Chapter III: The Caucasus (2)

Pyatigórsk (Five Hills) is so called because it stands on Mount
Besh-tau. _Besh_ means in Tartar 'five,' _Tau_ means 'hill.' From
this mountain flows a hot sulphur stream. The water is boiling, and
over the places where it springs from the mountain there is always
steam, as from a samovár.

The whole place where the town stands is very gay. From the
mountain flow hot springs, and at the foot of the mountain flows
the river Podkoúmok. The mountain slopes are wooded, all around are
fields, and afar off one sees the great Caucasian mountains. On
these the snow never melts, and they are always as white as sugar.
When the weather is clear, wherever one goes one sees the great
mountain, Elbrus, like a sugar cone. People come to the hot springs
for their health; and over the springs, arbours and awnings have
been erected, and gardens and paths have been laid out all around.
In the morning a band plays, and people drink the waters, or bathe,
or stroll about.

Here he was joined by his sister Mary and her husband. She also came to Pyatigórsk to be cured of rheumatism. She tells how her brother Leo was at this time attracted by Spiritualism, and would sometimes even borrow a table from a _café_ and have a _séance_ on the boulevard. He remained in Pyatigórsk till 5th August, and then returned to Starogládovsk. From thence he wrote to his aunt, repeating what he had said before of the officers with whom he had to associate.

[11]Il y a une trop grande différence dans l'éducation, les
sentiments et la manière de voir de ceux que je rencontre ici pour
que je trouve quelque plaisir avec eux. Il n'y a que Nicolas qui a
le talent, malgré l'énorme différence qu'il y a entre lui et tous
ces messieurs, à s'amuser avec eux et à être aimé de tous. Je lui
envie ce talent, mais je sens que je ne puis en faire autant.

[11] There is too great a difference in the education, the
sentiments, and the point of view of those I meet here, for
me to find any pleasure in their company. Only Nicholas, in
spite of the enormous difference between him and all these
gentlemen, has the talent to amuse himself with them, and
to be loved by all. I envy him this talent, but feel that I
cannot do the same.

He mentions that for some time past he has acquired a taste for reading history, and says that he perseveres in his literary occupations. He had already three times rewritten a work he had in hand, and intended to rewrite it again. He felt much more content with himself at this time, and adds:

[12]Il y a eu un temps où j'étais vain de mon esprit et de ma
position dans le monde, de mon nom; mais à présent je sais et je
sens que s'il y a en moi quelque chose de bon et que si j'ai à en
rendre grâce à la Providence, c'est pour un coeur bon, sensible et
capable d'amour, qu'il lui a plu de me donner et de me conserver.

[12] There was a time when I was vain of my intelligence,
of my position in the world, and of my name; but now I know
and feel that if there is anything good in me, and if I have
anything to thank Providence for, it is for a good heart,
sensitive and capable of love, which it has pleased it to give
me and to preserve in me.

On 29th June he again notes in his Diary:

He whose aim is his own happiness, is bad; he whose aim is the
good opinion of others, is weak; he whose aim is the happiness of
others, is virtuous; he whose aim is God, is great.

1852

On 2nd July he completed _Childhood_, and a few days later despatched the manuscript, signed only with the initials L. N. T., to the best Petersburg monthly, _The Contemporary_. On 28th August he received a reply from the editor, the poet Nekrásof, saying he would publish the story and that he thought its author had talent. Another letter followed, dated 5th September 1852, in which Nekrásof said that having re-read the story in proof, he found it 'much better than I had realised at first. I can say definitely that its author has talent.' He added that it would appear in the next number of his magazine.

Tolstoy notes in his Diary: 'Received letter from Nekrásof; praises, but no money.'

Nekrásof's next letter is dated 30th October, and explains that it is not customary to pay authors for their first work, but that he hopes Tolstoy will send him more stories, and that in future he will pay him as much as to the very best known writers, namely Rs. 50 (nearly £7 at that time) per sheet of sixteen pages. He mentioned also that _Childhood_ had been very well received by the public.

Tolstoy kept his authorship a secret, revealing it to no one except Nicholas and Aunt Tatiána. His sister Mary was by this time back at her husband's estate, situated near Tourgénef's village of Spássky. There Tourgénef came one day to visit her, bringing with him the last number of the _Contemporary_. Full of praise of a new story by an unknown author, he began reading it aloud, and to her great astonishment Mary recognised, one after another, various incidents from her own childhood. Her first guess was that Nicholas must have written it.

Among the writers who at once acclaimed Tolstoy's genius was Panáef, co-editor of the _Contemporary_, who, Tourgénef pretended, had to be carefully shunned by his friends on the Névsky (the chief street in Petersburg) lest he should insist on reading them extracts from the new story. Before long the work reached Dostoyévsky in Siberia, and he was so struck by it that he wrote to a friend asking him to find out who the talented L. N. T. was.

Meanwhile Tolstoy continued his military career in the Caucasus. On his return to Starogládovsk in August, he had noted in his Diary: 'Simplicity--that is the quality which above all others I desire to attain.'

He had to pass an unpleasant month in consequence of the autumn manoeuvres, about which he wrote: 'It was not very pleasant to have to march about and fire off cannons; especially as it disturbed the regularity of my life'; and he rejoiced when it was over and he was again able to devote himself to 'hunting, writing, reading, and conversation with Nicholas.' He had become fond of shooting game, at which--as at all physical exercises--he was expert; and he spent two or three hours a day at it. He writes to his Aunt Tatiána:

At 100 paces from my lodging I find wild fowl, and in half an hour
I kill 2, 3, or 4. Besides the pleasure, the exercise is excellent
for my health, which in spite of the waters is not very good. I am
not ill, but I often catch cold and suffer from sore throat or from
toothache or from rheumatism, so that I have to keep to my room at
least two days in the week.

One of the forms of sport he enjoyed during his stay in the Caucasus was strepet shooting: the strepet being a steppe grouse. Before they migrate in mid-August, these birds assemble in enormous flocks, and are extremely wild and difficult of approach. It is hardly possible to get within two hundred or two hundred and fifty yards of such a flock. Tolstoy had a horse that was specially trained for this particular sport. On it he used to ride at a foot-pace two or three times round a flock, carefully narrowing the circle till he got as near as possible without alarming the birds. Then he would dash forward at full gallop with his gun ready. The moment the birds rose he dropped his reins on the horse's neck, and the well-trained animal would instantly stop, allowing its master to take aim.

Tolstoy's military career was not giving him satisfaction. Having left home without any definite plans, he had neglected to bring any documents with him, and the result of this was that instead of becoming an officer within eighteen months, as he expected to do when he entered the army, he now, after serving for ten months, received notice that he would have to serve another three years before he could obtain his commission.

In this difficulty he applied to his aunt P. I. Úshkof, who by application to an influential friend eventually succeeded in hastening his promotion. Meanwhile however Tolstoy--who had made up his mind to retire from the army as soon as he received his commission--almost lost patience.

On 24th December he completed the sketch entitled _The Raid: A Volunteer's Story_, and two days later posted it to the _Contemporary_, in which magazine it appeared in March 1853. The following passage occurs in this his first story of war, and foreshadows the attitude he ultimately made definitely his own. He is describing a march through Caucasian scenery to a night attack on a Tartar _Aoul_, and he says:

Nature, beautiful and strong, breathed conciliation.

Can it be that people have not room to live in this beautiful
world, under this measureless, starry heaven? Can feelings of
enmity, vengeance, or lust to destroy one's fellow beings, retain
their hold on man's soul amid this enchanting Nature? All that is
evil in man's heart should, one would think, vanish in contact with
Nature--this immediate expression of beauty and goodness.

From the very start we find Tolstoy hampered in his work by that incubus of all Russian writers, the Censor. In a letter to his brother Sergius in May he writes: '_Childhood_ was spoilt, and _The Raid_ simply ruined by the Censor. All that was good in it has been struck out or mutilated.' In comparing Tolstoy's literary achievement with that of Western writers, one should make a large allowance for the continual annoyance, delay, mutilation, and suppression inflicted on him by that terrible satellite of despotism.

1853

In January, the battery in which Leo Tolstoy served went on active service against Shámyl. The expedition assembled at Fort Grózny, where scenes of debauchery occurred.

On 18th February Tolstoy's life was in great danger. A shell fired by the enemy smashed the carriage of a cannon he was pointing. Strange to say he was not even wounded. On 1st April he returned with his detachment to Starogládovsk; and in May we find him writing to his brother Sergius that he had applied for his discharge, and hoped in six weeks' time to return home a free man. Difficult as his admission to the army had been, he found, however, that to retire was a yet harder matter, destined to take not weeks but years.

On 13th June his life was again in danger owing to an adventure which supplied him with the subject he utilised later on in _A Prisoner in the Caucasus_.

It being dangerous to travel between the Russian forts without an escort, non-combatants, as well as stores and baggage, were periodically convoyed from one post to another. On these expeditions it was forbidden for any one to detach himself from the main body; but the intolerable slowness of the infantry march on a hot day, frequently tempted those who were mounted, to ride on, and to run the risk of being attacked by the 'Tartars' (who were generally Circassians). On one such occasion five horsemen, including Tolstoy and his friend Sádo, disobeyed the regulations and rode ahead. The two friends ascended the hillside to see whether any foes were visible, while their three companions proceeded along the valley below. Hardly had the two reached the crest of the ridge when they saw thirty mounted Tartars galloping towards them. Calculating that there was not time to rejoin their companions in the valley, Tolstoy shouted them a warning, and raced off along the ridge towards Fort Grózny, which was their destination. The three did not, at first, take his warning seriously, but wasting some precious moments before turning to rejoin the column, were overtaken by the Tartars, and two of them were very severely wounded before a rescue party from the convoy put the enemy to flight. Meanwhile Tolstoy and Sádo, pursued by seven horsemen along the hill ridge, had to ride nearly three miles to reach the fort. It so happened that Tolstoy was trying a young horse of Sádo's, while Sádo was riding Tolstoy's ambler, which could not gallop. Though Tolstoy could easily have escaped on Sádo's fiery horse, he would not desert his comrade. Sádo had a gun, unluckily not loaded, and so he could only make a pretence with it of aiming at his pursuers. It seemed almost certain that both fugitives would be killed; but apparently the Tartars decided to capture them alive, perhaps wishing to revenge themselves on Sádo for being a pro-Russian, and therefore they did not shoot them down. At last a sentinel at Grózny having espied their plight, gave the alarm and some Cossacks galloped to their rescue. At sight of these, the Tartars made off and the fugitives escaped uninjured.

Tolstoy continued his habit of forming resolutions; and about this time he wrote: 'Be straightforward, not rough, but frank with all men; yet not childishly frank without any need.... Refrain from wine and women ... the pleasure is so small and uncertain, and the remorse so great.... Devote yourself completely to whatever you do. On experiencing any strong sensation, wait; but having once considered the matter, though wrongly, act decisively.'

From the middle of July to October, Tolstoy again stayed at Pyatigórsk.

A companion he had brought with him to the Caucasus was his black bulldog, Boúlka. He intended to leave it at home, but after he had started, the dog had broken a pane of glass and escaped from the room in which it was confined, and when Tolstoy, after stopping at the first post-station, was just resuming his journey, he saw something black racing along the road after him. It was Boúlka, who rushed to his master, licked his hand, and lay down panting in the shade of a cart. The dog had galloped nearly fourteen miles in the heat of the day, and was rewarded by being taken to the Caucasus, where it was destined to meet with many adventures.

On one occasion this dog boldly attacked a wild boar, and had its stomach ripped open by the latter's tusk. While its wound was being sewn up, the dog licked its master's hand.

On another occasion, when Tolstoy was sitting at night with a friend in the village street, intending to start for Pyatigórsk at daybreak, they suddenly heard a sucking-pig squeal, and guessed that a wolf was killing it. Tolstoy ran into the house, seized a loaded gun, and returned in time to see a wolf running straight towards him from the other side of a wattle-fence. The wolf jumped on to the top of the fence and descended close to Tolstoy who, almost touching him with the muzzle of his gun, drew the trigger. The gun missed fire, and the wolf raced off, chased by Boúlka and by Tolstoy's setter, Milton. The wolf escaped, but not till it had snapped at Boúlka and inflicted a slight wound on his head. Strange to say, the wolf ventured to return a little later into the middle of the street, and again escaped unhurt.

Not long after, in Pyatigórsk, shortly before Tolstoy left the Caucasus, while drinking coffee in the garden of his lodging, he heard a tremendous noise of men and dogs, and, on inquiry, learnt that convicts had been let out of gaol to kill the dogs, of whom there were too many in the town, but that orders had been given to spare dogs wearing collars. As ill-luck would have it, Tolstoy had removed Boúlka's collar; and Boúlka, apparently recognising the convicts as his natural enemies, rushed out into the street and flew at one of them. A man had just freed the long hook he carried, from the corpse of a dog he had caught and held down while his companions beat it to death with bludgeons. He now adroitly hooked Boúlka and drew the unfortunate dog towards him, calling to his mate to kill it, which the latter prepared to do. Boúlka however bounded aside with such force that the skin of his thigh burst where the hook held it, and with tail between his legs and a red wound on his thigh, he flew back into the house and hid under Tolstoy's bed. His escape was not of much use. The wolf that had snapped at him six weeks before must have been mad, for Boúlka after showing premonitory symptoms of rabies, disappeared, and was never heard of more.

Tolstoy's state of mind during the latter part of this year is indicated by his letters. To his brother Sergius he wrote on 20th July:

I think I already wrote you that I have sent in my resignation.
God knows, however, on account of the war with Turkey, whether it
will be accepted, or when. This disturbs me very much, for I have
now grown so accustomed to happy thoughts of soon settling down
in the country, that to return to Starogládovsk and again wait
unendingly--as I have to wait for everything connected with my
service--will be very unpleasant.

Again, in December, he writes from Starogládovsk:

Please write about my papers quickly. This is necessary. '_When
shall I come home?_' God only knows. For nearly a year I have been
thinking only of how to sheath my sword, but still cannot manage
it. And as I must fight somewhere, I think it will be pleasanter to
do so in Turkey than here, and I have therefore applied to Prince
Serge Dmítrievitch [Gortchakóf] about it, and he writes me that he
has written to his brother, but what the result will be, I do not
know.

It will be remembered that Tolstoy's paternal grandmother was a Gortchakóf. Through her he was nearly related to Prince S. D. Gortchakóf and to his brother, Prince Michael Dmítrievitch Gortchakóf, who had been a friend of his father's in the war of 1812, and was now in command of the Russian army on the Danube.

The letter continues:

At any rate by New Year I expect to change my way of life,
which I confess wearies me intolerably. Stupid officers, stupid
conversations, and nothing else. If there were but a single man to
whom one could open one's soul! Tourgénef is right: 'What irony
there is in solitude,'--one becomes palpably stupid oneself.
Although Nikólenka has gone off with the hounds--Heaven knows why
(Epíshka[13] and I often call him 'a pig' for so doing)--I go out
hunting alone for whole days at a time from morning to evening,
with a setter. That is my only pleasure--and not a pleasure but a
narcotic. One tires oneself out, gets famished, sleeps like the
dead, and a day has passed. When you have an opportunity, or are
yourself in Moscow, buy me Dickens' _David Copperfield_ in English,
and send me _Sadler's English Dictionary_ which is among my books.

[13] The Cossack hunter Epíshka, the original of Eróshka, who
figures so prominently in _The Cossacks_.

Of the entries in his Diary at this time, we may note the following:

All the prayers I have invented I replace by the one prayer, 'Our
Father.' All the requests I can make to God are far more loftily
expressed and more worthily of Him, in the words 'Thy Kingdom come,
as in heaven so on earth.'

About this time he completed his _Memoirs of a Billiard Marker_, and sent it to the _Contemporary_ with a letter expressing his own dissatisfaction with the hasty workmanship of the story; it did not appear till more than a year later. He was also now at work on _Boyhood_.

Seventeen years after Tolstoy had left the Caucasus, an officer stationed at Starogládovsk found his memory still fresh among the Cossacks, and saw Mariána (comparatively aged by that time), as well as several elderly Cossack hunters who had shot wild fowl and wild boars with Tolstoy. In his regiment he left the reputation of being an excellent narrator, who enthralled every one by his conversation.

1854

Not till January 1854 did the long-expected order arrive allowing him to pass the examination (a pure formality at that time) entitling him to become an officer. On the 19th he left for home, and on 2nd February reached Yásnaya, where he enjoyed a three weeks' stay with his Aunt Tatiána, his brother, and a friend. On this journey he encountered a severe storm, to which we owe _The Snow Storm_, published a couple of years later, and probably also much of the storm description in _Master and Man_, written in later life.

The Russo-Turkish war had now begun in earnest, and, as a result of his application, he received orders to join the army of the Danube, which he set out accordingly to do.

Of the Caucasian period of his life, as of his University days, Tolstoy has at different times expressed himself differently. To Birukóf, in 1905, he spoke of it as one of the best times of his life, notwithstanding all his deflections from his dimly recognised ideals. Yet two years earlier, writing of the four periods of his life, he had spoken of 'the terrible twenty years of coarse dissipation, the service of ambition, vanity, and above all, of lust,' which followed after the age of fourteen.

But what it comes to is, that Tolstoy is a man of moods, and judges himself and others, sometimes by ordinary and sometimes by extraordinary standards.

CHIEF AUTHORITIES FOR CHAPTER III

Birukof.

Behrs.

U. Bitovt, _Graf L. Tolstoy v literatoure i iskousstve_: Petersburg, 1903. (Hereafter called 'Bitovt.') Though ill-arranged, this book is valuable to any one engaged on the difficult task of compiling a Bibliography of Tolstoy's works.

Nekrasof's letters to Tolstoy published in the Literary Supplement to the _Niva_, February 1898.

Much light is also thrown on this period of Tolstoy's life by the following works, which must not be considered autobiographical:

_The Raid._
_The Wood-Felling._
_Meeting a Moscow Acquaintance._
_The Cossacks_, and
_The Snow Storm_,

as well as by stories included in Tolstoy's _Readers_:

_Boulka._
_Boulka and the Wild Boar._
_Milton and Boulka._
_Boulka and the Wolf._
_What Happened to Boulka in Pyatigorsk._
_Boulka's and Milton's End._
_A Prisoner in the Caucasus._