CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
LESSON OF “THE KREUTZER SONATA.”
IVAN THE FOOL.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
A LOST OPPORTUNITY.
“POLIKUSHKA.”
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
THE CANDLE.
TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE.
On comparing with the original Russian some English translations of
Count Tolstoy’s works, published both in this country and in England, I
concluded that they were far from being accurate. The majority of them
were retranslations from the French, and I found that the respective
transitions through which they had passed tended to obliterate many of
the beauties of the Russian language and of the peculiar
characteristics of Russian life. A satisfactory translation can be made
only by one who understands the language and _spirit_ of the Russian
people. As Tolstoy’s writings contain so many idioms it is not an easy
task to render them into intelligible English, and the one who
successfully accomplishes this must be a native of Russia, commanding
the English and Russian languages with equal fluency.
The story of “Ivan the Fool” portrays Tolstoy’s communistic ideas,
involving the abolition of military forces, middlemen, despotism, and
money. Instead of these he would establish on earth a kingdom in which
each and every person would become a worker and producer. The author
describes the various struggles through which three brothers passed,
beset as they were by devils large and small, until they reached the
ideal state of existence which he believes to be the only happy one
attainable in this world.
On reading this little story one is surprised that the Russian censor
passed it, as it is devoted to a narration of ideas quite at variance
with the present policy of the government of that country.
“A Lost Opportunity” is a singularly true picture of peasant life,
which evinces a deep study of the subject on the part of the writer.
Tolstoy has drawn many of the peculiar customs of the Russian peasant
in a masterly manner, and I doubt if he has given a more comprehensive
description of this feature of Russian life in any of his other works.
In this story also he has presented many traits which are common to
human nature throughout the world, and this gives an added interest to
the book. The language is simple and picturesque, and the characters
are drawn with remarkable fidelity to nature. The moral of this tale
points out how the hero Ivan might have avoided the terrible
consequences of a quarrel with his neighbor (which grew out of nothing)
if he had lived in accordance with the scriptural injunction to forgive
his brother’s sins and seek not for revenge.
The story of “Polikushka” is a very graphic description of the life led
by a servant of the court household of a certain nobleman, in which the
author portrays the different conditions and surroundings enjoyed by
these servants from those of the ordinary or common peasants. It is a
true and powerful reproduction of an element in Russian life but little
written about heretofore. Like the other stories of this great writer,
“Polikushka” has a moral to which we all might profitably give heed. He
illustrates the awful consequences of intemperance, and concludes that
only kind treatment can reform the victims of alcohol.
For much valuable assistance in the work of these translations, I am
deeply indebted to the bright English scholarship of my devoted wife.
THE KREUTZER SONATA.
CHAPTER I.
Travellers left and entered our car at every stopping of the train.
Three persons, however, remained, bound, like myself, for the farthest
station: a lady neither young nor pretty, smoking cigarettes, with a
thin face, a cap on her head, and wearing a semi-masculine outer
garment; then her companion, a very loquacious gentleman of about forty
years, with baggage entirely new and arranged in an orderly manner;
then a gentleman who held himself entirely aloof, short in stature,
very nervous, of uncertain age, with bright eyes, not pronounced in
color, but extremely attractive,—eyes that darted with rapidity from
one object to another.
This gentleman, during almost all the journey thus far, had entered
into conversation with no fellow-traveller, as if he carefully avoided
all acquaintance. When spoken to, he answered curtly and decisively,
and began to look out of the car window obstinately.
Yet it seemed to me that the solitude weighed upon him. He seemed to
perceive that I understood this, and when our eyes met, as happened
frequently, since we were sitting almost opposite each other, he turned
away his head, and avoided conversation with me as much as with the
others. At nightfall, during a stop at a large station, the gentleman
with the fine baggage—a lawyer, as I have since learned—got out with
his companion to drink some tea at the restaurant. During their absence
several new travellers entered the car, among whom was a tall old man,
shaven and wrinkled, evidently a merchant, wearing a large
heavily-lined cloak and a big cap. This merchant sat down opposite the
empty seats of the lawyer and his companion, and straightway entered
into conversation with a young man who seemed like an employee in some
commercial house, and who had likewise just boarded the train. At first
the clerk had remarked that the seat opposite was occupied, and the old
man had answered that he should get out at the first station. Thus
their conversation started.
I was sitting not far from these two travellers, and, as the train was
not in motion, I could catch bits of their conversation when others
were not talking.
They talked first of the prices of goods and the condition of business;
they referred to a person whom they both knew; then they plunged into
the fair at Nijni Novgorod. The clerk boasted of knowing people who
were leading a gay life there, but the old man did not allow him to
continue, and, interrupting him, began to describe the festivities of
the previous year at Kounavino, in which he had taken part. He was
evidently proud of these recollections, and, probably thinking that
this would detract nothing from the gravity which his face and manners
expressed, he related with pride how, when drunk, he had fired, at
Kounavino, such a broadside that he could describe it only in the
other’s ear.
The clerk began to laugh noisily. The old man laughed too, showing two
long yellow teeth. Their conversation not interesting me, I left the
car to stretch my legs. At the door I met the lawyer and his lady.
“You have no more time,” the lawyer said to me. “The second bell is
about to ring.”
Indeed I had scarcely reached the rear of the train when the bell
sounded. As I entered the car again, the lawyer was talking with his
companion in an animated fashion. The merchant, sitting opposite them,
was taciturn.
“And then she squarely declared to her husband,” said the lawyer with a
smile, as I passed by them, “that she neither could nor would live with
him, because” . . .
And he continued, but I did not hear the rest of the sentence, my
attention being distracted by the passing of the conductor and a new
traveller. When silence was restored, I again heard the lawyer’s voice.
The conversation had passed from a special case to general
considerations.
“And afterward comes discord, financial difficulties, disputes between
the two parties, and the couple separate. In the good old days that
seldom happened. Is it not so?” asked the lawyer of the two merchants,
evidently trying to drag them into the conversation.
Just then the train started, and the old man, without answering, took
off his cap, and crossed himself three times while muttering a prayer.
When he had finished, he clapped his cap far down on his head, and
said:
“Yes, sir, that happened in former times also, but not as often. In the
present day it is bound to happen more frequently. People have become
too learned.”
The lawyer made some reply to the old man, but the train, ever
increasing its speed, made such a clatter upon the rails that I could
no longer hear distinctly. As I was interested in what the old man was
saying, I drew nearer. My neighbor, the nervous gentleman, was
evidently interested also, and, without changing his seat, he lent an
ear.
“But what harm is there in education?” asked the lady, with a smile
that was scarcely perceptible. “Would it be better to marry as in the
old days, when the bride and bridegroom did not even see each other
before marriage?” she continued, answering, as is the habit of our
ladies, not the words that her interlocutor had spoken, but the words
she believed he was going to speak. “Women did not know whether they
would love or would be loved, and they were married to the first comer,
and suffered all their lives. Then you think it was better so?” she
continued, evidently addressing the lawyer and myself, and not at all
the old man.
“People have become too learned,” repeated the last, looking at the
lady with contempt, and leaving her question unanswered.
“I should be curious to know how you explain the correlation between
education and conjugal differences,” said the lawyer, with a slight
smile.
The merchant wanted to make some reply, but the lady interrupted him.
“No, those days are past.”
The lawyer cut short her words:—
“Let him express his thought.”
“Because there is no more fear,” replied the old man.
“But how will you marry people who do not love each other? Only animals
can be coupled at the will of a proprietor. But people have
inclinations, attachments,” the lady hastened to say, casting a glance
at the lawyer, at me, and even at the clerk, who, standing up and
leaning his elbow on the back of a seat, was listening to the
conversation with a smile.
“You are wrong to say that, madam,” said the old man. “The animals are
beasts, but man has received the law.”
“But, nevertheless, how is one to live with a man when there is no
love?” said the lady, evidently excited by the general sympathy and
attention.
“Formerly no such distinctions were made,” said the old man, gravely.
“Only now have they become a part of our habits. As soon as the least
thing happens, the wife says: ‘I release you. I am going to leave your
house.’ Even among the moujiks this fashion has become acclimated.
‘There,’ she says, ‘here are your shirts and drawers. I am going off
with Vanka. His hair is curlier than yours.’ Just go talk with them.
And yet the first rule for the wife should be fear.”
The clerk looked at the lawyer, the lady, and myself, evidently
repressing a smile, and all ready to deride or approve the merchant’s
words, according to the attitude of the others.
“What fear?” said the lady.
“This fear,—the wife must fear her husband; that is what fear.”
“Oh, that, my little father, that is ended.”
“No, madam, that cannot end. As she, Eve, the woman, was taken from
man’s ribs, so she will remain unto the end of the world,” said the old
man, shaking his head so triumphantly and so severely that the clerk,
deciding that the victory was on his side, burst into a loud laugh.
“Yes, you men think so,” replied the lady, without surrendering, and
turning toward us. “You have given yourself liberty. As for woman, you
wish to keep her in the seraglio. To you, everything is permissible. Is
it not so?”
“Oh, man,—that’s another affair.”
“Then, according to you, to man everything is permissible?”
“No one gives him this permission; only, if the man behaves badly
outside, the family is not increased thereby; but the woman, the wife,
is a fragile vessel,” continued the merchant, severely.
His tone of authority evidently subjugated his hearers. Even the lady
felt crushed, but she did not surrender.
“Yes, but you will admit, I think, that woman is a human being, and has
feelings like her husband. What should she do if she does not love her
husband?”
“If she does not love him!” repeated the old man, stormily, and
knitting his brows; “why, she will be made to love him.”
This unexpected argument pleased the clerk, and he uttered a murmur of
approbation.
“Oh, no, she will not be forced,” said the lady. “Where there is no
love, one cannot be obliged to love in spite of herself.”
“And if the wife deceives her husband, what is to be done?” said the
lawyer.
“That should not happen,” said the old man. “He must have his eyes
about him.”
“And if it does happen, all the same? You will admit that it does
happen?”
“It happens among the upper classes, not among us,” answered the old
man. “And if any husband is found who is such a fool as not to rule his
wife, he will not have robbed her. But no scandal, nevertheless. Love
or not, but do not disturb the household. Every husband can govern his
wife. He has the necessary power. It is only the imbecile who does not
succeed in doing so.”
Everybody was silent. The clerk moved, advanced, and, not wishing to
lag behind the others in the conversation, began with his eternal
smile:
“Yes, in the house of our employer, a scandal has arisen, and it is
very difficult to view the matter clearly. The wife loved to amuse
herself, and began to go astray. He is a capable and serious man.
First, it was with the book-keeper. The husband tried to bring her back
to reason through kindness. She did not change her conduct. She plunged
into all sorts of beastliness. She began to steal his money. He beat
her, but she grew worse and worse. To an unbaptized, to a pagan, to a
Jew (saving your permission), she went in succession for her caresses.
What could the employer do? He has dropped her entirely, and now he
lives as a bachelor. As for her, she is dragging in the depths.”
“He is an imbecile,” said the old man. “If from the first he had not
allowed her to go in her own fashion, and had kept a firm hand upon
her, she would be living honestly, no danger. Liberty must be taken
away from the beginning. Do not trust yourself to your horse upon the
highway. Do not trust yourself to your wife at home.”
At that moment the conductor passed, asking for the tickets for the
next station. The old man gave up his.
“Yes, the feminine sex must be dominated in season, else all will
perish.”
“And you yourselves, at Kounavino, did you not lead a gay life with the
pretty girls?” asked the lawyer with a smile.
“Oh, that’s another matter,” said the merchant, severely. “Good-by,” he
added, rising. He wrapped himself in his cloak, lifted his cap, and,
taking his bag, left the car.