“Here the self-love, the vanity of thousands of human beings is in conflict, or appeased in death…”
And further on:
“And as there were many men, so also were there many forms of vanity… Vanity, vanity, everywhere vanity, even at the door of the tomb! It is the peculiar malady of our century… Why do the Homers and Shakespeares speak of love, of glory, and of suffering, and why is the literature of our century nothing but the interminable history of snobs and egotists?”
The narrative, which is no longer a simple narrative on the part of the author, but one which sets before us men and their passions, reveals that which is concealed by the mask of heroism. Tolstoy’s clear, disillusioned gaze plumbs to the depths the hearts of his companions in arms; in them, as in himself, he reads pride, fear, and the comedy of those who continue to play at life though rubbing shoulders with death. Fear especially is avowed, stripped of its veils, and shown in all its nakedness. These nervous crises,[1] this obsession of death, are analysed with a terrible sincerity that knows neither shame nor pity. It was at Sebastopol that Tolstoy
- ↑ Tolstoy refers to them again at a much later date, in his Conversations with his friend Teneromo. He tells him of a crisis of terror which assailed him one night when he was lying down in the “lodgement” dug out of the body of the rampart, under the protective plating. This Episode of the Siege of Sebastopol will be found in the volume entitled The Revolutionaries.
