War is one of the social phenomena which has strongly attracted our author and philosopher. He is present at the Council of Generals and at the soldiers’ bivouac; he studies the moral condition of each; he understands the orders, and why they should be obeyed. He presents to us the whole physiognomy of the Russian army. A minute description which he gives of a disorderly retreat is second only to Schiller’s “Camp of Wallenstein.” He describes the first engagement, the first cannon-shot, the fall of the first soldier, the agony of that long-dreaded moment.
In the course of these volumes the imperial battles are portrayed; Austerlitz, Friedland, Borodino. Tolstoï talks of war like a man who has taken part in it; he knows that a battle is never witnessed by the participants. The soldier, officer, or general which the writer introduces never sees but a single point of the combat; but by the way in which a few men fight, think, talk, and die on that spot, we understand the entire action, and know on what side the victory will be.
When Tolstoï wishes to give us a general description of anything, he ingeniously makes use of some artifice; as, for example, in the engagement at Schöngraben he introduces an aide-de-camp who carries an order the whole length of the line of battle. Then the corps commanders bring in their reports, not of what has taken place, but of what naturally ought to have taken place. How is this? “The colonel had so strongly desired to execute this movement, he so regretted not having been able to carry it out, that it seemed to him that all must have taken place as he wished. Perhaps it really had! Is it ever possible in such confusion to find out what has or has not occurred?”—How perfect is this ironical explanation! I appeal to any soldier who has ever taken part in any action in war, and heard an account given of it by the other participants.
We do not demand of this realistic writer the conventional ideas of the classic authors;—an entire army heroic as its leaders, living only for the great causes it accomplishes, wholly absorbed in its lofty aim. Tolstoï reveals human nature: the soldier’s life, careless, occupied with trifling duties; the officers, with their pleasures or schemes of promotion; the generals, with their ambitions and intrigues; all these seeming quite accustomed and indifferent to what to us appears extraordinary and imposing. However, the author, by dint of sheer simplicity, sometimes draws tears of sympathy from us for those unconscious heroes, such as, for example, the pathetic character of Captain Touchino, which recalls Renault, in “Servitude et Grandeur Militaires.”[L] Tolstoï is severe upon the leaders of the Russian army; he reminds us of the councils of war after the late trials; he satirizes the French and German strategists by whom Alexander was surrounded; and, with his Nihilistic ideas, he thoroughly enjoys describing this Babel of tongues and opinions. With one man alone he secretly sympathizes—with the commander-in-chief, Kutuzof. And why?—Because he gave no orders, and went to sleep during the council, giving up everything to fate. All these descriptions of military life converge toward this idea, which is developed in the philosophical appendix to the novel; all action on the part of the commanders is vain and useless; everything depends upon the fortuitous action of small divisions, the only decisive factor being one of those unforeseen impulses or inspirations which at certain times impels an army. As regards battle array, who thinks of it on the spot when thousands of possible combinations arise? The military genius in command sees only the smoke; he invariably receives his information and issues his orders too late. Can the commander carry out any general plan who is leading on his troops, which number ten, fifty, or one hundred men out of one hundred thousand, within a small radius? The rest of the account you may find in the next day’s bulletins! Over the three hundred thousand combatants fighting in the plains of Borodino blows the wind of chance, bringing victory or defeat.
Here is the same mystic spirit of Nihilism which springs up before every problem of life.
After war, the study which Tolstoï loves best, come the intrigues of the higher classes of society and its centre of gravitation, the court. As differences of race grow less distinct as we approach the higher classes of society, the novelist creates no longer merely Russian types, but general, human, universal ones. Since St. Simon, no one has so curiously unveiled the secret mechanism of court life. We are very apt to distrust writers of fiction when they attempt to depict these hidden spheres; we suspect them of listening behind doors and peeping through key-holes. But this Russian author is in his native element; he has frequented and studied the court as he has the army; he talks of his peers in their own language, and has had the same education and culture; therefore his information is copious and correct, like what you obtain from the comedian who divulges the secrets of the boards.
Go with the author into the salons of certain ladies of the court; listen to the tirades of refugees, the opinions expressed upon Buonaparte, the intrigues of the courtiers, and that peculiar accent when they mention any member of the imperial family. Visit with him a statesman’s home; sit down at Speranski’s table (the man who “laughs a stage laugh”); mark the sovereign’s passage through a ball-room by the light which is visible upon every face from the moment he enters the apartment; above all, visit the death-bed of old Count Bezushof, and witness the tragedy which is being acted under the mask of etiquette; the struggle of base instincts around that speechless, expiring old man, and the general agitation. Here a sinister element, as elsewhere a lofty one, lends marvellous force to the simple sincerity of the picture and to the restraint which propriety imposes upon faces and tongues.
Every passage in which the Emperors Napoleon and Alexander appear in action or speech should be read in order to understand the place that Nihilism occupies in the Russian mind so far as regards the denial of the grandeur and respect accorded by general consent to such potentates. The writer speaks in a deferential tone, as if he would in no wise curtail the majesty of power; but by bringing it down to the most trivial exigencies of life he utterly destroys it. Scattered through the tale we find ten or twelve little sketches of Napoleon drawn with great care, without hostility or an approach to caricature; but merely by withdrawing him from the legendary halo surrounding him, the man’s greatness crumbles away. It is generally some physical peculiarity or trivial act, skilfully introduced, which seems quite incompatible with the sceptre and the imperial robes. With Napoleon, Tolstoï evidently takes great liberties; but it is curious to note these descriptive touches when applied to his own sovereign. With infinite precautions and perfect propriety, the spell of majesty is broken through the incongruity of the man’s actual habits and the formidable rôle he plays. I will quote one of the many examples of this kind (Alexander is at Moscow, in 1812; he receives the ovations of his people at the Kremlin, at the solemn hour when war is proclaimed): “When the Tzar had dined, the master of ceremonies said, looking out of the window, ‘The people are hoping to see your Majesty.’ The emperor, who was eating a biscuit, rose and went out on the balcony. The people rushed towards the terrace. ‘Our emperor! Our father! Hurrah! Hurrah!’ cried the people. Many women and a few men actually wept for joy. Quite a large piece of the biscuit the emperor held in his hand broke off and fell upon the balustrade, and from that to the ground. The man nearest to it was a cab-driver, in a blouse, who made a rush for the piece and seized it. Others rushed upon the coachman; whereupon the emperor had a plateful of biscuit brought, and began to throw them from the balcony to the crowd. Pierre’s eyes became blood-shot; the danger of being crushed only excited him the more, and he pressed forward through the crowd. He could not have told why he felt that he positively must have one of those biscuit thrown by the hand of the Tzar….”
Again, there is nothing more true to nature than the account of the audience granted by the Emperor of Austria to Bolkonski, who had been despatched as a courier to Brünn with the news of a victory of the allies. The writer describes so well the gradual disenchantment of the young officer, who sees his great battle vanish before his eyes in the opinion of men. He quitted the scene of the exploit expecting to astonish the world with the announcement he now brings; but on his arrival at Brünn a bucket of cold water has been thrown over his dreams by the “polite” aide-de-camp, the minister of war, the emperor himself, who addresses a few words to him in an absent way—the ordinary questions as to the time of day, the particular spot where the affair took place, and the usual indispensable compliments. When he takes his leave, after reflecting upon the subject from the point of view of other men, according to their respective interests, poor Bolkonski finds his battle much diminished in grandeur, and also a thing of the past.
“Andé felt that his whole interest and joy over the victory was sinking away from him into the indifferent hands of the minister of war and the ‘polite’ aide-de-camp. His whole train of thought had become modified; there seemed to be nothing left to him but a dim, distant recollection of the battle.”