les personnes qui nous ont été chères et qui ne sont
plus; vous pleurerez, j'en ferai de même, mais ces larmes seront
douces; nous causerons des frères qui viendront nous voir de temps
en temps, de la chère Marie qui passera aussi quelques mois de
l'année a Yásnaya qu'elle aime tant, avec tous ses enfants. Nous
n'aurons point de connaissances--personne ne viendra nous ennuyer
et faire des commérages. C'est un beau rêve, mais ce n'est pas
encore tout ce que je me permets de rêver.--Je suis marié--ma
femme est une personne douce, bonne, aimante; elle a pour vous
le même amour que moi; nous avons des enfants qui vous appellent
grandmaman; vous habitez la grande maison en haut, la même chambre
que jadis habitait grandmaman. Toute la maison est dans le même
ordre qu'elle a été du temps de papa et nous recommençons la
même vie, seulement en changéant de rôle; vous prenez le rôle de
grandmaman, mais vous êtes encore meilleure; moi le rôle de papa,
mais je désespère de jamais le mériter; ma femme celui de maman,
les enfants le nôtre; Marie le rôle des deux tantes, leurs malheurs
exceptés.... Mais il manquera un personnage pour prendre le rôle
que vous avez joué dans notre famille; jamais il ne se trouvera une
âme aussi belle, aussi aimante que la vôtre. Vous n'avez pas de
successeur. Il y aura trois nouveaux personnages, qui paraîtront
de temps en temps sur la scène--les frères, surtout l'un qui
sera souvent avec nous: Nicolas--vieux garçon, chauve, retiré du
service, toujours aussi bon, aussi noble.
I imagine how he will, as of old, tell the children fairy tales of
his own invention, and how they will kiss his greasy hands (but
which are worthy of it), how he will play with them, how my wife
will bustle about to get him his favourite dishes, how he and I
will recall our common memories of days long past, how you will sit
in your accustomed place and listen to us with pleasure; how, as of
yore, you will call us, old men, 'Lyóvotchka' and 'Nikólenka,' and
will scold me for eating with my fingers, and him for not having
clean hands.
Si on me faisait empereur de Russie, si on me donnait le Pérou,
en un mot si une fée venait avec sa baguette me demander ce que
je désire--la main sur la conscience, je répondrais que je désire
seulement que ce rêve puisse devenir une réalité.
[9] Religion and the experience I have of life (however small
it may be) have taught me that life is a trial. In my case it
is more than a trial, it is also an expiation of my faults.
It seems to me that the frivolous idea I had of journeying to
the Caucasus was an idea with which I was inspired from above.
It is the hand of God that has guided me--I do not cease to
thank Him for it. I feel that I have become better here (and
that is not saying much, for I was very bad) and I am firmly
persuaded that all that can happen to me here can only be
for my good, since it is God himself who has so willed it.
Perhaps it is a very audacious notion; nevertheless it is my
conviction. That is why I bear the fatigues and the physical
privations I have mentioned (they are not physical privations:
there are none for a fellow of 23 who is in good health)
without resenting them, and even with a kind of pleasure in
thinking of the happiness that awaits me.
This is how I picture it:
After an indefinite number of years, neither young nor old, I
am at Yásnaya; my affairs are in order, I have no anxieties
or worries. You also live at Yásnaya. You have aged a little,
but you are still fresh and in good health. We lead the life
we used to lead. I work in the morning, but we see one another
almost all day. We have dinner. In the evening I read aloud
something which does not weary you, and then we talk. I tell
you of my life in the Caucasus, you tell me your recollections
of my father and my mother; and you tell me the 'terrible
tales' we used to listen to with frightened eyes and open
mouths. We remind each other of those who were dear to us and
who are now no more; you will weep, I shall do the same, but
those tears will be sweet; we shall talk about my brothers,
who will come to see us from time to time; of dear Marie,
who with all her children will also spend some months of the
year at Yásnaya, which she loves so much. We shall have no
acquaintances--no one will come to weary us and carry tales.
It is a beautiful dream, but it is not all that I let myself
dream.--I am married. My wife is a gentle creature, kind and
affectionate; she has the same love for you as I have. We have
children who call you Grandmamma; you live upstairs in the big
house, in what used to be Grandmamma's room. The whole house
is as it was in Papa's time, and we recommence the same life,
only changing our rôles. You take the rôle of Grandmamma, but
you are still better; I take Papa's place, though I despair
of ever deserving it; my wife, that of Mamma; the children
take ours; Marie, that of the two aunts (excepting their
misfortunes) ... but some one will be lacking to take the part
you played in our family--never will any one be found with a
soul so beautiful, so loving, as yours. You have no successor.
There will be three new characters who will appear from
time to time on the scene--the brothers, especially the one
who will often be with us, Nicholas: an old bachelor, bald,
retired from service, as good and noble as ever.
I imagine how he will, as of old, tell the children fairy
tales of his own invention, and how they will kiss his greasy
hands (but which are worthy of it), how he will play with
them, how my wife will bustle about to get him his favourite
dishes, how he and I will recall our common memories of days
long past, how you will sit in your accustomed place and
listen to us with pleasure; how, as of yore, you will call us,
old men, 'Lyóvotchka' and 'Nikólenka,' and will scold me for
eating with my fingers, and him for not having clean hands.
If they made me Emperor of Russia, or gave me Peru: in a word,
if a fairy came with her wand asking me what I wished for--my
hand on my conscience, I should reply that I only wish that
this dream may become a reality.
He returned to Starogládovsk a Junker, and in February took part in an
expedition as a non-commissioned artillery officer, and nearly received
a St. George's Cross for bravery, but lost it because, once again, he
had not his documents in order.
Writing to his Aunt Tatiána some months later (June 1852), he says:
[10]Pendant cette expédition, j'ai eu l'occasion d'être deux fois
présenté à la croix de St. Georges et je n'ai pas pu la recevoir
à cause du retard de quelques jours de ce maudit papier. J'ai été
présenté pour la journée du 18 Février (ma fête), mais on a été
obligé de refuser à cause du manque de ce papier. La liste des
présentations partit le 19, le 20 le papier était arrivé. Je vous
avoue franchement que de tous les honneurs militaires c'est cette
seule petite croix que j'ai eu la vanité d'ambitionner.
[10] During this expedition, I twice had the chance of being
presented to receive a St. George's Cross, and I was prevented
from receiving it by that confounded paper being a few days
late. I was nominated to receive it on 18 February (my name's
day), but it had to be refused me for want of that paper. The
list of nominations was sent off on the 19th, the paper came
on the 20th. I frankly confess that of all military honours,
that little cross is the only one which I have had the vanity
to desire.
On a second occasion he had the refusal of the coveted cross, but
his Colonel pointed out to him that besides being sometimes given to
Junkers favoured by their officers, these crosses were also, and more
usually, granted to old and deserving privates, whom they entitled to
a life pension; and that if Tolstoy would forego the one intended for
him, it would be given to a veteran who deserved it, and to whom it
would secure a subsistence for his old age. Tolstoy, to his honour be
it said, renounced the coveted decoration. He had a third chance of
securing it later on, but this time, absorbed in playing chess till
late at night, he omitted to go on duty, and the Commander of the
Division noticing his absence, placed him under arrest and cancelled
the award which had been already made in his favour. Chess, I may here
mention, has always been a favourite game of Tolstoy's. He has never
studied the game from books, but has played much and plays ingeniously
and well.
The kind of warfare in which he was now engaged, is well described in
_The Raid_ and _The Wood-Felling_. A detachment would set out to seize
a Tartar village, make a clearing in a forest, or capture cattle.
It would exchange cannon- and rifle-shots with Tartar skirmishers,
and would lose perhaps half a dozen men killed or wounded before
accomplishing its object; but the more serious part of the work came
when the expedition returned to the fortified camp from which it had
started. As soon as the retreat commenced, Tartar sharpshooters would
swarm out, trying to cut off stragglers and inflicting as much damage
as possible. Even after the Russians were beyond rifle-shot, a chance
ball from a Tartar cannon might reach them within sight of their own
quarters.
To see a single man one has known well, struck down by a deadly bullet,
may impress an observer as vividly as the myriad corpses of a great
battlefield; and in Tolstoy's earliest war-sketches one feels the note
of horror at war quite as strongly as when, later on, he described far
bloodier struggles at Sevastopol.
When not on campaign, Tolstoy was generally stationed at the Cossack
village of Starogládovsk, where he lived more or less the life vividly
described in _The Cossacks_. The Grebénsky Cossacks located there were
descended from Russian Dissenters (Old-Believers) who had fled from
the persecution of former Tsars and had settled among the Mohammedan
Circassians near the river Térek. They had retained the purity of their
Russian speech, and remained nominally Christians, but had intermarried
with the natives and adopted many of their manners and customs. Love of
freedom, idleness, robbery, hunting, and war were their most prominent
characteristics. They considered themselves altogether superior both
to the semi-savage Mohammedan natives and to the tame, disciplined
Russians. Drunkenness was not so much a weakness of these men as 'a
tribal rite, to abandon which would have been considered as an act of
apostasy.' The work was done by the women, or by hired Nogai-Tartar
labourers. The women were physically better developed than the men,
and were celebrated for their beauty, combining the purest type of
Circassian features with the powerful build of Northern women. In their
relations with men, especially before marriage, they enjoyed absolute
freedom.
There was much that attracted Tolstoy in the simple life of these
people: their frankness, their skill in hunting, their contempt for all
that is artificial or weak, and their freedom from the moral struggles
that tormented him. With one beautiful girl--Mariána--he fell deeply
in love, but she remained indifferent to the attentions of a man who
was inferior in the arts of war and hunting to some of the young men
of her own tribe. His courtship failed (as he says of his hero in _The
Cossacks_) because he could not, like a dashing young Cossack, 'steal
herds, get drunk on Tchikir wine, troll songs, kill people, and when
tipsy climb in at her window for a night, without thinking who he was
or why he existed.'
Though one has always to be carefully on one's guard against taking
Tolstoy's stories as though they were autobiographical, there are
passages in _The Cossacks_ which certainly apply to himself, and give a
vivid idea of some of his moods at this time, as well as of his way of
life while living as a Junker at Starogládovsk.
On one occasion the hero is out hunting in the woods and asks himself:
'How must I live so as to be happy, and why was I formerly not
happy?' And he remembered his previous life, and felt disgusted
with himself.... And suddenly a new light seemed revealed to
him. 'Happiness,' said he to himself, 'consists in living for
others. That is clear. The demand for happiness is innate in man;
therefore it is legitimate. If we seek to satisfy it selfishly:
by seeking wealth, fame, comforts, or love, circumstances may
render the satisfaction of these desires impossible. It follows
that they are illegitimate, but not that the demand for happiness
itself is illegitimate. But what desire is there that can always
be satisfied in spite of external conditions? What desire? Love,
self-sacrifice!' He was so glad and excited at discovering this,
as it seemed to him, new truth, that he jumped up and began
impatiently seeking for some one for whom he might quickly
sacrifice himself: to whom he might do good, and whom he could
love. 'Yes; I need nothing for myself!' he kept mentally repeating:
'Then why not live for others?'
In the same story Tolstoy tells us that his hero lived monotonously and
regularly.
He had little to do with his Commander or fellow-officers. In the
Caucasus the position of a Junker with means of his own was in this
respect particularly favourable. He was not sent to drill nor kept
at work. As a reward for going on an expedition he was recommended
for a commission, and meanwhile he was left alone. The officers
considered him an aristocrat, and therefore in their intercourse
with him bore themselves with dignity. Card-playing and the
officers' carousals with singers, of which he had had experience
when on service with the detachment, seemed to him unattractive,
and he avoided the officers' society.
Again he tells us that his hero
often thought seriously of abandoning all else, enrolling himself
as a Cossack, buying a cottage, and marrying a Cossack girl ...
and living with Uncle Eróshka, going with him to hunt and to fish,
and with the Cossacks on expeditions. 'Why don't I do this? What
am I waiting for?' he asked himself.... But a voice told him to
wait, and not to decide. He was restrained by a dim consciousness
that he could not fully live the life of Eróshka and Loukáshka,
because he had another happiness,--he was restrained by the thought
that happiness lies in self-sacrifice.... He continually sought an
opportunity to sacrifice himself for others, but it did not present
itself.
In the same story the Cossack Loukáshka kills a Tartar 'brave' at
night, and rises greatly in the popular esteem and in his own; and the
hero thinks to himself:
'What nonsense and confusion! A man kills another and is as happy
and satisfied as though he had done an excellent deed. Does nothing
tell him there is here no cause for great rejoicing? That happiness
consists not in killing others, but in sacrificing oneself?'
We have a yet safer record of Tolstoy's feelings in his Diary,
in which about this time he noted down the following reflections
concerning the chief faults he was conscious of in himself:
1. The passion of gaming is a covetous passion, gradually
developing into a craving for strong excitement. Against this
passion one can struggle.
2. Sensuality is a physical need, a demand of the body, excited
by imagination. It increases with abstinence, and therefore the
struggle against it is very difficult. The best way is by labour
and occupation.
3. Vanity is the passion least harmful to others and most harmful
to oneself.
In another passage, indicating quite a different phase of
consciousness, he writes:
For some time past repentance for the loss of the best years of
life has begun to torment me, and this since I commenced to feel
that I could do something good.... There is something in me which
compels me to believe that I was not born to be like everybody else.
In May we find him going on furlough to Pyatigórsk to drink the mineral
water and to be treated for rheumatism. This is his description of
Pyatigórsk, written nearly twenty years later in his Reading Book for
Children:
Pyatigórsk (Five Hills) is so called because it stands on Mount
Besh-tau. _Besh_ means in Tartar 'five,' _Tau_ means 'hill.' From
this mountain flows a hot sulphur stream. The water is boiling, and
over the places where it springs from the mountain there is always
steam, as from a samovár.
The whole place where the town stands is very gay. From the
mountain flow hot springs, and at the foot of the mountain flows
the river Podkoúmok. The mountain slopes are wooded, all around are
fields, and afar off one sees the great Caucasian mountains. On
these the snow never melts, and they are always as white as sugar.
When the weather is clear, wherever one goes one sees the great
mountain, Elbrus, like a sugar cone. People come to the hot springs
for their health; and over the springs, arbours and awnings have
been erected, and gardens and paths have been laid out all around.
In the morning a band plays, and people drink the waters, or bathe,
or stroll about.
Here he was joined by his sister Mary and her husband. She also came to
Pyatigórsk to be cured of rheumatism. She tells how her brother Leo was
at this time attracted by Spiritualism, and would sometimes even borrow
a table from a _café_ and have a _séance_ on the boulevard. He remained
in Pyatigórsk till 5th August, and then returned to Starogládovsk. From
thence he wrote to his aunt, repeating what he had said before of the
officers with whom he had to associate.
[11]Il y a une trop grande différence dans l'éducation, les
sentiments et la manière de voir de ceux que je rencontre ici pour
que je trouve quelque plaisir avec eux. Il n'y a que Nicolas qui a
le talent, malgré l'énorme différence qu'il y a entre lui et tous
ces messieurs, à s'amuser avec eux et à être aimé de tous. Je lui
envie ce talent, mais je sens que je ne puis en faire autant.
[11] There is too great a difference in the education, the
sentiments, and the point of view of those I meet here, for
me to find any pleasure in their company. Only Nicholas, in
spite of the enormous difference between him and all these
gentlemen, has the talent to amuse himself with them, and
to be loved by all. I envy him this talent, but feel that I
cannot do the same.
He mentions that for some time past he has acquired a taste for reading
history, and says that he perseveres in his literary occupations. He
had already three times rewritten a work he had in hand, and intended
to rewrite it again. He felt much more content with himself at this
time, and adds:
[12]Il y a eu un temps où j'étais vain de mon esprit et de ma
position dans le monde, de mon nom; mais à présent je sais et je
sens que s'il y a en moi quelque chose de bon et que si j'ai à en
rendre grâce à la Providence, c'est pour un coeur bon, sensible et
capable d'amour, qu'il lui a plu de me donner et de me conserver.
[12] There was a time when I was vain of my intelligence,
of my position in the world, and of my name; but now I know
and feel that if there is anything good in me, and if I have
anything to thank Providence for, it is for a good heart,
sensitive and capable of love, which it has pleased it to give
me and to preserve in me.
On 29th June he again notes in his Diary:
He whose aim is his own happiness, is bad; he whose aim is the
good opinion of others, is weak; he whose aim is the happiness of
others, is virtuous; he whose aim is God, is great.
1852
On 2nd July he completed _Childhood_, and a few days later despatched
the manuscript, signed only with the initials L. N. T., to the best
Petersburg monthly, _The Contemporary_. On 28th August he received
a reply from the editor, the poet Nekrásof, saying he would publish
the story and that he thought its author had talent. Another letter
followed, dated 5th September 1852, in which Nekrásof said that having
re-read the story in proof, he found it 'much better than I had
realised at first. I can say definitely that its author has talent.' He
added that it would appear in the next number of his magazine.
Tolstoy notes in his Diary: 'Received letter from Nekrásof; praises,
but no money.'
Nekrásof's next letter is dated 30th October, and explains that it is
not customary to pay authors for their first work, but that he hopes
Tolstoy will send him more stories, and that in future he will pay
him as much as to the very best known writers, namely Rs. 50 (nearly
£7 at that time) per sheet of sixteen pages. He mentioned also that
_Childhood_ had been very well received by the public.
Tolstoy kept his authorship a secret, revealing it to no one except
Nicholas and Aunt Tatiána. His sister Mary was by this time back at her
husband's estate, situated near Tourgénef's village of Spássky. There
Tourgénef came one day to visit her, bringing with him the last number
of the _Contemporary_. Full of praise of a new story by an unknown
author, he began reading it aloud, and to her great astonishment
Mary recognised, one after another, various incidents from her own
childhood. Her first guess was that Nicholas must have written it.
Among the writers who at once acclaimed Tolstoy's genius was Panáef,
co-editor of the _Contemporary_, who, Tourgénef pretended, had to be
carefully shunned by his friends on the Névsky (the chief street in
Petersburg) lest he should insist on reading them extracts from the new
story. Before long the work reached Dostoyévsky in Siberia, and he was
so struck by it that he wrote to a friend asking him to find out who
the talented L. N. T. was.
Meanwhile Tolstoy continued his military career in the Caucasus. On
his return to Starogládovsk in August, he had noted in his Diary:
'Simplicity--that is the quality which above all others I desire to
attain.'
He had to pass an unpleasant month in consequence of the autumn
manoeuvres, about which he wrote: 'It was not very pleasant to have
to march about and fire off cannons; especially as it disturbed the
regularity of my life'; and he rejoiced when it was over and he was
again able to devote himself to 'hunting, writing, reading, and
conversation with Nicholas.' He had become fond of shooting game, at
which--as at all physical exercises--he was expert; and he spent two or
three hours a day at it. He writes to his Aunt Tatiána:
At 100 paces from my lodging I find wild fowl, and in half an hour
I kill 2, 3, or 4. Besides the pleasure, the exercise is excellent
for my health, which in spite of the waters is not very good. I am
not ill, but I often catch cold and suffer from sore throat or from
toothache or from rheumatism, so that I have to keep to my room at
least two days in the week.
One of the forms of sport he enjoyed during his stay in the Caucasus
was strepet shooting: the strepet being a steppe grouse. Before they
migrate in mid-August, these birds assemble in enormous flocks, and
are extremely wild and difficult of approach. It is hardly possible to
get within two hundred or two hundred and fifty yards of such a flock.
Tolstoy had a horse that was specially trained for this particular
sport. On it he used to ride at a foot-pace two or three times round a
flock, carefully narrowing the circle till he got as near as possible
without alarming the birds. Then he would dash forward at full gallop
with his gun ready. The moment the birds rose he dropped his reins on
the horse's neck, and the well-trained animal would instantly stop,
allowing its master to take aim.
Tolstoy's military career was not giving him satisfaction. Having
left home without any definite plans, he had neglected to bring any
documents with him, and the result of this was that instead of becoming
an officer within eighteen months, as he expected to do when he entered
the army, he now, after serving for ten months, received notice that
he would have to serve another three years before he could obtain his
commission.
In this difficulty he applied to his aunt P. I. Úshkof, who by
application to an influential friend eventually succeeded in hastening
his promotion. Meanwhile however Tolstoy--who had made up his mind to
retire from the army as soon as he received his commission--almost lost
patience.
On 24th December he completed the sketch entitled _The Raid: A
Volunteer's Story_, and two days later posted it to the _Contemporary_,
in which magazine it appeared in March 1853. The following passage
occurs in this his first story of war, and foreshadows the attitude he
ultimately made definitely his own. He is describing a march through
Caucasian scenery to a night attack on a Tartar _Aoul_, and he says:
Nature, beautiful and strong, breathed conciliation.
Can it be that people have not room to live in this beautiful
world, under this measureless, starry heaven? Can feelings of
enmity, vengeance, or lust to destroy one's fellow beings, retain
their hold on man's soul amid this enchanting Nature? All that is
evil in man's heart should, one would think, vanish in contact with
Nature--this immediate expression of beauty and goodness.
From the very start we find Tolstoy hampered in his work by that
incubus of all Russian writers, the Censor. In a letter to his brother
Sergius in May he writes: '_Childhood_ was spoilt, and _The Raid_
simply ruined by the Censor. All that was good in it has been struck
out or mutilated.' In comparing Tolstoy's literary achievement with
that of Western writers, one should make a large allowance for the
continual annoyance, delay, mutilation, and suppression inflicted on
him by that terrible satellite of despotism.
1853
In January, the battery in which Leo Tolstoy served went on active
service against Shámyl. The expedition assembled at Fort Grózny, where
scenes of debauchery occurred.
On 18th February Tolstoy's life was in great danger. A shell fired by
the enemy smashed the carriage of a cannon he was pointing. Strange
to say he was not even wounded. On 1st April he returned with his
detachment to Starogládovsk; and in May we find him writing to his
brother Sergius that he had applied for his discharge, and hoped in six
weeks' time to return home a free man. Difficult as his admission to
the army had been, he found, however, that to retire was a yet harder
matter, destined to take not weeks but years.
On 13th June his life was again in danger owing to an adventure which
supplied him with the subject he utilised later on in _A Prisoner in
the Caucasus_.
It being dangerous to travel between the Russian forts without
an escort, non-combatants, as well as stores and baggage, were
periodically convoyed from one post to another. On these expeditions
it was forbidden for any one to detach himself from the main body; but
the intolerable slowness of the infantry march on a hot day, frequently
tempted those who were mounted, to ride on, and to run the risk of
being attacked by the 'Tartars' (who were generally Circassians). On
one such occasion five horsemen, including Tolstoy and his friend Sádo,
disobeyed the regulations and rode ahead. The two friends ascended
the hillside to see whether any foes were visible, while their three
companions proceeded along the valley below. Hardly had the two reached
the crest of the ridge when they saw thirty mounted Tartars galloping
towards them. Calculating that there was not time to rejoin their
companions in the valley, Tolstoy shouted them a warning, and raced off
along the ridge towards Fort Grózny, which was their destination. The
three did not, at first, take his warning seriously, but wasting some
precious moments before turning to rejoin the column, were overtaken
by the Tartars, and two of them were very severely wounded before a
rescue party from the convoy put the enemy to flight. Meanwhile Tolstoy
and Sádo, pursued by seven horsemen along the hill ridge, had to ride
nearly three miles to reach the fort. It so happened that Tolstoy was
trying a young horse of Sádo's, while Sádo was riding Tolstoy's ambler,
which could not gallop. Though Tolstoy could easily have escaped on
Sádo's fiery horse, he would not desert his comrade. Sádo had a gun,
unluckily not loaded, and so he could only make a pretence with it of
aiming at his pursuers. It seemed almost certain that both fugitives
would be killed; but apparently the Tartars decided to capture them
alive, perhaps wishing to revenge themselves on Sádo for being a
pro-Russian, and therefore they did not shoot them down. At last a
sentinel at Grózny having espied their plight, gave the alarm and some
Cossacks galloped to their rescue. At sight of these, the Tartars made
off and the fugitives escaped uninjured.
Tolstoy continued his habit of forming resolutions; and about this
time he wrote: 'Be straightforward, not rough, but frank with all
men; yet not childishly frank without any need.... Refrain from
wine and women ... the pleasure is so small and uncertain, and the
remorse so great.... Devote yourself completely to whatever you do. On
experiencing any strong sensation, wait; but having once considered the
matter, though wrongly, act decisively.'
From the middle of July to October, Tolstoy again stayed at Pyatigórsk.
A companion he had brought with him to the Caucasus was his black
bulldog, Boúlka. He intended to leave it at home, but after he had
started, the dog had broken a pane of glass and escaped from the room
in which it was confined, and when Tolstoy, after stopping at the first
post-station, was just resuming his journey, he saw something black
racing along the road after him. It was Boúlka, who rushed to his
master, licked his hand, and lay down panting in the shade of a cart.
The dog had galloped nearly fourteen miles in the heat of the day, and
was rewarded by being taken to the Caucasus, where it was destined to
meet with many adventures.
On one occasion this dog boldly attacked a wild boar, and had its
stomach ripped open by the latter's tusk. While its wound was being
sewn up, the dog licked its master's hand.
On another occasion, when Tolstoy was sitting at night with a friend
in the village street, intending to start for Pyatigórsk at daybreak,
they suddenly heard a sucking-pig squeal, and guessed that a wolf
was killing it. Tolstoy ran into the house, seized a loaded gun, and
returned in time to see a wolf running straight towards him from the
other side of a wattle-fence. The wolf jumped on to the top of the
fence and descended close to Tolstoy who, almost touching him with the
muzzle of his gun, drew the trigger. The gun missed fire, and the wolf
raced off, chased by Boúlka and by Tolstoy's setter, Milton. The wolf
escaped, but not till it had snapped at Boúlka and inflicted a slight
wound on his head. Strange to say, the wolf ventured to return a little
later into the middle of the street, and again escaped unhurt.
Not long after, in Pyatigórsk, shortly before Tolstoy left the
Caucasus, while drinking coffee in the garden of his lodging, he heard
a tremendous noise of men and dogs, and, on inquiry, learnt that
convicts had been let out of gaol to kill the dogs, of whom there
were too many in the town, but that orders had been given to spare
dogs wearing collars. As ill-luck would have it, Tolstoy had removed
Boúlka's collar; and Boúlka, apparently recognising the convicts as his
natural enemies, rushed out into the street and flew at one of them. A
man had just freed the long hook he carried, from the corpse of a dog
he had caught and held down while his companions beat it to death with
bludgeons. He now adroitly hooked Boúlka and drew the unfortunate dog
towards him, calling to his mate to kill it, which the latter prepared
to do. Boúlka however bounded aside with such force that the skin of
his thigh burst where the hook held it, and with tail between his legs
and a red wound on his thigh, he flew back into the house and hid
under Tolstoy's bed. His escape was not of much use. The wolf that had
snapped at him six weeks before must have been mad, for Boúlka after
showing premonitory symptoms of rabies, disappeared, and was never
heard of more.
Tolstoy's state of mind during the latter part of this year is
indicated by his letters. To his brother Sergius he wrote on 20th July:
I think I already wrote you that I have sent in my resignation.
God knows, however, on account of the war with Turkey, whether it
will be accepted, or when. This disturbs me very much, for I have
now grown so accustomed to happy thoughts of soon settling down
in the country, that to return to Starogládovsk and again wait
unendingly--as I have to wait for everything connected with my
service--will be very unpleasant.
Again, in December, he writes from Starogládovsk:
Please write about my papers quickly. This is necessary. '_When
shall I come home?_' God only knows. For nearly a year I have been
thinking only of how to sheath my sword, but still cannot manage
it. And as I must fight somewhere, I think it will be pleasanter to
do so in Turkey than here, and I have therefore applied to Prince
Serge Dmítrievitch [Gortchakóf] about it, and he writes me that he
has written to his brother, but what the result will be, I do not
know.
It will be remembered that Tolstoy's paternal grandmother was a
Gortchakóf. Through her he was nearly related to Prince S. D.
Gortchakóf and to his brother, Prince Michael Dmítrievitch Gortchakóf,
who had been a friend of his father's in the war of 1812, and was now
in command of the Russian army on the Danube.
The letter continues:
At any rate by New Year I expect to change my way of life,
which I confess wearies me intolerably. Stupid officers, stupid
conversations, and nothing else. If there were but a single man to
whom one could open one's soul! Tourgénef is right: 'What irony
there is in solitude,'--one becomes palpably stupid oneself.
Although Nikólenka has gone off with the hounds--Heaven knows why
(Epíshka[13] and I often call him 'a pig' for so doing)--I go out
hunting alone for whole days at a time from morning to evening,
with a setter. That is my only pleasure--and not a pleasure but a
narcotic. One tires oneself out, gets famished, sleeps like the
dead, and a day has passed. When you have an opportunity, or are
yourself in Moscow, buy me Dickens' _David Copperfield_ in English,
and send me _Sadler's English Dictionary_ which is among my books.
[13] The Cossack hunter Epíshka, the original of Eróshka, who
figures so prominently in _The Cossacks_.
Of the entries in his Diary at this time, we may note the following:
All the prayers I have invented I replace by the one prayer, 'Our
Father.' All the requests I can make to God are far more loftily
expressed and more worthily of Him, in the words 'Thy Kingdom come,
as in heaven so on earth.'
About this time he completed his _Memoirs of a Billiard Marker_,
and sent it to the _Contemporary_ with a letter expressing his own
dissatisfaction with the hasty workmanship of the story; it did
not appear till more than a year later. He was also now at work on
_Boyhood_.
Seventeen years after Tolstoy had left the Caucasus, an officer
stationed at Starogládovsk found his memory still fresh among the
Cossacks, and saw Mariána (comparatively aged by that time), as well
as several elderly Cossack hunters who had shot wild fowl and wild
boars with Tolstoy. In his regiment he left the reputation of being an
excellent narrator, who enthralled every one by his conversation.
1854
Not till January 1854 did the long-expected order arrive allowing him
to pass the examination (a pure formality at that time) entitling him
to become an officer. On the 19th he left for home, and on 2nd February
reached Yásnaya, where he enjoyed a three weeks' stay with his Aunt
Tatiána, his brother, and a friend. On this journey he encountered a
severe storm, to which we owe _The Snow Storm_, published a couple of
years later, and probably also much of the storm description in _Master
and Man_, written in later life.
The Russo-Turkish war had now begun in earnest, and, as a result of his
application, he received orders to join the army of the Danube, which
he set out accordingly to do.
Of the Caucasian period of his life, as of his University days,
Tolstoy has at different times expressed himself differently. To
Birukóf, in 1905, he spoke of it as one of the best times of his life,
notwithstanding all his deflections from his dimly recognised ideals.
Yet two years earlier, writing of the four periods of his life, he had
spoken of 'the terrible twenty years of coarse dissipation, the service
of ambition, vanity, and above all, of lust,' which followed after the
age of fourteen.
But what it comes to is, that Tolstoy is a man of moods, and
judges himself and others, sometimes by ordinary and sometimes by
extraordinary standards.
CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER III
Birukof.
Behrs.
U. Bitovt, _Graf L. Tolstoy v literatoure i iskousstve_: Petersburg,
1903. (Hereafter called 'Bitovt.') Though ill-arranged, this book
is valuable to any one engaged on the difficult task of compiling a
Bibliography of Tolstoy's works.
Nekrasof's letters to Tolstoy published in the Literary Supplement to
the _Niva_, February 1898.
Much light is also thrown on this period of Tolstoy's life by the
following works, which must not be considered autobiographical:
_The Raid._
_The Wood-Felling._
_Meeting a Moscow Acquaintance._
_The Cossacks_, and
_The Snow Storm_,
as well as by stories included in Tolstoy's _Readers_:
_Boulka._
_Boulka and the Wild Boar._
_Milton and Boulka._
_Boulka and the Wolf._
_What Happened to Boulka in Pyatigorsk._
_Boulka's and Milton's End._
_A Prisoner in the Caucasus._