Leo Tolstoy: His Life and Work/Chapter 12
The Second Journey Abroad — His Brother's Death
[edit]In February 1860, Fet wrote to Tolstoy to consult him as to an intention which he had of buying some land and devoting himself to agriculture. Tolstoy's answer was very sympathetic, he approved of Fet's plans, offered his help, mentioning certain lands for sale, and after this businesslike part of the letter, of no general interest, he expressed the following important thoughts about some works of Turgenev and Ostrovskiy:
I have read "On the Eve". This is my opinion. To
write stories is in general a mistake, and especially so
on the part of those who feel unhappy and do not exactly
know what they desire from life. However, "On the Eve"
is much better than "A Nest of Nobles", and there are in
it excellent negative characters: the artist and the
father. The other characters not only fail to be types,
but their conception, their situation, is not typical, or
else they are quite trivial. However, this is Turgenev's
usual mistake. the young lady is wretchedly drawn:
"Oh,how I love you...she had long eyelashes...." In
general, it always astonishes me in Turgenev that with
his intelligence and poetic sensitiveness he is not able
to avoid insipidity, and that even in his methods. There
is more of this insipidity in his negative methods,
reminding one of Gogol. There isno humanity, no sympathy
with the characters, but monsters are represented whom he
abuses but does not pity. This painfully jars with the
liberal tone and bearing of all the rest. This method
may have been good in times gone by and in those of
Gogol. Besides, one must add that if one does not pity
one's most insignificant characters, then one should cut
them up like mincemeat, or else laugh them down till
one's sides ache; but not treat them as Turgenev does,
filled with spleen and dyspepsia. In general, however,
no one else now could write such a story, although it
will not meet with success.
"The Tempest" by Ostrovskiy is to my mind a pitiful
work, but it will succeed. Neither Ostrovskiy nor
Turgenev is to blame, but the times....Another thing is
now required. It is not for us to learn but to teach
Tommy and Mary at least a little of what we know. Goodby
dear friend.
Tolstoy had arrived at the conclusion that a man endowed with
brains and enriched with knowledge must, before deriving pleasure
from them for himself, give a share in the benefit of them to those
who are deprived of both. Accordingly, he had devoted to the
school the time he had free from his work on the estate. In these
occupations he passed the winter of 1859-60. At the same time,
while doing reading, serious reading, he had come to the following
conclusions:
1st February [1860] -- I have read La degenerescence
de l'esprit humain, and about there being physically a
higher degree of intellectual development. In this
state I mechanically thought of prayer. Prayer to whom?
What! is God conceived so clearly that one can beseech
and communicate with Him? If I do conceive such a one He
loses all magesty for me. A God whom one can beseech and
serve is the expression of the weakness of one's mind.
God is God precisely because I cannot imagine the whole
of His being. Besides, He is not a being but a Law and
a Power.
Let these lines remain as an indication of my
conviction of the power of the mind.
Then he reads Auerbah's storie, "Reynard the Fox" by Goethe,
and finally about the same time he jots down the following thought:
A strange religion is mine and that of our time, the
religion of progress. Who said that progress was good?
It is merely the absence of faith and the striving after
lines of activity -- represented as faith. Man requires
an impulse - Schwung -- Yes, that is it.
These thoughts were fully developed in his educational works,
as we shall see later on, and also in the self-analysis contained
in his confession quoted above.
Tolstoy's friends were watching his literary career with intense interest, treating condescendingly and half-jokingly "the foolishness and eccentricity", as they called them, of those manifestations of the deep inner growth in Tolstoy, which most of them wholly failed to understand.
Thus, Botkin casually wrote to Fet on March 6, 1860:
I learned with joy from Turgenev's letter that
Tolstoy has again set to work at his Caucasian novel. He
may play the fool as long as he likes, still I maintain
he is a man with great gifts. Any portion of his
foolishness is of more value to me than the wisest acts
of others. [1]
Turgenev's attitude was the same: here is part of his letter
to Fet of the same year:
But Lev Tolstoy still goes on in his queer way.
Such is evidently his destiny. When will he make his
last somersault and stand on his feet? [2]
In the spring of 1860, Fet and his wife paid their usual visit
at Yasnaya Polyana on their way from town to the country Fet made
a short not of his stay there on this occasion.
Of course, we could not refuse ourselves the
pleasure of spending a couple of days in Yasnaya Polyana,
where to add to our joy, we found dear N. N. Tolstoy, who
for his original Oriental wisdom has earned the nickname
of Firdusi. How many delightful plans of staying in the
gable in Yasnaya Polyana were discussed in great detail
by us during those two days! It did not occur to any one
of us how unsound all those plans were.
Further on, Fet tells of the coming of Nikolay Tolstoy to
their place:
Once Nikolay Tolstoy arrived here in the middle of
May and told us that his sister Marie Tolstaya and his
brothers had persuaded him to go abroad on account of his
unbearable fits of coughing. He was very thin at this
time, apart from his usual slimness. From time to time
in his good-natured laughter could be heard that note of
irritability which is habitual with consumptive people.
I remember how he once got angry and pulled his hand from
the coachman, who had tried to kiss it. True, he said
nothing in the presence of the serf, but when the latter
went out to see to the horses, he began to complain with
annoyance in his voice to me and Borisov: "What made the
idiot kiss my hand? It never happened before." [3]
Since we have to speak of Tolstoy's relations to his brother
during his life and at his death, it may be well to quote Fet's
character sketch of this remarkable man:
Count N. N. Tolstoy, who called on us almost every
evening, used to bring with him a moral interest and
vivacity, which it is difficult to describe in a few
words. At that time he was still wearing his uniform as
an artillery officer, and it was sufficient to give a
glance at his thin hands, his great thoughtful eyes and
hollow cheeks to be convinced that cruel consumption had
laid its merciless hold on this good natured and kindly
humorous man. Unfortunately, this remarkable man, of
whom to say that he was loved by those who knew him is
not enough, for they simply worshipped him, this man,
while in the Caucasus, had acquired that habit of
indulgence in alcoholic liquors which at that time was
common among officers. Though I afterwart knew N.
Tolstoy intimately and spent with him much time in far
off hunting fields, where it would have been easier to
drink than at evening parties, yet during our three
years' friendship I never noticed the slightest symptom
of his being overcome by wine or spirits. He would sit
in an armchair close to the table and sip his tea with
some cognac added to it. Being of a very modest
disposition, he needed a great deal of questioning to
make him talk. But once launched on any subject, he
would reveal all the acutness and mirth of his kind-
hearted sense of humor. He evidently adored his youngest
borther Lev. But one had to hear how ironically he
described his society adventures. He could so definitely
separate what is the real substance of life from its
gauzy outer seeming, that he treated with equal irony the
higher and lower strata of Caucasian life. The
celebrated hunter of the sect of old believers, Uncle
Epishka (in Tolstoy's "Cossacks" Yeroshka), was evidently
discovered and defined with the mastery of an artist by
N. Tolstoy. [4]
N. N. Tolstoy wrote very little. We only know of his "Memoirs
of a Sportsman."
E. Garshin in his "Reminiscences of Turgenev" quotes the following opinion of his concerning N. Tolstoy:
The humility of life [said Turgenev] which was
theoretically worked out by Lev Tolstoy, was really
practised by his brother. He always lived somewhere in
the outskirts of Moscow, in poor lodgings were were more
like a hut, and gladly shared what he had with the
poorest man. He was a delightful character and a good
story-teller, but writing was almost physically
impossible for him. The very process of writing was a
difficulty with him, just as it is with a laborer whose
hands are so roughened by work that he can scarcely hold
the pen between his fingers. [5]
To the general joy of his friends, N. Tolstoy's journey abroad
was actually settled. This joy, however, was of short duration.
He left Russia via St. Petersburg with his brother Sergey.
Turgenev, who had a strong regard for him, felt very anxious and wrote to Fet fromSodene on June 1, 1860:
What you tell me of Nikolay Tolstoy's illness
grieves me deeply. Is it possible that this dear, good
fellow must perish? How could any one neglect such an
illness? Is it possible that he did not try to overcome
his indolence and go abroad for his health? He used to
travel to the Caucasus in most infernally uncomfortable
vehicles. Why not make him come to Sodene? One meets
here dozens of sufferers from chest complaints: the
Sodene waters are almost the best, if not the best for
such cases. I say all this to you at a distance of two
thousand versts, as if my words were of some help....If
Tolstoy has not yet started, he will not go....This is
how fate plays with us all. [6]
He repeats the same in the postscript of the same letter:
If N. Tolstoy has not yet gone, throw yourself at
his feet and implore him, then drive him by force abroad.
The air here, for instance, is so mild, nothing of the
kind exists in Russia. [Ibid]
Of course Tolstoy was very much alarmed by his brother's
illness. Here is a letter written about that time by him to Fet,
in which, besides his anxiety about his brother, he expressed
certain views on agricultural work:
...That besides your literary work you wish to find
a place on the earth and burrow about in it like an ant -
- such an idea was not only bound to suggest itself to
you, but you are sure to realize it better than myself,
being, as you are, a good man with a healthy outlook on
life. However, it is not for me at the present moment to
patronizingly approve or disapprove of you, for I am
burdened with a sense of great inconsistency. Farming in
the big way I am doing, oppresses me; personal labor on
the land I can only as yet contemplate at a distance. On
the other hand, I am oppressed by family worries, the
illness of Nikolenka, of whom there is yet no news from
abroad, and the departure of my sister in three days'
time depress me. In general, I feel undone. Owing to my
sister's helplessness and the desire to see Nikolas, I
will tomorrow procure a passport for abroad and will
perhaps accompany them, especially if I do not get any
news or get bad news from Nikolas.
At that time a pause ensued in the literary activity of both
Tolstoy and his friend Fet, who, though feebly, yet accurately
reflected the inner process going on in Tolstoy's life.
The following are examples of the well-reasoned letters written by Druzhinin to Tolstoy and Fet, inciting them to literary work. His letter to Tolstoy is particularly interesting:
I hasten, my amiable friend Tolstoy, to answer your
letter concerning your attitude to literature. As you
will probably understand, every writer is attacked by
moments of doubt and dissatisfaction with himself; it
does not matter how strong and natural this feeling is,
nobody relinquishes literature in consequence, but all
write on till the end of life. But all your good and
evil impulses stick to you with peculiar tenacity, and
therefore you are more bound to think over it than
anybody else, and you should consider the whole matter in
a genial manner.
In the first place, remember that compared with the
labor of poetry and thought, all other labors seem
trivial. Qui a bu, boira, and for a writer to give up
his activity at the age of thirty means depriving himself
of one-half of all the interests of life. And this is
only one of the difficulties of the matter; there is much
of wider significance.