AT YÁSNAYA AGAIN; TOURGÉNEF; ARBITER; MAGAZINE
Quarrel with Tourgénef. Attitude towards Reforms. Arbiter of the Peace.
Educational Magazine.
AFTER the winter's snow has so far thawed that sleighing is
impracticable, there comes a time during which there is still too much
snow left, and the roads have become too soft to allow of travelling
on wheels, and when transit is practically impossible. Tolstoy reached
Moscow at this transition period, but had not to wait long before
the roads were dry enough for carriage traffic. He made the journey
southward to Toúla in company with Mrs. Fet, wife of his friend the
poet. Mrs. Fet was travelling in her own carriage, accompanied by her
maid, to the estate Fet had purchased at some distance from Yásnaya.
Tolstoy had his own conveyance, but for company's sake changed places
with the maid and travelled with Mrs. Fet. In the cool of the evening
he borrowed and wrapped himself in a cloak of Fet's, declaring that
this would be sure to result in his producing a lyric poem.
1861
Soon after reaching Yásnaya he wrote (in the third week of May) to
congratulate Fet on having become a landed proprietor:
How long it is since we met, and how much has happened to both
of us meanwhile! I do not know how to rejoice sufficiently when
I hear or think of your activity as a farmer, and I am rather
proud to have had at least some hand in the matter.... It is good
to have a friend; but he may die or go away, or one may not be
able to keep pace with him; but Nature, to which one is wedded by
a Notarial Deed, or to which one has been born by inheritance, is
still better. It is one's own bit of Nature. She is cold, obdurate,
disdainful and exacting, but then she is a friend one does not
lose till death, and even then one will be absorbed into her. I
am however at present less devoted to this friend: I have other
affairs that attract me; yet but for the consciousness that she is
there, and that if I stumble she is at hand to hold on to--life
would be but a sad business.
A few days later, having received an invitation from Tourgénef, Tolstoy
paid him a visit the first hours of which passed off to their mutual
satisfaction. Tourgénef had just finished his favourite novel, _Fathers
and Sons_, and it was arranged that after dinner Tolstoy was to read it
and give his opinion on it. To do this the more comfortably, Tolstoy,
left in the drawing-room by himself, lay down on a large sofa. He began
to read; but the story seemed to him so artificially constructed and so
unimportant in its subject-matter, that he fell fast asleep.
'I awoke,' he narrates, 'with a strange sensation, and when I opened my
eyes I saw Tourgénef's back just disappearing.'
In spite of this occurrence and the unpleasant feeling it occasioned,
the two novelists set out next morning to visit Fet, who was not
expecting them that day.
While the visitors rested for a couple of hours, recovering from the
fatigue of their journey, Mrs. Fet saw to it that the dinner assumed 'a
more substantial and inviting appearance.' During the meal the whole
party began an animated conversation, and Tourgénef, always fond of
good eating, fully appreciated the efforts Fet's excellent man-cook had
made. Champagne flowed, as was usual at such reunions. After dinner the
three friends strolled to a wood a couple of hundred yards from the
house, and lying down in the high grass at its outskirts, continued
their talk with yet more freedom and animation.
Next morning at the usual breakfast time, about eight o'clock, the
visitors entered the room where Mrs. Fet presided at the samovár.
Fet sat at the opposite end of the table, Tourgénef at the hostess's
right hand, and Tolstoy at her left. Knowing the importance Tourgénef
attached to the education of his natural daughter, who was being
brought up in France, Mrs. Fet inquired whether he was satisfied
with her English governess. Tourgénef praised the latter highly, and
mentioned that, with English exactitude, she had requested him to fix
the sum his daughter might give away in charity. 'And now,' added
Tourgénef, 'she requires my daughter to take in hand and mend the
tattered clothes of the poor.'
To Tolstoy, the foreign education Tourgénef was giving his daughter,
who was quite forgetting her own language, was very distasteful; and
his feeling no doubt showed itself in his question:
'And you consider that good?'
'Certainly: it places the doer of charity in touch with everyday needs.'
'And I consider that a well-dressed girl with dirty, ill-smelling rags
on her lap, is acting an insincere, theatrical farce.'
'I beg you not to say that!' exclaimed Tourgénef, with dilated nostrils.
'Why should I not say what I am convinced is true?' replied Tolstoy.
'Then you consider that I educate my daughter badly?'
Tolstoy replied that his thought corresponded to his speech.
Before Fet could interpose, Tourgénef, white with rage, exclaimed: 'If
you speak in that way I will punch your head!' and, jumping up from
the table and seizing his head in his hands, he rushed into the next
room. A second later he returned and, addressing Mrs. Fet, said: 'For
heaven's sake excuse my improper conduct, which I deeply regret!' and
again left the room.
Fet, realising the impossibility of keeping his visitors together after
what had happened, was perplexed what to do, for they had both arrived
in Tourgénef's vehicle, and, newly established in the country, Fet,
though he had horses, had none accustomed to be driven in the only
conveyance he possessed. To get Tourgénef off was easy; but it was
not without some difficulty and even danger from the restive horses,
that Tolstoy was conveyed to the nearest post-station at which a hired
conveyance could be procured.
From Novosélok, the first country house Tolstoy reached, he wrote
Tourgénef a letter demanding an apology; and asked for an answer to be
sent to the next post-house at Bogousláf. Tourgénef, not noticing this
request, sent his reply to Fet's house, in consequence of which it was
several hours late in reaching Tolstoy--who was so enraged at this (as
it seemed to him) fresh act of discourtesy, that from Bogousláf he sent
a messenger to procure pistols, and wrote a second letter containing a
challenge to Tourgénef, and stating that he did not wish to fight in a
merely formal manner, like literary men who finish up with champagne,
but that he was in earnest, and hoped Tourgénef would meet him with
pistols at the outskirt of the Bogousláf woods.
That night was a sleepless one for Tolstoy. The morning brought
Tourgénef's reply to his first letter. It commenced in the usual formal
manner of polite communications:
GRACIOUS SIR, LEO NIKOLÁYEVITCH!--In reply to your letter, I can
only repeat, what I myself considered it my duty to announce to you
at Fet's: namely, that carried away by a feeling of involuntary
enmity, the causes of which need not here be considered, I insulted
you without any definite provocation; and I asked your pardon. What
happened this morning proved clearly that attempts at intimacy
between such opposite natures as yours and mine can lead to no good
result; and I the more readily fulfil my duty to you, because the
present letter probably terminates our relations with one another.
I heartily hope it may satisfy you, and I consent in advance to
your making what use you please of it.
With perfect respect, I have the honour to remain, Gracious Sir,
your most humble servant,
IV. TOURGÉNEF.
SPÁSSKY, _27 May 1861_.
_P.S._ 10.30 P.M.:
Iván Petróvitch has just brought back my letter, which my servant
stupidly sent to Novosélok instead of to Bogousláf. I humbly beg
you to excuse this accidental and regrettable mistake, and I hope
my messenger will still find you at Bogousláf.
Tolstoy thereupon wrote to Fet:
I could not resist opening another letter from Mr. Tourgénef in
reply to mine. I wish you well of your relations with that man,
but I despise him. I have written to him, and therewith have
terminated all relations, except that I hold myself ready to give
him any satisfaction he may desire. Notwithstanding all my apparent
tranquillity, I was disturbed in spirit and felt I must demand a
more explicit apology from Mr. Tourgénef; I did this in my letter
from Novosélok. Here is his answer, which I accept as satisfactory,
merely informing him that my reason for excusing him is not our
opposite natures, but one he may himself surmise.
In consequence of the delay which occurred, I sent besides this,
another letter, harsh enough and containing a challenge, to which
I have not received any reply; but should I receive one I shall
return it unopened. So there is an end of that sad story, which, if
it goes beyond your house, should do so with this addendum.
Tourgénef's reply to the challenge came to hand later, and ran as
follows:
Your servant says you desire a reply to your letter; but I do not
see what I can add to what I have already written; unless it be
that I admit your right to demand satisfaction, weapons in hand.
You have preferred to accept my spoken and repeated apology. That
was as you pleased. I will say without phrases, that I would
willingly stand your fire in order to efface my truly insane words.
That I should have uttered them is so unlike the habits of my whole
life, that I can only attribute my action to irritability evoked by
the extreme and constant antagonism of our views. This is not an
apology--I mean to say, not a justification--but an explanation.
And therefore, at parting from you for ever--for such occurrences
are indelible and irrevocable--I consider it my duty to repeat once
again that in this affair you were in the right and I in the wrong.
I add that what is here in question is not the courage I wish, or
do not wish, to show, but an acknowledgment of your right to call
me out to fight, in the accepted manner of course (with seconds),
as well as your right to pardon me. You have chosen as you pleased,
and I have only to submit to your decision. I renew my assurance of
my entire respect,
IV. TOURGÉNEF.
The quarrel was not, however, destined to die out so quickly. Even
good-natured Fet got into trouble by trying to reconcile the irascible
novelists. Here is one of the notes he received from Tolstoy:
I request you not to write to me again, as I shall return your
letters, as well as Tourgénef's, unopened.
Fet remarks: 'So all my attempts to put the matter right ended in a
formal rupture of my relations with Tolstoy, and I cannot now even
remember how friendly intercourse between us was renewed.'
Before four months had passed, Tolstoy repented him of his quarrel.
Like Prince Nehlúdof in _Resurrection_, he used from time to time to
repent of all his sins and all his quarrels, and undertook a sort
of spring- or autumn-cleaning of his soul. It was at such a moment
that, on 25th September, he wrote to Tourgénef expressing regret that
their relations to one another were hostile, and he added: 'If I have
insulted you, forgive me; I find it unendurably hard to think I have
an enemy.' Not knowing Tourgénef's address in France, he sent this
letter to a bookseller in Petersburg (with whom he knew Tourgénef
corresponded) to be forwarded. The letter took more than three months
to reach its destination, nor was this the only thing that went wrong,
as is shown by the following portion of a letter, dated 8th November,
from Tourgénef to Fet:
Apropos, 'one more last remark' about the unfortunate affair
with Tolstoy. Passing through Petersburg I learned from certain
'reliable people' (Oh, those reliable people!) that copies of
Tolstoy's last letter to me (the letter in which he 'despises' me)
are circulating in Moscow, and are said to have been distributed
by Tolstoy himself. That enraged me, and I sent him a challenge
to fight when I return to Russia. Tolstoy has answered that the
circulation of the copies is pure invention, and he encloses
another letter in which, recapitulating that, and how, I insulted
him, he asks my forgiveness and declines my challenge. Of course
the matter must end there, and I will only ask you to tell him (for
he writes that he will consider any fresh communication from me to
him as an insult) that I myself repudiate any duel, etc., and hope
the whole matter is buried for ever. His letter (apologising) I
have destroyed. Another letter, which he says he sent me through
the bookseller Davídof, I never received. And now as to the whole
matter--_de profundis_.
Tolstoy noted in his Diary one day in October:
Yesterday I received a letter from Tourgénef in which he accuses me
of saying he is a coward and of circulating copies of my letter. I
have written him that it is nonsense, and I have also sent him a
letter: 'You call my action dishonourable and you formerly wished
to punch my head; but I consider myself guilty, ask pardon, and
refuse the challenge.'
1862
Even then the matter was not at an end, for on 7th January [new style?]
Tourgénef writes to Fet:
And now a plain question: Have you seen Tolstoy? I have only to-day
received the letter he sent me in September through Davídof's
bookshop (how accurate are our Russian merchants!). In this letter
he speaks of his intention to insult me, and apologises, etc. And
almost at that very time, in consequence of some gossip about
which I think I wrote you, I sent him a challenge. From all this
one must conclude that our constellations move through space in
definitely hostile conjunction, and that therefore we had better,
as he himself says, avoid meeting. But you may write or tell him
(if you see him) that I (without phrase or joke) _from afar_ love
him very much, respect him and watch his fate with sympathetic
interest; but that in proximity all takes a different turn. What's
to be done? We must live as though we inhabited different planets
or different centuries.
Tolstoy evidently took umbrage at Tourgénef's message, and visited his
wrath on Fet's innocent head. To be profoundly humble and forgiving
at his own command, was always, it seems, easier for Tolstoy than to
let his opponent have an opinion of his own. Tolstoy likes things to
be quite clear-cut and definite, and it complicates matters to have to
reckon with any one else's views. At any rate Tourgénef writes:
PARIS, _14 Jan. [o.s.?] 1862_.
DEAREST AFANÁSY AFANÁSYEVITCH! [Fet's Christian name and
patronymic].--First of all I must ask your pardon for the quite
unexpected tile (_tuile_, as the French say) that tumbled on
your head as a result of my letter. The one thing which somewhat
consoles me is that I could not possibly have expected such a freak
on Tolstoy's part, and thought I was arranging all for the best. It
seems it is a wound of a kind better not touched at all.
To judge the relations between these two great writers fairly, one must
remember that Tourgénef was ten years the elder and, until _War and
Peace_ appeared, ranked higher in popular esteem; yet Tolstoy showed
him no deference, but on the contrary often attacked him and his views
with mordant irony. Tourgénef was neither ill-natured nor quarrelsome.
If Tolstoy had treated him with consideration or had been willing to
let him alone, there would have been no question either of insult or
of challenge. But the younger man sought the elder's company, and
then made himself disagreeable; and this, not of malice prepense,
but because it is his nature to demand perfection from great men, and
vehemently to attack those who fail to reach the standard he sets up.
This conduct was no doubt all the more trying for Tourgénef, because
Tolstoy neither co-operated with the Liberal movement then current, nor
lived more abstemiously with regard to food, wine, women, and cards
than others of his set whom he scolded; or if he did so, he did it so
spasmodically and with such serious lapses, as to be little entitled
to condemn others with the fervour he frequently displayed. On the
occasion of the great quarrel Tourgénef was certainly the aggressor,
and his prompt apology was not addressed to Tolstoy, whom he had
chiefly offended, but to Mrs. Fet. It is, however, plain that he acted,
as he said, on the irritable impulse of the moment. Tolstoy aggravated
matters by sending a challenge before receiving a reply to his first
letter, and also by suggesting that he despised Tourgénef and pardoned
him for reasons 'he may himself surmise.' Again, in relation to Fet,
who merely wished to pour oil on the troubled waters, Tolstoy showed a
strange irritability. No one however can read the _Recollections_ Fet
wrote thirty years later, without seeing that that poet--who not only
witnessed this affair, but had been the confidant of both writers for
years--respected Tolstoy far more than he respected Tourgénef.
In this whole story, one may detect traces of the qualities which have
made Tolstoy so interesting and so perplexing a personality. He cares
intensely about everything with which he is occupied. Tourgénef, and
Tourgénef's opinions and conduct, were of tremendous importance to him.
So were his own views of how young ladies should be brought up. So was
the question whether he ought to challenge his enemy; and, later on,
the question whether he ought to forgive him, and whether Fet should
be allowed to act as mediator. It is this fact--that he cares about
things a hundred times more than other people care about them--that
makes Tolstoy a genius and a great writer. What was admirable in his
conduct was not that he acted well (as a matter of fact he acted very
badly) but that he _wished_ to act well.
The same spirit which made him so intolerant with Tourgénef: his
strong feeling that 'To whom much is given, of him much shall be
required'--had something to do, later in life, with his fierce
attacks on Governments, on Shakespear, on Wagner, and on other great
institutions and men. At the same time, the incident throws light on
that side of Tolstoy's character which has brought it about that,
despite the very real charm he possesses, and despite the fact that
many men and women have been immensely attracted by his writings,
he has had very few intimate friends, and has constantly been
misunderstood.
V. P. Bótkin, who was in touch both with Tolstoy and Tourgénef, wrote
to Fet after hearing of the quarrel:
The scene between him [Tourgénef] and Tolstoy at your house,
produced on me a sad impression. But do you know, I believe that in
reality Tolstoy has a passionately loving soul; only he wants to
love Tourgénef ardently, and unfortunately his impulsive feeling
encounters merely mild, good-natured indifference. That is what he
cannot reconcile himself to. And then (again unfortunately) his
mind is in a chaos, _i.e._ I wish to say it has not yet reached
any definite outlook on life and the world's affairs. That is
why his conviction changes so often, and why he is so apt to
run to extremes. His soul burns with unquenchable thirst; I say
'unquenchable,' because what satisfied it yesterday, is to-day
broken up by his analysis. But that analysis has no durable and
firm reagents, and consequently its results evaporate _ins blaue
hinein_. Without some firm ground under one's feet it is impossible
to write. And that is why at present he _cannot_ write, and this
will continue to be the case till his soul finds something on which
it can rest.
To any one acquainted with the history of Russia at that period, but
not acquainted with Tolstoy's idiosyncrasies, it must indeed seem
strange that the story of his life can be told with so little reference
to the Emancipation or the Reform movements of the years 1860-1864, to
which allusion has already been made. Two passages written by him in
1904 state his relation to those movements with the sincerity which is
so prominent and valuable a feature of his character:
As to my attitude at that time to the excited condition of our
whole society, I must say (and this is a good and bad trait always
characteristic of me) that I always involuntarily opposed any
external, epidemic pressure; and that if I was excited and happy
at that time, this proceeded from my own personal, inner motives:
those which drew me to my school work and into touch with the
peasants.
I recognise in myself now the same feeling of resistance to the
excitement at present prevailing; which resembles that which, in a
more timid form, was then current.
When the Emancipation came, the peasants received freedom, and an
allotment of land, subject to a special land-tax for sixty years; while
their masters retained the rest of the land and received State Bonds
for the capitalised value of the peasants' land-tax. An expedient
resorted to by many a proprietor was, to allot land to the peasants
in such a way that the latter were left without any pasture, and
(being surrounded by the owner's estate) found themselves obliged
to hire pasture land of him on his own terms. There were, till the
Emancipation, two ways of holding serfs: (1) the primitive way of
obliging them to work so many days a week for their master, before they
could, on the other days, provide for their own wants; and (2) another
way, which left the serf free to work for himself, provided that he
paid _obrók_, _i.e._ a certain yearly tribute to his owner. These
explanations will render intelligible the second passage referred to
above and quoted below:
Some three or four years before the Emancipation, I let my serfs go
on _obrók_. When complying with the Emancipation Decree I arranged,
as the law required, to leave the peasants in possession of the
land they were cultivating on their own behalf, which amounted
to rather less than eight acres per head, and (to my shame be it
said) I added nothing thereto. The only thing I did--or the one
evil I refrained from doing--was that I abstained from obliging the
peasants to exchange land (as I was advised to do) and left them in
possession of the pasture they needed. In general, however, I did
not show any disinterested feeling in the affair.
In the first edition of _Tolstoy and his Problems_ I erroneously stated
that Tolstoy, before the Decree of Emancipation, voluntarily freed
his serfs; and though this was corrected in the second edition, it is
necessary to repeat the correction here, as the same mistake occurs in
the article on Tolstoy in the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. I therefore
quote the following passage from a letter he wrote me on the subject:
I have received your book and read it with pleasure. The short
biography is excellent, except the place where you, quoting the
words of Sophia Andréyevna, say that 'he liberated his peasants
before the Emancipation.' That is wrong: I placed them on _obrók_
instead of keeping them on _bárstchina_ [_i.e._ the state in which
the peasants rendered labour dues]. It would not have been possible
to emancipate them....
1861
Tolstoy's curious tendency to underrate the influence of the Liberal
reformers of that time, may be illustrated by an incident that occurred
at a dinner in Toúla. The local elections had taken place, and a public
banquet was given in honour of those Arbiters of the Peace who were
visiting the town. Tolstoy was at this dinner, and when the toast
to the health of Alexander II, the 'Tsar-Liberator,' was proposed,
Tolstoy remarked to his neighbour: 'I drink this toast with particular
pleasure. No others are needed, for in reality we owe the Emancipation
to the Emperor alone.'
A yet more curious instance of the same tendency occurs in an article
on _Progress, and the Definition of Education_, which he published a
year later, and in which, arguing that printing has been of little use
to the people, he says that:
Even taking as an example the abolition of serfdom, I do not see
that printing helped the solution of the problem in a progressive
sense. Had the Government not said its decisive word in that
affair, the press would, beyond a doubt, have explained matters
in quite a different way to what it did. We saw that most of the
periodicals would have demanded the emancipation of the peasants
without any land, and would have produced arguments apparently just
as reasonable, witty and sarcastic [as they actually produced in
favour of the more Liberal solution ultimately adopted]....
If, however, Tolstoy did not stand in the ranks of the Reformers,
he was much less of a partisan of his own class than many of his
fellow-nobles desired; and we find the Marshal of the Nobility of Toúla
writing to Valoúef, Minister of Home Affairs, complaining of Tolstoy's
appointment as Arbiter of the Peace on the ground that he was disliked
by the neighbouring landowners. In consequence of this complaint
Valoúef made inquiries, and received a 'confidential' reply from the
Governor of the Province, stating that:
Knowing Count Tolstoy personally, as an educated man warmly
sympathising with the matter in hand, and in view of a wish
expressed to me by some of the proprietors of the district that he
should be appointed Arbiter, I cannot replace him by some one I do
not know.
Tolstoy tried his best to act fairly between peasants and landowners;
but from the start his unsuitability for duties involving methodical
care was obvious.
The very first 'charter,' regulating the relations between a landlord
and his newly-liberated peasants, that he sent up to the Government
Board for Peasant Affairs, was signed as follows: 'At the request of
such-and-such peasants, because of their illiteracy, the house-serf
so-and-so has signed this charter for them.' Not a single name did the
charter contain! As Tolstoy had dictated the words, so his servant had
written them down, and the charter had been sealed and sent off without
being read over.
He could at times be wonderfully patient in dealing with the peasants,
though they were exasperatingly pertinacious in demanding more than
it was possible to grant. An eye-witness tells how Tolstoy visited
a neighbouring estate on which differences had arisen between the
peasants and their former master, as to the land which should be
allotted to them. Tolstoy received a deputation, consisting of three of
the leading peasants of the village, and asked them:
'Well, lads, what do you want?'
They explained what land they wished to have, and Tolstoy replied, 'I
am very sorry I can't do what you wish. Were I to do so I should cause
your landlord a great loss'; and he proceeded to explain to them how
the matter stood.
'But you'll manage it for us somehow, _bátushka_' [literally,
'little-father'], said the peasants.
'No, I can't do anything of the kind,' repeated Tolstoy.
The peasants glanced at one another, scratched their heads, and
reiterated their 'But somehow, _bátushka_!' and one of them added, 'If
only you want to, _bátushka_, you'll know how to find a way to do it!'
at which the other peasants nodded their heads approvingly.
Tolstoy crossed himself, as orthodox Russians are wont to do, and
said: 'As God is holy, I swear that I can be of no use at all to
you.' But still the peasants repeated: 'You'll take pity on us, and
do it somehow, _bátushka_!' Tolstoy at last turned vehemently to the
steward, who was present, and said: 'One can sooner, like Amphion, move
the hills and woods, than convince peasants of anything!'
The whole conversation, says the steward, lasted more than an hour,
and up to the last minute the Count retained his patient and friendly
manner towards the peasants. Their obstinacy did not provoke him to
utter a single harsh word.
With the landowners Tolstoy had even more trouble than with the
peasants. He received many threatening letters, plans were formed
to have him beaten, he was to have been challenged to a duel; and
denunciations against him were sent to those in authority.
After some three months of the work, in July 1861, he jotted down in
his Diary: 'Arbitration has given me but little material [for literary
work], has brought me into conflict with all the landed-proprietors,
and has upset my health.'
Here is a sample of the cases he had to deal with. A Mrs. Artukóf
complained that a certain Mark Grigóref (who had been a house-serf, and
was therefore not entitled to land) had left her, considering himself
to be 'perfectly free.'
Tolstoy, in his reply to the lady, said:
Mark, by my order, is at liberty to go immediately, with his
wife, where he likes; and I beg you (1) to compensate him for the
three-and-a-half months he has been illegally kept at work by you
since the Decree was published, and (2) for the blows still more
illegally inflicted on his wife. If my decision displeases you,
you have a right of appeal to the Magistrates' Sessions and to the
Government Sessions. I shall not enter into further explanations
on this subject.--With entire respect I have the honour to remain,
your humble servant,
C^{t.} L. TOLSTOY.
The lady appealed to the Magistrates' Sessions, and Tolstoy's decision
was annulled; but on the case being carried to the Government Sessions,
his view of the case prevailed.
Before he had been a year in office we find him writing to the
Government of the Toúla Board of Peasant Affairs as follows:
As the complaints [here follows a list of several cases] lodged
against my decisions have no legal justification, but yet in these
and many other cases my decisions have been and are being repealed,
so that almost every decision I give is subsequently reversed; and
as under such conditions--destructive both of the peasants' and
the landowners' confidence in the Arbiter--the latter's activity
becomes not merely useless but impossible, I humbly request the
Government Board to authorise one of its members to hasten the
examination of the above-mentioned appeals, and I have to inform
the Government Board that until such investigations are completed
I do not consider it proper that I should exercise the duties of
my office, which I have, therefore, handed over to the senior
Candidate.
The following month he resumed official work, but six weeks later,
on 30th April 1862, on the score of ill-health, he handed the duties
over to a substitute; and on 26th May--about a year after he had first
assumed the office--the Senate informed the Governor of Toúla that
it 'had decided to discharge the Lieutenant of Artillery, Count Leo
Tolstoy, on the ground of ill-health' from the post of Arbiter of the
Peace.
His unsatisfactory experience of administrative work no doubt helps to
account for the anti-Governmental bias shown in his later works. Even
at this time, he quite shared the dislike of civil and criminal law
expressed by Rousseau when he wrote in his _Confession_:
The justice and the inutility of my appeals left in my mind a germ
of indignation against our stupid civil institutions, in which the
true welfare of the public, and veritable justice, are always
sacrificed to I know not what apparent order, really destructive of
all order, and which merely adds the sanction of public authority
to the oppression of the weak and the iniquity of the strong.
We may at any rate be sure that tiresome, petty administrative work,
never quite satisfactory, but at best consisting of compromises and of
decisions based on necessity rather than on such principles of abstract
justice as are dear to Tolstoy's soul, could never be an occupation
satisfactory to him. He has not the plodding patience and studious
moderation that such work demands; nor could his impulsive genius find
scope in it. It has never been easy for him to be checked by others,
or to have to reckon with their opinions and wishes. Like Rousseau, it
suits him better to reform the world on paper, or even to alter his own
personal habits of life, than to concern himself with the slow social
progress, the bit-by-bit amelioration, which alone is possible to those
harnessed to the car that carries a whole society of men.
Tolstoy used at this time to find recreation in hunting, and often
went out for days together with his friend and relation Prince D. D.
Obolénsky, who describes him as having been a bold and active hunter,
leaping all sorts of obstacles, and a wonderful man to talk to.
Concurrently with his duties as Arbiter, Tolstoy had been carrying on
an enterprise in which he had to deal with people younger and more easy
to mould than the peasants and proprietors whose quarrels he found
it so hard to adjust; and during the winter of 1861-1862 he devoted
himself with especial fervour to the task of educating the peasant
children of Yásnaya and the surrounding district.
As we have already seen, a chief aim of his travels abroad had been
to study the theory and practice of education; and not only did
he now personally devote himself to the school at Yásnaya, but in
the surrounding neighbourhood eleven similar schools were soon
started, all more or less inspired by his ideals and encouraged by
his co-operation. The monthly magazine, _Yásnaya Polyána_ (now a
bibliographical rarity) which he produced and edited during 1862, aimed
at propagating his theories of education and making known the results
attained in his school, and it also contained an account of sums
voluntarily contributed for its support. From articles published in it
(and republished in his collected writings) we get a vivid description
of the work carried on in November and December 1861.[45] Like many
Russian magazines, _Yásnaya Polyána_ always appeared late, and, to
begin with, the January number was several weeks behind time.
[45] In one edition after another of Tolstoy's works, the
article referred to above is called 'Yásno-Polyána School in
Nov. and Dec. 1862,' though the article itself appeared in the
first number of _Yásnaya Polyána_, in February of that year.
In small matters of detail of this kind, Tolstoy has always
been careless.
In this educational work, Tolstoy showed the qualities and limitations
which in later years marked all his propagandist activity. There was
the same characteristic selection of a task of great importance; the
same readiness to sweep aside and condemn nearly all that civilised
humanity had accomplished up to then; the same assurance that he could
untie the Gordian knot; and the same power of devoted genius enabling
him really to achieve much more than one would have supposed possible,
though not a tithe of what he set himself to do.
In later life Tolstoy laid no particular emphasis on what he wrote
in these educational articles: in fact, we shall find him sometimes
speaking very scornfully of them; but they throw so much light on his
then state of mind, and often come so near to the views he strongly
advocated twenty or thirty years later, that it will be worth devoting
a good deal of attention to them.
Tolstoy, then, defines Education as: _a human activity, aving for its
basis a desire for equality, and the constant tendency to advance in
knowledge_. This he illustrates by saying that the aim of a teacher
of arithmetic should be to enable his pupil to grasp all the laws of
mathematical reasoning he himself is master of; the aim of a teacher
of French, or chemistry, or philosophy, should be similar; and as soon
as that aim is attained, the activity will naturally cease. Everywhere
and always, teaching which makes the pupil the master's equal, has been
considered good. The more nearly and rapidly this is accomplished, the
better; the less nearly and more slowly it is accomplished, the worse.
Similarly in literature (an indirect method of teaching) those books
are written best, in which the author succeeds in transmitting his
whole message most easily to the reader.
By 'the constant tendency to advance in knowledge,' Tolstoy meant
that the equality aimed at in education can only be obtained on the
higher, and not on the lower, level: that is to say, not by the teacher
forgetting what he knows, but by the pupil acquiring the teacher's
knowledge. Much tuition however is based not on the desire to equalise
knowledge, but on quite false foundations.
These are: (1) First and commonest, the child learns in order not to be
punished; (2) the child learns in order to earn a reward; (3) the child
learns in order to be better than others; (4) the child, or young man,
learns in order to obtain an advantageous position in the world....
With reference to the practice of sending boys to school, not for their
natural development, but that they may be moulded into a set form,
Tolstoy declares that 'Education, as a deliberate moulding of people
into certain forms, is _sterile, illegitimate, and impossible_.'
Of examinations he strongly disapproves, as tending to arbitrariness on
the side of the examiners, and deception on the side of the pupils.
Under what circumstances, asks Tolstoy, can a pupil acquire knowledge
most rapidly? 'A child or a man is receptive only when he is aroused;
and therefore to regard a merry spirit in school as an enemy or a
hindrance, is the crudest of blunders.
The pupil's state of mind is the most important condition of successful
education; and to secure good results, freedom is indispensable. No
child should be forced to learn what it does not want to, or when it
does not wish to.
One need only glance at one and the same child at home or in the
street, and at school. Here you see a vivacious, inquisitive being,
with a smile in his eye and on his mouth, seeking information
everywhere as a pleasure, and clearly, and often forcibly,
expressing his thoughts in his own way; while there you see a
weary, shrinking creature repeating, merely with his lips, some one
else's thoughts in some one else's words, with an air of fatigue,
fear and listlessness: a creature whose soul has retreated like a
snail into its shell. One need but glance at these two conditions
to see which of them is the more conducive to the child's
development. That strange physiological condition which I call the
'School state of mind,' and which unfortunately we all know so
well, consists in all the higher capacities: imagination, creative
power and reflection, yielding place to a semi-animal capacity to
pronounce words without imagination or reflection.
When the pupils have been reduced to this 'School state of mind' we
encounter those 'not accidental, but often-repeated cases,' of the
stupidest boy being at the top of the class, and the cleverest boy at
the bottom.
In short, a child's mental capacities are really active only when that
child is free; and the teacher's chief task lies 'in studying the free
child' and discovering how to supply him with knowledge. Therefore
'the only method of education is experiment, and its only criterion is
_freedom_.'
The attempts to enforce obedience and quiet in school-rooms, converts
schools into places of torture which have a stupefying effect, well
called by the Germans _Verdummen_.
In Germany nine-tenths of those who pass through the primary
schools leave them possessed of an ability to read and write
mechanically, but imbued with so strong a loathing for the
experience they have had of the paths of knowledge, that they
subsequently never take a book in their hands. Let those who
doubt what I say, point out to me what books are read by the
labourers.... No one who will seriously consider the education of
the people, not only in Russia but also in the rest of Europe, can
help coming to the conclusion that the people get their mental
development quite independently of a knowledge of reading and
writing, and that usually, except in a few cases of exceptional
ability, these rudiments remain a quite unapplied art--which is
even harmful, since nothing in life can remain indifferent....
* * * * *
Schools are not so arranged as to make it convenient for children
to learn, but so as to make it convenient for teachers to teach.
The voices, movements and mirth of the children, which form a
necessary condition of their studying successfully, incommode the
teachers, and therefore in the prison-like schools of to-day,
questions, conversation, and movement are forbidden.
Schools based on compulsion, supply 'not a shepherd for the flock, but
a flock for the shepherd.'
* * * * *
To deal successfully with any object, it is necessary to study it,
and in education the object is a free child; yet the pedagogues
wish to teach in their own way--the way that seems good in their
own eyes; and when this does not act, they want not to alter their
way of teaching but the nature of the child. ...Not till experiment
becomes the basis of the School, and every school is, so to say, a
pedagogic laboratory, will schools cease to lag behind the general
level of the world's progress.
For boarding-schools Tolstoy had scant respect:
At home all the comforts of life--water, fires, good food, a
well-cooked dinner, the cleanliness and comfort of the rooms--all
depended on the work and care of the mother and of the whole
family. The more work and care, the greater the comfort; the less
work and care, the less comfort. A simple matter this no doubt, but
more educational I think, than the French language or a knowledge
of Alexander the Great. In a boarding-school, this constant vital
reward for labour is so put out of sight, that not only is the
dinner no better or worse, the napkins no cleaner or dirtier, and
the floors no brighter or duller, because of the girl's exertion
or non-exertion, but she has not even a cell or corner of her own
to keep straight or leave untidy at her pleasure, and she has no
chance of making a costume for herself out of scraps and ribbons.
His general charge against day-schools, boarding-schools and
universities alike is that:
At the base of them all lies one and the same principle: the right
of one man, or of a small group of men, to shape other people as
they like.
He adds that:
It is not enough for School to tear children away from real life
for six hours a day during the best years of their life: it wishes
to tear three-year-old children from their mother's influence.
Institutions have been contrived (_Kleinkinderbervahranstalten_,
infant schools, _salles d'asile_) about which we shall have
to speak more in detail later on. It only remains to invent a
steam-engine which will replace the nursing mother! All agree that
schools are imperfect; I, personally, am convinced that they are
noxious.
He argues that no man or set of men has any right to force any
particular kind of education on any one else. The teacher has no right
to do more than offer such knowledge as he possesses, and he should
respect the child's right to reject it as indigestible, or as badly
served up:
On what grounds does the School of to-day teach this and not that,
and in this and not that way?
Where, in our day, can we get such faith in the indubitability
of our knowledge as would give us a right to educate people
compulsorily? Take any medieval school, before or after Luther,
take the whole scholastic literature of the Middle Ages, what a
strength of belief and what a firm, indubitable knowledge of what
was true and what was false, we see in them! It was easy for them
to know that a knowledge of Greek was the one essential condition
of education; for Aristotle's works were in Greek, and no one
doubted the truth of his propositions till centuries later. How
could the monks help demanding the study of the Holy Scriptures,
which stood on an immovable foundation? It was well for Luther
to demand the compulsory study of Hebrew, being sure, as he was,
that in that language God himself has revealed the truth to man.
Evidently, as long as man's critical sense was not aroused, the
school had to be dogmatic; and it was natural for pupils to learn
by heart the truths revealed by God, as well as Aristotle's science
and the poetic beauties of Virgil and Cicero. For centuries after,
no one could imagine any truer truth, or more beautiful beauty.
But what is the position of the schools of our time, which retain
these same dogmatic principles, while in the room next the class
where the immortality of the soul is taught, it is suggested to the
pupils that the nerves common to man and to the frog are what was
formerly called 'the soul'; and where after hearing the story of
Joshua the son of Nun read to him without explanations, the pupil
learns that the sun never did go round the earth; and when after
the beauties of Virgil have been explained to him, he finds the
beauties of Alexandre Dumas (whose novels he can buy for sixpence)
much greater; when the only belief held by the teacher is that
nothing is true, but that whatever exists is reasonable; and that
progress is good and backwardness bad, though nobody knows in what
this progress, that is so generally believed in, consists?
In another article he says:
Luther insists on teaching the Holy Scriptures from the originals,
and not from the commentaries of the Fathers of the Church. Bacon
enjoins the study of Nature from Nature, and not from the books
of Aristotle. Rousseau wants to teach life from life itself as
he understands it, and not from previous experiments. Each step
forward in the philosophy of pedagogics merely consists in freeing
the schools from the idea of teaching the younger generations what
the elder generations believed to be science, and in substituting
studies that accord with the needs of the younger generations.
Again, he says
It is very usual to read and hear it said that the home conditions,
the coarseness of parents, field labour, village games and so
forth, are the chief hindrances to school-work. Possibly they
really interfere with the kind of school-work aimed at by the
pedagogues; but it is time we understood that those conditions
are the chief bases of all education, and far from being inimical
to, or hindrances of the School, are its first and chief motive
power.... The wish to know anything whatever, and the very
questions to which it is the School's business to reply, arise
entirely from these home conditions. All instruction should
be simply a reply to questions put by life. But School, far
from evoking questions, fails even to answer those which life
suggests.... To such questions the child receives no reply; more
especially as the police regulations of the School do not allow him
to open his mouth, even when he wants to be let out for a minute,
but obliges him to make signs in order not to break the silence or
disturb the teacher.
The great questions, Tolstoy says, are: (1) What must I teach? and (2)
How must I teach it? He remarks that a couple of centuries ago, neither
in Russia nor in Western Europe could these questions have arisen.
Education was then bound up with religion, and to become a scholar
meant to learn the Scriptures. In Mohammedan countries this union of
religion with education still exists in full force. To learn, means
to learn the Koran, and therefore to learn Arabic. But as soon as the
criterion of what to learn ceased to be religion, and the School became
independent of the Church, the question of what to teach was bound to
arise. That it did not arise suddenly, was due to the fact that the
emancipation of the School from the Church took place gradually. But
the day has at last come when the question must be faced; and no clear
guidance is given us either by philosophy or by any definite consensus
of opinion among those concerned with education. In the higher schools
some advocate a classical, others a scientific, education; while in the
primary schools, if the education is controlled by the priests it is
carried on in one way, and if it is controlled by the anti-clericals it
is carried on in another. Under these circumstances the only possible
criterion must be the wish of the pupils or of their parents. Tolstoy
then goes on to maintain that the demand of the mass of the Russian
people is for tuition in the Russian and Ecclesiastico-Slavonic
languages, and for mathematics.
As to _how_ to teach, he contends that this resolves itself into the
question, How to establish the best possible relations between those
who want to learn and those who want to teach, and he says:
No one, probably, will deny that the best relation between a
teacher and his pupils is a natural one, and that the opposite
to a natural one is a compulsory one. If that be so, then the
measure of all scholastic methods consists in the greater or lesser
naturalness, and consequently in the less or more compulsion
employed. The less the children are compelled, the better is the
method; the more they are compelled, the worse is the method. I am
glad that it is not necessary for me to prove this obvious truth.
All are agreed that it cannot be good for health to employ foods,
medicines, or exercises which create disgust or pain; and so also
in learning, there can be no need to compel children to grind at
anything dull or repugnant to them; and if it seems necessary to
use compulsion, that fact can merely prove the imperfection of
the methods employed. All who have taught children have probably
noticed that the worse the teacher knows the subject he is dealing
with and the less he likes it, the more he has to be stern and the
more compulsion he has to use; while on the contrary, the better
the teacher knows and loves his subject, the more free and natural
will be his tuition.
If history be closely examined, it will be found that every advance
in pedagogics has consisted merely in a diminution of compulsion,
a facilitation of study, and a greater and greater approach to
naturalness in the relations between teacher and pupil.
People have asked, How can we find the degree of freedom to be
allowed in school? To which I reply that the limit of that freedom
is naturally defined by the teacher, by his knowledge, and by his
capacity to manage the school. Such freedom cannot be dictated; its
measure is merely the result of the greater or lesser knowledge
and talent possessed by the master. Freedom is not a rule, but
it serves as a gauge when comparing one school with another, or
when judging of new methods. The school in which there is less
compulsion, is better than the one in which there is more. That
method is good which, when introduced into a school, does not
necessitate any increase of discipline; while that is certainly bad
which necessitates greater severity.
From his main subject of Education, Tolstoy digresses in these articles
into a discussion of other problems, in a way which reminds one of
those wonderful essays he began to pour forth a quarter of a century
later.
That he had been somewhat influenced by the Slavophils is indicated
by his readiness to assume that Russia may advance along a line
of her own, entirely different to that the Western nations have
travelled. 'Progress,' in which like almost all his contemporaries he
had believed, he now questions; and he indulges in a sharp attack on
Macaulay for the third chapter of his _History_, which he says contains
no proof that any real progress has been achieved. Buckle, similarly,
is roughly handled for the assumption of progress that underlies his
_History of Civilisation_; but most scathing of all is his onslaught
upon Hegel, who (till Darwin appeared) was the rock on which many of
the intellectual Liberals took their stand.
From the time of Hegel and his famous aphorism: 'What is historic
is reasonable,' a very queer mental hocus-pocus has prevailed in
literary and in verbal disputes, especially among us, under the
name of 'the historic view.' You say, for instance, that man has
a right to freedom, or to be tried on the basis of laws of which
he himself approves; but the historic view replies that history
evolves a certain historic moment conditioning a certain historic
legislation and a people's historic relation thereto. You say
you believe in a God; and the historic view replies that history
evolves certain historic views and humanity's relation to those
views. You say the _Iliad_ is the greatest of epic works; and the
historic view replies that the _Iliad_ is merely the expression
of the historic consciousness of a people at a certain historic
moment. On this basis, the historic view does not dispute with you
as to whether man needs freedom, or whether there is or is not a
God, or whether the _Iliad_ is good or bad: it does nothing to
establish the freedom you desire; to persuade or dissuade you of
the existence of a God or of the beauty of the _Iliad_; it merely
points out to you the place your inner need or your love of truth
or beauty, occupy in history. It merely recognises--and recognises
not by direct cognition, but by historic ratiocination.
Say that you love or believe anything, and the historic view tells
you: 'Love and believe, and your love and faith will find their
place in our historic view. Ages will pass and we shall find the
place you are to occupy in history. Know however in advance, that
what you love is not absolutely beautiful, and what you believe in
is not absolutely true; yet amuse yourselves, children: your love
and faith will find their place and application.'
It is only necessary to add the word 'historic' to any conception
you like, and that conception loses its real vital meaning, in an
artificially-formed historic world-conception.
Of the introduction of telegraphs and railways he remarks that people
attribute great importance to these inventions, and boast of the
progress that is being made, declaring that:
'Man is mastering the forces of Nature. Thought, with the rapidity
of lightning, flies from one end of the world to the other. Time is
vanquished.'
This, says Tolstoy, is excellent and touching.
But let us see who gains by it. We are speaking of the progress
of the electric telegraph. Evidently the advantage and use of the
telegraph is reserved for the upper, so-called 'educated' class;
while the people, nine-tenths of the whole, only hear the droning
of the wires and are hampered by the strict laws made for the
protection of the telegraph.
Along the wires flies the thought that the demand for such-and-such
an article has increased, and that the price must therefore be
raised; or the thought that I, a Russian landed proprietress,
living in Florence, have, thank God, recovered from my nervous
prostration, and that I embrace my adored husband and beg him to
send me 40,000 francs as quickly as possible.
Without going into exact statistics of the messages sent, one may
be quite sure that they all belong to the kind of correspondence
of which the above are samples. No peasant of Yásnaya Polyána in
the Government of Toúla, or any other Russian peasant (and let it
not be forgotten that the peasants form the mass of the people
whose welfare 'progress' is supposed to secure) ever has sent or
received, or for a long time to come will either send or receive,
a single telegram. All the messages that fly above his head add
no jot to his welfare, because all he needs he gets from his own
fields and his own woods, and he is equally indifferent to the
cheapness or dearness of sugar or cotton, to the dethronement of
King Otho, the speeches of Palmerston and Napoleon III, or the
feelings of the lady in Florence. All those thoughts that fly with
the rapidity of lightning round the world, do not increase the
fertility of his fields nor diminish the strictness of the keepers
in the squire's or the Crown's forests, nor do they add to his or
his family's working power, or supply him with an extra labourer.
All these great thoughts may impair his welfare, but cannot secure
or further it, and can have but a negative interest for him. To
the True-Believers in progress, however, the telegraph wires
have brought and are bringing immense advantages. I do not deny
those advantages: I only wish to prove that one must not think,
or persuade others, that what is advantageous for me, is a great
blessing to all the world....
In the opinion of the Russian people what increases their welfare
is an increase of the fertility of the soil, an increase in the
herds of cattle, an increase of the quantity of grain and its
consequently becoming cheaper, an increase of working power,
an increase in woods and pastures, and the absence of town
temptations. (I beg the reader to observe that no peasant ever
complains of the cheapness of bread; it is only the political
economists of Western Europe who soothe him with the prospect that
bread will become dearer and render it more possible for him to
purchase manufactured articles, in which he is not interested.)
Which of these benefits does the railway bring to the peasant? It
increases the temptations; it destroys the woods; it draws away
labourers; it raises the price of grain....
The real people, that is to say those who themselves work and live
productively--nine-tenths of the whole nation--without whom no
progress is conceivable, are always hostile to the railway. And so
what it comes to is this: that the believers in 'progress,' a small
part of society, say that railways increase the welfare of the
people; while the larger part of the nation say that the railways
decrease it.
Interesting, stimulating and suggestive as Tolstoy's articles were, and
valuable as was the experience gained in his school, his magazine had
very few subscribers and only existed for one year: the twelfth number
was the last.
In an article written thirteen years later, he says of his attempts in
1861-2:
At that time I met with no sympathy in the educational journals,
nor even with any contradiction, but only with the completest
indifference to the question I was raising. There were, it is true,
some attacks on a few insignificant details, but the question
itself evidently interested no one. I was young at that time, and
this indifference galled me. I did not understand that I with my
question: How do you know what and how to teach? was like a man
who, in an assembly of Turkish Pachas discussing how to collect
more taxes from the people, should say to them: Gentlemen, before
discussing how much to take from each man, we must first consider
what right we have to collect taxes at all? Obviously, the Pachas
would continue to discuss the methods of collecting, and would
ignore the irrelevant question.
Before passing on to tell of the actual working of the Yásnaya Polyána
school, there is one matter to be noted, small indeed in itself, but
characteristic, and helpful for the understanding of Tolstoy's later
development.
Tolstoy's personal honour has never been questioned, and the reader
will remember that at Sevastopol he flatly refused to touch money
which, according to the long-standing regimental custom, was at his
disposal. Well, in his magazine he printed a story written by one of
the boys in the school, and appraised it with enthusiasm. The hero of
the story, who had been wretchedly poor, returns from the army with
money to spare, and explains the matter to his wife by saying: 'I
was a non-commissioned officer and had Crown money to pay out to the
soldiers, and some remaining over, I kept it.'
Commenting on this, Tolstoy says:
It is revealed that the soldier has become rich, and has done so
in the simplest and most natural manner, just as almost everybody
does who becomes rich--that is, by other people's, the Crown's,
or somebody's, money remaining in his hands owing to a fortunate
accident. Some readers have remarked that this incident is immoral,
and that the people's conception of the Crown as a milch cow should
be eradicated and not confirmed. But not to speak of its artistic
truth, I particularly value that trait in the story. Does not the
Crown money always stop somewhere? And why should it not, once in
a way, stop with a homeless soldier like Gordéy?
In the views of honesty held by the peasants and the upper class,
a complete contrast is often noticeable. The peasants' demands are
specially serious and strict with regard to honesty in the nearest
relations of life; for instance, in respect to one's family, one's
village, or one's commune. In respect to outsiders: the public, the
Crown, or foreigners, or the Treasury especially, the applicability
of the rules of honesty seems to them obscure. A peasant who would
never tell a lie to his brother peasant, and who would bear all
possible hardships for the sake of his family, and not take a
farthing from a fellow-villager or neighbour without having fully
earned it--will be ready to squeeze a foreigner or a townsman like
an orange, and at every second word will lie to a gentleman or an
official. If he is a soldier, he will without the slightest twinge
of conscience stab a French prisoner, and should Crown money come
his way, he would consider it a crime to his family not to take it.
In the upper class, on the contrary, it is quite the reverse....
I do not say which is better, I only say what I believe to be the
case....
To return to the story. The mention of the Crown money, which at
first seems immoral, in our opinion has a most sweet and touching
character. How often a writer of our circle, when wishing to show
his hero as an ideal of honesty, naïvely displays to us the dirty
and depraved nature of his own imagination! Here, on the contrary,
the author has to make his hero happy. His return to his family
would suffice for that, but it was also necessary to remove the
poverty which for so many years had weighed on the family. Where
was he to take money from? From the impersonal Crown! If the author
is to give him wealth, it has to be taken from some one, and it
could not have been found in a more legitimate or reasonable way.
No doubt Tolstoy's statement of peasant morality is true enough; but
Tolstoy's attitude towards the matter is remarkable. He has always had
a keen sense of personal morality, but when public morality was in
question, his decisions seem to me often to have been at fault.
Passing from the moral to the economic aspect of the question, to
Western ears it sounds strange to hear the medieval or Oriental
conception so boldly announced, that property 'has to be taken from
some one' before it can be obtained. In our world, wealth has, during
the last five generations, been increased enormously by inventions, by
organisation, by division of labour, by the skilful utilisation of the
forces of Nature, as well as by co-operation and the bringing together
into one place of industries and individuals mutually helpful; and it
has become impossible for us to believe that the _only_ way to obtain
wealth is by depriving some one else of wealth they already possess.
AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER VII
Birukof.
Fet.
Tolstoy's letter to A. Maude.
Tolstoy's Educational Articles.
Löwenfeld's _Leo N. Tolstoj_.
P. A. Sergeyenko in _Niva_, No. 7, 1906.