In the novels of this second period, argument forces its way in under cover of fiction. Thus, in “Anna Karénina,” which is the story of an adultery, Tolstoï has not only tried to present us with a very accurate picture of aristocratic customs in Russia; he has not only wished to show as the centre and powerful fascination in this series of pictures, the very subtle, very penetrating, very accurate study of a soul wounded by love, the wound of which becomes more and more painful under the effect of the friction and worriments following her first fault: but he has also wished to attack, to settle in his own way, a problem in the social order; he wished to express his opinion about marriage, about separation, about divorce, about celibacy, about unions freely agreed upon and religiously maintained.
“War and Peace,” likewise, is a sort of semi-military, semi-domestic epos; or, if you like, it is a broad study of Russian life, and especially of aristocratic life, whether in the camps, whether in the parlors, whether in the residences of the proprietors during the first quarter of this century, and more especially at the time of the invasion. But within this ample scope the author expresses his theories on military art, his private opinions on the state of war and on the state of peace, his philosophic doctrine of destiny, or his religious fatalism. Some of the characters in “War and Peace” seem at certain times to give a prophetic hint of the dogma which Count Tolstoï will adopt a little later. In Pierre Bezukhof are seen the aspirations towards the ideal which the author of “My Religion” will soon be preaching to men.
If his teaching at this time encroaches on the romance, still it understood how to use marvellously well that vehicle for dissemination wherever the Russian language is spoken; and we shall see, in analyzing them, that the two works of Tolstoï’s second manner show a power and a brilliancy that are truly Shaksperian. But the mysticism, traces of which are found in these works, will develop in their author to such a degree as to make him look upon a novel as an object of scandal, as a “flood of oil thrown on the fire of erotic sensuality.” He will therefore renounce the inventions of romance; he will sacrifice fiction, which now he calls “licentious;” he will not take up the pen, except to perform the work of a doctor or an evangelist; he will write “My Confession,” “My Religion,” the “Commentary on the Gospels.” Of these three works which illustrate Count Lyof Tolstoï’s third manner, the reader will be interested especially in knowing about the first two. He will even find that we have already said enough about “My Confession,” and he will take it kindly if we reserve merely “My Religion” for analysis. In return, he will allow us to dwell upon it, and to speak of it entirely at our ease.
Before entering upon the study of “The Cossacks,” it will not be idle to run quickly over a little story which might serve in place of an introduction to a translation of this romance. This story, consisting of only a few pages, is entitled “Recollections of a Scorer.”[47] It is the story of a rich young man, who, having full control of his fortune, is led by laziness in a short time to degradation and ruin. Nekliudof falls into the society of debauchees and professional gamblers. They pluck him, and ruin him. At his first appearance in this society, he has a feeble nature, but not vulgar. He had some honor: disgusted by the lowness of one of the gamblers, he demands reparation, calls him a coward when he refuses to fight, and compels him to leave the club forever. He had a sense of shame: on the day following a most debasing night, when he had been made intoxicated and initiated into all the depths of debauchery, he bursts into tears, declaring that he will never forgive either himself or his companions in the orgie. Passion for gambling keeps him bound to them; he sinks so low that soon he plays, not only with his habitual partners, but with the servant who fills the functions of scorer. One by one he descends all the steps of a sickening and abject degradation. He is ruined, and disappears.[48]
He returns one fine day, enters the club, asks for writing materials, and, having finished his letter, summons the scorer: “I would like to try one more game with you.” He gains. “Haven’t I learned to play well? Hey?”—“Very well.”—“Now go and order my carriage.” “He started to walk up and down the room. Not suspecting any thing, I went down to call his carriage; but there was no carriage there. I went up-stairs again; and, as I approached the billiard-room, I thought I heard a slight noise, like a knock with a cue. I went in. I noticed a strange smell. I looked around: what did I see? He was stretched out on the floor, bathed in his own blood ... a pistol near him. I was so terror-struck that I could not make a sound. He gave a few signs of life; he stretched out his legs, gave the death-rattle, and all was over.”
If this young Russian had possessed a stronger nature or less enfeebled elasticity, he would have done like Olénin, the hero of “The Cossacks,” or like Tolstoï, who is himself represented under that name. He would have torn himself from his habits; he would have started for the Far East: he would have been certain to find there enough new impressions to refresh his weary brain; enough manly occupations or vivifying pleasures to strengthen his nerves, and build up his muscles; enough perils and accidents or proofs of every kind to regenerate his soul, purify it from the tares of vice, and again raise the wheat of more than one virtue.
Tolstoï was not the first of these superficially blasé emigrants who went off to Asia to find a powerful diversion from irksomeness, from the disgust of an idle and disorderly existence. Pushkin had pointed out the road for him; and the author of “The Gypsies” had himself followed the traces already marked through the desert by the britchka which carried Griboyédof, and the ox-cart which brought him back.[49]
“On the high river bank,” says Pushkin, “I saw before me the fortress of Herhera. Three torrents, with roar and foam, come tumbling down the banks. I had just crossed the river. Two oxen, hitched to an arba, were climbing the steep road. A few Georgians accompanied the arba. ‘Where from?’ I asked them. ‘From Teheran.’—‘What are you carrying?’—‘Griboyéd.’ It was the body of the assassinated Griboyédof, which they were taking back to Tiflis.”
More fortunate than Griboyédof, Tolstoï will come back alive, and, like Pushkin, will be able to describe this adventurous existence; but he will describe it without embellishments, above all without exalting it. He will let the people whom he finds there, and whom he studies entirely at his leisure, appear in all the bold relief of their natures. He will not take away the strange grace and the perfume of the wildflower from this nature in which he feels a voluptuous delight.
The evolution of the romance is rapid and fascinating. We are at Moscow. The night is done. The busy city is waking little by little. The indolent youth are finishing their evenings. At the Hotel Chevallier a light, the presence of which is against the rules, filters through the blinds. A carriage, sledges, and a travelling troïka, are before the door, near which the porter, muffled in his shuba, and a grumbling lackey with pale, drawn features, are waiting.