Tolstoi’s latest novel, Resurrection, has been reviewed by several well-known literary men on the Continent. In reading their able articles I am surprised by the absence in them of any full appreciation of the vital chord which has been struck by this master hand, on one side of the great question of justice. The masculine reviewers (I speak of continentals, not yet having read reviews which have appeared in England) seem to have missed in a measure hearing the note which goes straight to every woman’s heart. The book might be called the amende honorable made by the masculine conscience to the womanhood of the world, for the centuries of wrong inflicted by the absence of the recognition of an equal moral standard for the sexes. It has brought hope to many, showing how the truth is marching on, how the winged seed has taken root, not only in obscure ground, and in humble minds, but in the mind of a great genius, whose voice has sounded aloud and afar the justice of the movement, for which so many of us have prayed and laboured, and the injustice under which so many have suffered and died—their sorrows and their death taken no account of because they were the helpless victims of the tyranny appealed against.
The Resurrection which Tolstoi pictures is the resurrection of conscience in a man who arises to do the whole of his duty towards a fallen woman, a woman of the streets in fact, whose first seducer he had been. The book is full of sad and tragic scenes, depicted with the author’s unrivalled power; but it stands for truth, for justice, for the right, and in the hand of the giant Tolstoi, it is like a clarion sounding the dawn of a new day. Millions will read this book, appearing as it has done in several languages at the same moment, an accomplished work of art, a marvel of composition, of achievement, even of translation, for it is translated into French by a masterly pen. No man having read it can help having heard the call of conscience.
Madame Pieczynska, who has lived in Russia and Poland, wrote to me as follows: “For me this book is a great event to be thankful for, even unto God. I am told that it is received with enthusiasm in Russia, though it has been mutilated by the censor before being allowed to appear. I hope you will share our impressions about it. To some the hero’s character will probably appear invraisemblable. Let me assure you that it is nevertheless a true and not exceptional type of the Slavian youth of the period, more entire, more extreme in his tendencies, good or bad, than English, French or Swiss men are. The Slavian race is not as yet like those others at the climax of civilisation. It is still growing, ascending, shaping its characteristics, while the others are mature or even growing old. In Russia, in Poland, there is not such a crowding of humanity; there is more room to expand, and to stretch out a thought even to its last consequences. Hence we have Nihilists, strange sects, and such men as Nekhludow and Tolstoi, whilst in some countries mediocrity reigns supreme, everyone elbowing his neighbour closely, and allowing him no extraordinary move, be it onward and upward, or downward. The hero of Tolstoi will undoubtedly be called by many an exalté, but none the less ‘Truth will be justified of her children.’”
Madame Pieczynska’s words are true, for in spite of the reserves and objections which will fill the minds of many readers of Resurrection, it is good and right that there should be foreshadowed for all men the question which will have to be faced and answered in the great Day of Judgment by all seducers, corrupters and despisers of women. I will not attempt to give the story, which has been reported in many reviews; but will only add that there are sentences in the book, confessions of an awakened, “resurrected” conscience, and recitals which no Abolitionist among us could read unmoved, and which, when once read, will not easily be forgotten. It would be hopeless to endeavour to bring together here in any adequate degree these remarkable passages. The sister of the hero, a good, kind, prosperous, society woman, asks him with sincerity: “But do you believe it possible that a woman who has lived such a life can ever again be really elevated, morally re-instated, and restored to the nobility of womanhood?” She waits for a reply, imagining that that question is the one which presses most on her brother’s mind, while he is thus determined to sacrifice all for his former victim. His reply embodies a thought, which rarely, if ever, occurs even to the best of men. “That is not the question which I have to answer. The question which I have to answer is: Is there hope for me? Can I be rehabilitated, morally restored, and elevated to the true dignity of manhood?”
[CHAPTER XX.]
THE MORNING COMETH.
The death of her brother-in-law, Tell Meuricoffre, in the spring of 1900, and the death of his wife in the autumn of the same year, were a great sorrow to Josephine Butler, increasing the feeling of loneliness that so often comes to the aged; but amid all her weakness and loneliness in these last years, hope, illimitable hope, was the dominant note of her soul, as she looked forward to the “smile and the ‘good morning’ with which God would greet her” on the other side.
To the Editor of the Shield.