Chapter VI: Nihilism and Mysticism.―tolstoï (2)

The author intended this book to be a picture of the society of the present day, as “War and Peace” illustrated that of its time. The task offered the author more difficulties, for many reasons. In the first place, the present does not belong to us, as does the past; it deceives us, not having become firmly established, so that we cannot get in all the necessary lines and figures to emphasize it, as we could a half-century later. Besides, the liberties that Tolstoï could take with deceased potentates and statesmen, as well as with ideas of the past, he could not allow himself with contemporary ideas and with living men. This second book on Russian life is not as much in the style of an epic, neither is it as strong or as complex, as the first; on the other hand, it is more agreeable to us, as having more unity of subject and more continuity of action; the principal character, too, is more perfectly developed. Although there are two suicides and a case of adultery, Tolstoï has in this work undertaken to write the most strictly moral book in existence, and he has succeeded. The main idea is duty accomplished uninfluenced by the passions. The author portrays an existence wholly outside of conventional lines of conduct; and, as a contrast, the history of a pure, legitimate affection, a happy home, and wholesome labor. He is too much of a realist, however, to picture an earthly paradise under any human conditions.

Karenina, a statesman in the highest circles of St. Petersburg society, is a husband so greatly absorbed in the study of political economy as to be easily blinded and deceived in other matters. Vronski, the seducer of his wife’s affections, is a sincere character, devoted and self-sacrificing. Anna is a very charming woman, tender and faithful where her affections are enlisted. Tolstoï has recourse neither to hysteria nor any nervous ailment whatever, to excuse her fall. He is sagacious enough to know that every one’s feelings are regulated by his or her peculiar organism; that conscience exerts contrary influences, and that it really exists, because it speaks and commands. Take, for example, the description of Anna’s first anxieties, during the night-journey between Moscow and St. Petersburg, when she first comprehends the state of her heart. These pages you can never forget. She discovers Vronski in the train, knows that he is following her, then listens to his avowal of love. The intoxicating poison steals into every vein, her will is no longer her own, the dream has begun.

The writer takes advantage of every outward circumstance to illustrate and color this dream in his inimitable manner, according to his usual method. He describes the poor woman making an effort to fix her thoughts upon an English novel, the snow and hail rattling against the window-panes; then the sketches of fellow-travellers, the various sounds and rushing of the train through the night,―all assume a new and fantastic meaning, as accompaniments of the agony of love and terror which are struggling within that woman’s soul. When, the next morning, Anna leaves the train and steps upon the platform where her husband is awaiting her, she says to herself: “Good heavens! how much longer his ears have grown!” This exclamation reveals to us the change that has taken place within her. How well the author knows how to explain a whole situation with a single phrase!

From the first flutter of fear to the last contortions of despair, which lead the unhappy woman to suicide, the novelist exposes her inmost heart, and notes each palpitation. There is no necessity for any tragic complication to bring about the catastrophe. Anna has given up everything to follow her lover; she has placed herself in such a fatal predicament that life becomes impossible, which is sufficient to explain her resolve.

In contrast with this wrecked life, the innocent affection of Kitty and Levin continues its smooth course. First, it is a sweet idyl, drawn with infinite grace; then the home, the birth of children, bringing additional joys and cares. This is the highly moral and dull theme of the English novel, one may say. It is similar, and yet not the same. The British tale-writer is almost always something of a preacher; you feel that he judges human actions according to some preconceived rule, from the point of view of the Established Church or of puritanic ideas. But Tolstoï is entirely free from all prejudices. I might almost say he has little anxiety as to questions of morality; he constructs his edifices according to his own idea of the best method; the moral lesson springs only from facts and results, both bitter and wholesome. This is no book for the youth of twenty, nor for a lady’s boudoir,―a book containing no charming illusions; but a man in full maturity relates what experience has taught him, for the benefit of mankind.

These volumes present an exception in regard to what is thought to guarantee the permanent success of a literary work. They will be read, and then reflected upon; we shall apply the observations to our own souls and to others’ (the most unimportant as well as the most general ones); then we shall go back to his model, which will invariably verify them. Years may pass after the first reading, notes accumulate on the margins of the leaves, as in many masterpieces of the classics you find at the bottom of the pages the explanatory remarks of generations of commentators. In this case, they need merely to say: “_Confer vitam_.”

Tolstoï’s style is in this work the same as in “War and Peace.” He is like a scientific engineer who visits some great establishment where machines are manufactured. He studies the mechanism of every engine, examines the most trifling parts, measures the degree of steam-pressure, tries the balance-valves, studies the action of the pistons and gearing; he seeks eagerly to discover the central motive power, the invisible reservoir of force. While he is experimenting with the machinery, we, outside spectators, see only the results of all this labor, the manufactures of delicate fabrics with infinite variety of designs―life itself.

Tolstoï shows the same qualities and defects as in “War and Peace,” and gives the same tediously long descriptions. The parts devoted to the pictures of country life and rural occupations will seem, in France, a little dull. Unfortunately, in one sort of realistic description, we must know the locality to appreciate the artist’s effort and the resemblance of the picture. The description, for instance, of the races at Tsarskoe-Selo, so appreciated by Russian readers, could not have any more interest for us than the brilliant account of _le grand prix de Paris_ in “Nana” would have for the Muscovites; on the other hand, the portraits of Oblonski and Karenina will always retain their power, because they express human sentiments common to all countries and all times. I will carry the analysis of these novels no farther, for they will hardly admit of it; we could scarcely choose a path in this labyrinth for the reader; we must leave him the pleasure of losing himself in it.

Tolstoï belongs to the “school of nature,” if extreme realism of description entitles him to that honor. He carries this tendency sometimes to great excess, even to coarseness. I might quote many examples of this kind, but they would hardly bear translation, and might, occasionally, be almost revolting to us. He is also an _impressionist_, for his phrases often bring to us every material sensation produced by a sight, object, or sound.

Finally, his being both pessimist and Nihilist gives him, as a narrator, almost the impassibility of a stoic. Persuaded of the vanity of all human action, he can maintain his own coolness in all his delineations, his condition resembling that of a man awaking from sleep at dawn, in the middle of a ball-room, who looks upon the whirling dancers around him as lunatics; or the man who, having eaten to repletion, enters a hall where people are dining, and upon whom the mechanical movements of the mouths and forks make a grotesque impression. In short, a writer who is a pessimist must assume the superiority of an inexorable judge over the characters he has created. Tolstoï employs all these methods, which he carries as far as any of our novelists do. Why is it, then, that he produces such a different impression upon the reader? The question as to how far he is both realist and impressionist in comparison with our authors is the important one. The whole secret is a question of degree. The truth is that what others have sought he has found and adopted. He leaves a large space for trifling details, because life is made up of them, and life is his study; but as he never attacks subjects trifling in themselves, he after all gives to trifles only the secondary place which they hold in everything that demands our attention.

As an _impressionist_ he well knows how to produce certain rapid and subtle sensations, while he is never obscene or unhealthy in tone. “War and Peace” is put into the hands of all young girls in Russia. “Anna Karenina,” which touches upon a perilous subject, is considered a manual of morals.

As to Tolstoï’s impassibility, though his coldness almost approaches irony, we feel, behind and within the man, the shadow of the Infinite, and bow before his right to criticise his fellow-man. Moreover, unlike our own authors, he is never preoccupied with himself or the effect he wishes to produce. He is more logical; he sacrifices style that he himself may be eclipsed, put aside entirely in his work. In his earlier years he was more solicitous in regard to his style; but of late he has quite renounced this seductive temptation. We need not expect of him the beautiful, flowing language of Turgenef. An appropriate and clear form of expression of his ideas is all we shall have. His phraseology is diffuse, sometimes fatiguing from too much repetition; he makes use of a great many adjectives, of all he needs to add the smallest touches of color to a portrait; while incidents rapidly accumulate, from the inexhaustible fund of thought in the farthest recesses of his mind. From our point of view, this absence of style is an unpardonable defect; but to me it appears a necessary consequence of realism which does away with all conventionality. If style is a conventionality, might it not warp our judgment of facts presented to us? We must acknowledge that this contempt of style, if not to our taste, contributes to the impression of sincerity that we receive. Tolstoï, in Pascal’s way, “has not tried to show to us himself, but our own selves; we find in ourselves the truths presented, which before were utterly unknown to us, as in ourselves; this attracts us strongly to him who has enlightened us.”

There is still another difference between Tolstoï’s realism and ours: he applies his, by preference, to the study of characters difficult to deal with, those made more inaccessible to the observer by the refinements of education and the mask of social conventionalities. This struggle between the painter and his model is deeply interesting to me and to many others.

Count Tolstoï would no doubt commiserate us if he found us occupied in discussing his works; for the future he wishes to be only a philosopher and reformer. Let us, then, return to his philosophy. I have said already that the composition of “Anna Karenina,” written at long intervals, occupied many years of the author’s life, the moral fluctuations of which are reflected in the character of Constantin Levin, the child and confidant of his soul. This new incarnation of Bezushof, in “War and Peace,” is the usual hero of modern romance in Russia, the favorite type with Turgenef and with all the young girls. He is a country gentleman, intelligent, educated, though not brilliant, a speculative dreamer, fond of rural life, and interested in all the social questions and difficulties arising from it. Levin studies these questions, and takes his part in all the liberal emotions his country has indulged in for the last twenty years. Of course, his illusions and chimeras vanish, one after another, and his Nihilism triumphs bitterly over their ruins. His Nihilism is not of so severe a kind as that of Pierre Bezushof and Prince André. He drops the most cruel problems and takes up questions of political economy. A calm and laborious country life, with family joys and cares, has strangled the serpent. Years pass, and the tale goes on toward its close.

But suddenly, through several moral shocks in his experience, Levin awakes from his religious indifference, and is tormented by doubts. He becomes overwhelmed with despair, when the _muzhik_ appears who proves his saviour and instructor. His mind becomes clear through some of the aphorisms uttered by this wise peasant. He declares that “every evil comes from the folly, the wickedness of reason. We have only to love and believe, and there is no further difficulty.” Thus ends the long intellectual drama, in a ray of mystic happiness, a hymn of joy, proclaiming the bankruptcy and the downfall of reason.

Reason has but a narrow sphere of its own, is only useful in a limited horizon, as the rag-picker’s lantern is merely of use to light up the few feet of space immediately around him, the heap of rubbish upon which he depends for subsistence. What folly it would be for the poor man to turn those feeble rays toward the starry heavens, seeking to penetrate the inscrutable mysteries of those fathomless spaces!

V.

The consolation of the doctrines of Quietism, the final apotheosis of Tolstoï’s entire literary work, was yet in reserve for him, revealed through an humble apostle of these doctrines. He too was destined to find his Karatayef.

After the appearance of “Anna Karenina,” a new production from this author was impatiently anticipated. He undertook a sequel to “War and Peace,” and published the first three chapters of the work, which promised to be quite equal to his preceding novels; but he soon abandoned the undertaking. Only a few stories for children now appeared, some of which were exquisitely written. In them, however, you could but feel that the soul of the author had already soared above terrestrial aims. At last, the report spread that the novelist had renounced his art, even wishing no allusion made to his former works, as belonging to the vanities of the age, and had given himself up to the care of his soul and the contemplation of religious themes. Count Tolstoï had met with Sutayef, the sectary of Tver. I will not here dwell upon this original character―a gentle idealist, one among the many peasants who preached among the Russian people the gospel of the Communists. The teachings and example of this man exerted a strong influence upon Tolstoï, according to his own statement, and caused him to decide what his true vocation was.

We could have no excuse for intruding upon the domain of conscience, had not the author, now a theologian, invited us so to do, by publishing his late works, “My Confession,” “My Religion,” and “A Commentary on the Gospel.” Although, in reality, the press-censorship has never authorized the publication of these books, there are several hundred autographic copies of them in circulation, spread among university students, women, and even among the common people, and eagerly devoured by them. This shows how the Russian soul hungers for spiritual food. As Tolstoï has expressed the desire that his work should be translated into French, we have every right to criticise it. But I will not abuse the privilege. The only books which can interest us as an explanation of his mental state are the first two.

Even “My Confession” is nothing new to me. In his “Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth” we have the same revelation in advance, as well as from the lips of Bezushof and Levin. This is, however, a new and eloquent variation in the same theme, the same wail of anguish from the depths of a human soul. I will give a quotation:―

“I became sceptical quite early in life. For a time I was absorbed, like every one else, in the vanities of life. I wrote books, teaching, as others did, what I knew nothing of myself. Then I became thirsty for more knowledge. The study of humanity furnished no response to the constant, sole question of any importance to me―‘What is the object of my existence?’ Science responded by teaching me other things which I was not anxious to learn. I could but join in the cry of the preacher, ‘All is vanity!’ I would gladly have taken my life. Finally I determined to study the lives of the great majority of men who have none of our anxieties―those classes which you might say are superior to abstract speculations of the mind, but that labor and endure, and yet live tranquil lives and seem to have no doubts as to the end and aim of life. Then I understood that, to live as they did, we must go back to our primitive faith. But the corrupt teachings which the church distributed among the lowly could not satisfy my reason; then I made a closer study of those teachings, in order to distinguish superstition from truth.”

The result of this study is the doctrine brought forth under the title of “My Religion.” This religion is precisely the same as that of Sutayef, but explained with the aid of the theological and scientific knowledge of a cultivated scholar. It is, however, none the clearer for that. The gospel is subjected to the broadest rationalistic interpretation. In fact, Tolstoï’s interpretation of Christ’s doctrine of life is the same as the Sadducees’―that is, of life considered in a collective sense. He denies that the gospel makes any allusion to a resurrection of the body, or to an individual existence of the soul. In this unconscious Pantheism, an attempt at a conciliation between Christianity and Buddhism, life is considered as an indivisible entirety, as one individual soul of the universe, of which we are but ephemeral particles. One thing only is of consequence―morality; which is all contained in the precepts of the gospel, “Be ye perfect…. Judge not…. Thou shalt not kill, …” etc. Therefore there must be no tribunals, no armies, no prisons, no right of retaliation, either public or private, no wars, no trials. The universal law of the world is the struggle for existence; the law of Christ is the sacrifice of one’s life for others. Neither Turkey nor Germany will attack us, if we are true Christians, if we study their advantage. Happiness, the supreme end of a life of morality, is possible only in the union of all men in believing the doctrine of Jesus Christ―that is, in Tolstoï’s version of it, not in that of the church; in the return to a natural mode of life, to communism, giving up cities and all business, as incompatible with these doctrines, and because of the difficulty of their application in such a life. To support his statements, the writer presents to us, with rare eloquence and prophetic vividness, a picture of a life of worldliness from birth to death. This life is more terrible in his eyes than that of the Christian martyrs.

The apostle of the new faith spares not the established church; but, after relating his vain search for comfort in the so-called true orthodoxy, violently attacks this church from Sutayef’s point of view. He declares that she substitutes rites and formalities for the true spirit of the gospel; that she issues catechisms filled with false doctrines; that since the time of Constantine she has ruined herself by deviating from the law of God to follow that of the age; that she has now, in fact, become pagan. Finally, and this is the key-note and the most delicate point of all, no attention should be paid to the commands and prohibitions of any temporal power as long as it ignores the truth. Here I will quote an incident illustrative of this idea:―

“Passing recently through the Borovitzki gate at Moscow, I saw an aged beggar seated in the archway, who was a cripple and had his head bound with a bandage. I drew out my purse to give him alms. Just then a fine-looking young grenadier came running down towards us from the Kremlin. At sight of him, the beggar rose terrified, and ran limping away until he reached the foot of the hill into the Alexander garden. The grenadier pursued him a short distance, calling after him with abusive epithets, because he had been forbidden to sit in the archway. I waited for the soldier, and then asked him if he could read.―‘Yes,’ he replied: ‘why do you ask?’―‘Have you read the Gospel?’―‘Yes.’―‘Have you read the passage in regard to giving bread to the hungry?’―I quoted the whole passage. He knew it, and listened attentively, seeming somewhat confused. Two persons, passing by, stopped to listen. Evidently, the grenadier was ill at ease, as he could not reconcile the having done a wrong act, while strictly fulfilling his duty. He hesitated for a reply. Suddenly his eyes lighted up intelligently, and, turning toward me, he said: ‘May I ask you if you have read the military regulations?’ I acknowledged that I had not.―‘Then you have nothing to say,’ replied the grenadier, nodding his head triumphantly, as he walked slowly away.”

I have, perhaps, said enough respecting “My Religion”; but must give a literal translation of a few lines which show the superb self-confidence always latent in the heart of every reformer:―

“Everything confirmed the truth of the sense in which the doctrine of Christ now appeared to me. But for a long time I could not take in the strange thought that, after the Christian faith had been accepted by so many thousands of men for eighteen centuries, and so many had consecrated their lives to the study of that faith, it should be given to me to discover the law of Christ, as an entirely new thing. But, strange as it was, it was indeed a fact.”

We can now judge what his “Commentary on the Gospel” would be. God forbid that I should disturb the new convert’s tranquillity! Fortunately, that would be impossible, however. Tolstoï joyously affirms, and with perfect sincerity, that his soul has at last found repose, as well as the true object of his life and the rock of his faith. He invites us to follow him, but I fear the hardened sceptics of Western Europe will refuse to enter into any discussion with him upon the new religion, which seems, moreover, almost daily to undergo modifications, according to its founder’s new flights of thought. It eliminates gradually, more and more, the doctrine of a Divine Providence overruling all, and concentrates all duty, hope, and moral activity upon a single object, the reform of all social evils through Communism.

This idea exclusively inspires the last treatise of Tolstoï which I read; it is entitled: “What, then, must be done?” This title is significant enough, and has been used many times in Russia since the famous novel by Tchernishevski was written. It expresses the anxious longing of all these men, and there is something touchingly pathetic in its ingenuousness. What, then, must be done? First of all, quit the populous cities and towns, and disband the work-people in the factories; return to country life and till the ground, each man providing for his own personal necessities. The author first draws a picture of wretchedness in a large capital, as he himself studied it in Moscow. Here his admirable powers of description reappear, together with the habit, peculiar to himself, of looking within his own soul, to discover and expose the little weaknesses and base qualities common to all of us; and he takes the same pleasure in the observation and denunciation of his own as men generally do in criticising those of others. He gives us all a side thrust when he says of himself:―

“I gave three roubles to that poor creature; and, beside the pleasure of feeling that I had done a kind deed, I had the additional one of knowing that other people saw me do it….”

The second part of the treatise is devoted to theory. We cannot relieve the poor and unfortunate for many reasons; First, in cities poverty must exist, because an overplus of workmen are attracted to them; secondly, our class gives them the example of idleness and of superfluous expenditure; thirdly, we do not live according to the doctrine of Christ: charity is not what is wanted, but an equal division of property in brotherly love. Let him who has two cloaks give to him who has none. Sutayef carries out this theory.

Those who draw salaries are in a state of slavery, and an aggravated form of it; and the effect of the modern system of credit continues this slavery into their future. The alms we give are only an obligation we owe to the peasants whom we have induced to come and work in our cities to supply us with our luxuries. The author concludes by giving as the only remedy, a return to rural life, which will guarantee to every laborer all that is necessary to support life.

He does not see that this principle involves, necessarily and logically, a return to an animal state of existence, a general struggle for shelter and food, instead of a methodical system of labor; and that in such a company there must be both wolves and lambs. He sees but one side of the question, the side of justice; he loses sight of the intellectual side, the necessity for mental development, which involves a division of labor.

All this has no great attraction for us. We can obtain no original ideas from this apostle’s revelation; only the first lispings of rationalism in the religious portion, and in the social the doctrine of Communism; only the old dream of the millennium, the old theme, ever renewed since the Middle Ages, by the Vaudois, the Lollards and Anabaptists. Happy Russia! to her these beautiful chimeras are still new! Western Europe is astonished only, to meet them again in the writings of such a great author and such an unusually keen observer of human nature.

But would not the condition of this man’s soul be the result of the natural evolution of his successive experiences? First, a pantheist, then nihilist, pessimist, and mystic. I have heard that Leo Nikolaievitch has defended himself energetically against being thought to have assumed the title of a mystic; he feels its danger, and does not think it applicable to one who believes that the heavenly kingdom is transferred to earth. Our language furnishes us no other word to express his condition; may he pardon us what seems to us the truth. I know that he would prefer to have me praise his doctrines and decry his novels. This I cannot do. I am so enraptured with the novels that I can only feel that the doctrines but deprive me of masterpieces which might have given me additional enjoyment in the future. I have been lavish of praise, but only because of my thorough and sincere appreciation of the books. Now, however, that the author has reached a state of perfect happiness, he needs no more praise, and must be quite indifferent to criticism.

We must, at least, recognize in Tolstoï one of those rare reformers whose actions conform to their precepts. I am assured that he exerts around him a most salutary influence, and has actually returned to the life of the primitive Christians. He daily receives letters from strangers, revenue officers, dishonest clerks, publicans of every type, who put into his hands the sums they have dishonestly acquired; young men asking his advice as well as fallen women who need counsel. He is settled in the country, gives away his wealth, lives and labors with his peasant neighbors. He draws water, works in the fields, and sometimes makes his own boots. He does not wish his novels alluded to. I have seen a picture of him in a peasant’s costume working with a shoemaker’s awl in his hand. Should not this creator of masterpieces feel that the pen is the only tool he should wield? If the inspiration of great thoughts is a gift we have received from Heaven as a consolation for our fellow-beings, it seems to me an act of impiety to throw away this talent. The human soul is the author’s field of action, which he is bound to cultivate and fertilize.

From Paris, where Tolstoï is so highly appreciated, comes back to him again the touching, last request of his dying friend which to me was inspired by a higher religious sentiment than that of Sutayef:―

“This gift comes to you from whence come all our gifts. Return to your literary labors, great author of our beloved Russia!”

I shall not pretend to draw any definite or elaborate conclusions from these initiatory explorations into Russian literature. To make them complete, we should study the less prominent writers, who have a right to bear their testimony as to the actual condition of the nation. If, moreover, the writer of this book has succeeded in presenting his own ideas clearly, the reader should draw his own conclusions from the perusal of it; if the author has failed, any added defence of his ideas would be superfluous, and have little interest or value for the reader.

We have witnessed the at first artificial growth of this literature, for a long time subjected to foreign influence; a weak and servile type of literature, giving us no enlightenment whatever as to the actual interior condition of its own country, which it voluntarily ignored. Again, when turning to its natal soil to seek its objects of study it has become vigorous. Realism is the proper and perfect instrument which it has employed, applied with equal success to material and spiritual life. Although this realism may occasionally lack method and taste, and is at the same time both diffuse and subtile, it is invariably natural and sincere, ennobled by moral sentiments, aspirations toward the Divine, and sympathy for humanity. Not one of these novelists aims merely at literary fame, but all are governed by a love of truth as well as of justice,―a combination of great importance, and well worth our serious reflection, betraying and explaining to us, moreover, the philosophical conceptions of this race.

The Russians seek religious truth because they find the formulas of their doctrines insufficient for them, and the negative arguments which satisfy us would be entirely opposed to all their instincts. Their religious doubts govern, cause, and characterize all their social and political questions and difficulties. The Slav race, under the guise of its apparent orthodoxy, has not yet found its true path, but seeks it still in every grade of society. The formula they are looking forward to must comprise and answer to their double ideal of truth and justice. Moreover, the people still feel the influence of the old Aryan spirit; the cultivated classes also feel that of the teachings of the contemporaneous sciences; hence the resurrection of Buddhism which we now witness in Russia; for I cannot otherwise qualify these tendencies. We see in them the condition of the ancient Hindus vacillating between an extremely high morality and Nihilism, or a metaphysical Pantheism.

The spirit of Buddhism in its great efforts toward the extension of evangelical charity has penetrated the Russian character, which naturally has such intense sympathy for human nature, for the humblest creatures, for the forsaken and unfortunate. This spirit decries reason and elevates the brute, and inspires the deepest compassion in the heart. Moreover, this simple love of the neighbor and infinite tenderness for the suffering gives a peculiarly pathetic quality to their literary works. The initiators of this movement, after having written for the benefit of their peers and the cultivated classes, are strongly drawn toward the people. Gogol with his bitter irony devoted himself to the study of suffering humanity. Turgenef pictured it from his own artistic standpoint rather than from that of an apostle. Tolstoï, his sceptical investigations being over, has become the most determined of the apostles of the unfortunate.

But beyond these mental tortures, beneath the extreme Nihilism of a Tolstoï and the intellectual morbidness of a Dostoyevski, we feel that there is a rich fund of vitality, a fountain of truth and justice, which will surely triumph in the future.

FOOTNOTES:

[L] By Alfred de Vigny, author of “Cinque-Mars.”

INDEX.

Alexander I., 27, 42

_Anna Karenina_, 246

_Annals of a Sportsman_, 101

_Ascension of Christ, The_, 34

_Assia_, 119

Bielinski, 148

_Bohemians, The_, 49

_Book of the Dove_, 34

_Boris Godunof_, 49

_Buried Alive_, 162

Catherine II., 27, 38

_Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth_, 216

_Commentary on the Gospel, A_, 257

_Cossacks, The_, 216

_Crime and Punishment_, 176

_Dead Souls_, 74

_Degraded and Insulted, The_, 147

_Demon, The_, 52

Derzhavin, 38

_Despair_, 139

_Dimitri Roudine_, 109

_Domostroi_, 32

Dostoyevski, 141

_Evenings at a Farm Near Dikanka_, 63

_Fathers and Sons_, 115

Freemasonry, 41

French Revolution, The, 42

Gogol, 56

Gortchakof, 46

Gregory of Tours, 31

Griboyedof, 51

Grigorovitch, 147

_Idiot, The_, 163

Ivan the Terrible, 32

Ivan Federof, 32

Ivanof, 73

Ivan Sergievitch, 96

_Karamazof Brothers, The_, 185

Karamzin, 39

Kheraskof, 38

Kiev, 31

Krylof, 39

Kutuzof, 231

_Lear of the Steppe, A_, 131

Lermontof, 52

_Letters to My Friends_, 83

_Living Relics, The_, 102

Lomonosof, 37

Loris Melikof, 206

_Manteau, Le_, 62, 69

Maximus, 31

_Memoirs of a Nihilist_, 130

Muscovitism, 41

_My Confession_, 257

_My Religion_, 259

Nekrasof, 147

_Nest of Nobles_, 109

Nestor, 31

_Note-book of an Author_, 195

Novikof, 42

_On the Eve_, 113

_Onyegin_, 49

_Pauvre Lise, La_, 40

Peter the Great, 37

Petrachevski, 155

_Pétriade, La_, 38

Poltava, 49

_Poor People_, 149

_Possédés, Les_, 191

_Prisoner of the Caucasus, The_, 48

Pushkin, 44

_Revizor, The_, 70

Russian Drama, The, 70

Savonarola, 31

_Sebastopol in December, in May, and in August_, 215

Skobelef, 138

Slavophile, 90

Slavophilism, 41

_Smoke_, 122

Song of Igor, 35

“Souls,” 75

Speranski, 41

_Spring Floods_, 125

Sutayef, 257

_Taras Bulba_, 66

Tchadayef, 53

Tchinovnism, 32

_Tchitchikof_, 76

Tolstoï, 215

_Trois Morts_, 219

Tsarskoe-Selo, Lyceum of, 45

Turgenef, 96

Tutschef, 34

Ukraine, 57

_Virgin Soil_, 126

Von Vizin, 38

_War and Peace_, 223, 228

Zaporovian League, 59

Zhukovski, 44

A LIST OF ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS
FROM THE RUSSIAN.

DOSTOYEVSKI:―

Buried Alive; Ten Years Penal Servitude in Siberia. Trans. from the
Russian by Marie von Thilo; 8vo, London, 1881.

_Same_, 12mo, New York, 1881.

Crime and Punishment; a Russian Realistic Novel; 8vo, London, 1886.

_Same_, 12mo, New York, 1886.

Injury and Insult; trans. by F. Whishaw; 8vo, London, 1886.

GOGOL:―

Cossack Tales, trans. by Geo. Tolstoy; 8vo, London, 1860.

St. John’s Eve, and Other Stories; from the Russian, by Isabel F.
Hapgood; 12mo, New York, 1886. Selected from “Evenings at the
Farm” and “St. Petersburg Stories.”

_Contents_:―St. John’s Eve, related by the sacristan of
the Dikanka Church.―Old-Fashioned Farmers.―The Tale of How
Ivan Ivanovitch Quarrelled with Ivan Nikiforovitch.―The
Portrait.―The Cloak.

Taras Bulbá; a Tale of the Cossacks; from the Russian, by Isabel F.
Hapgood; 12mo, New York, 1886.

Tchitchikoff’s Journeys, or Dead Souls; from the Russian, by Isabel
F. Hapgood; 2 vols., 12mo, New York, 1886.

PUSHKIN:―

Captain’s Daughter; from the Russian; 4to, New York, 1884.

Eugene Onéguine, a romance of Russian life, in verse; trans, by
Lt.-Col. Spalding; 8vo, London and New York, 1881.

Marie, a Story of Russian Love; from the Russian, by Marie H. de
Zielinska; sq. 16mo, Chicago, 1876 (also 1880). (Same as the
“Captain’s Daughter.”)

Russian Romance; trans. by Mrs. J. B. Telfer; 8vo, London, 1875.

_Same_, 8vo, London, 1880.

_Contents_:―The Captain’s Daughter.―The Lady-Rustic.―The
Pistol-Shot.―The Snow-Storm.―The Undertaker.―The
Station-Master.―The Moor of Peter the Great.

TOLSTOÏ:―

Anna Karenina; from the Russian, by N. H. Dole; 12mo, New York,
1886.

_Same_, London, 1886.

Childhood, Boyhood, Youth: Reminiscences; from the Russian, by
Isabel F. Hapgood; 12mo, New York, 1886. (An earlier translation
seems to have been published in London, in 1862, under the title
“Childhood and Youth.”)

Christ’s Christianity; trans. from the Russian; 8vo, London, 1885.

_Contents_:―How I Came to Believe.―What I Believe.―The
Spirit of Christ’s Teaching.

The Cossacks; from the Russian, by Eugene Schuyler; 2 vols., 8vo,
London, 1878.

_Same_, 16mo, New York, 1878.

My Religion; trans. from the French by W. Huntington Smith; 12mo,
New York, 1885. (The same as his “What I Believe.”)

War and Peace; from the French, by Clara Bell; 3 vols., 8vo,
London, 1886.

_Same_, 6 vols., 16mo, New York, 1886.

What I Believe; from the Russian, by Constantine Popoff; 8vo,
London, 1885.

_Same_, 12mo, New York, 1886. (A translation from the French was
published under the title “My Religion.”)

What People Live By; trans. by Aline Delano; 8vo, Boston, 1887. (A
story of peasant life.)

TURGENEF:―

Annals of a Sportsman; from the authorized French translation, by
Franklin P. Abbott; 16mo, New York, 1885.

Annouchka: a Tale; from the French of the author’s own translation,
by Franklin P. Abbott; 16mo, Boston, 1884.

Daughter of Russia; trans. by G. W. Scott; 4to, New York, 1882.

Dimitri Roudine; trans. from the French and German versions for
“Every Saturday”; 16mo, New York, 1873.

_Same_, 12mo, London, 1883.

Fathers and Sons; from the Russian, by Eugene Schuyler; 16mo, New
York, 1867 and 1883.

_Same_, London, 1883.

First Love, and Punin and Baburin; trans. from the Russian, by W.
Ralston; 12mo, London, 1884.

Liza; trans. by W. R. S. Ralston; 2 vols., 8vo, London, 1869.

_Same_, New York, 1872.

_Same_, London, 1884.

(The title of the original and of the French translation is
“A Nest of Nobles.”)

Mumu, and The Diary of a Superfluous Man; from the Russian, by
Henry Gersoni; 12mo, New York, 1884.

On the Eve; from the Russian, by C. E. Turner; 12mo, London, 1871.

_Same_, American ed., with amendments; 16mo, New York, 1873.

Poems in Prose; trans. by Lilla C. Perry; 16mo, Boston, 1883.

Punin and Baburin; trans. by G. W. Scott; 4to, New York, 1882.

Russian Life in the Interior; 12mo, London, 1855.

Smoke, or Life at Baden; 2 vols., 8vo, London, 1868.

Smoke, or Life at Baden; from the author’s French version, by W. F.
West; 16mo, New York, 1872.

_Same_, 12mo, London, 1883.

Song of Triumphant Love; 4to, New York, 1883.

Spring Floods, trans. by Sophie Mitchell; also A Lear of the
Steppe, trans. by W. H. Browne; 16mo, New York, 1874.

An Unfortunate Woman; also Ass’ya; from the Russian, by H. Gersoni;
12mo, New York, 1886. (“Ass’ya” is the same as “Annouchka.”)

Virgin Soil; from the French, by T. S. Perry; 16mo, New York, 1877.

_Same_, 12mo, London, 1883.

Virgin Soil; trans. by A. W. Dilke; 8vo, London, 1878.

THE SCHOOL OF HOME.

Let the school of home be a good one. Let reading be such as to quicken the mind for better reading still; for the school at home is progressive.

* * * * *

The baby is to be read to. What shall mother and sister and father and brother read to the baby?

BABYLAND. Babyland rhymes and jingles; great big letters and little thoughts and words out of BABYLAND. Pictures so easy to understand that baby quickly learns the meaning of light and shade, of distance, of tree, of cloud. The grass is green; the sky is blue; the flowers―are they red or yellow? That depends on mother’s house-plants. Baby sees in the picture what she sees in the home and out of the window.

BABYLAND, mother’s monthly picture-and-jingle primer for baby’s diversion, and baby’s mother-help; 50 cents a year.

* * * * *

What, when baby begins to read for herself? OUR LITTLE MEN AND WOMEN is made to go on with. BABYLAND forms the reading habit. Think of a baby with the reading habit! After a little she picks up the letters and wants to know what they mean. The jingles are jingles still; but the tales that lie under the jingles begin to ask questions.

What do Jack and Jill go up the hill after water for? Isn’t water down hill? Baby is outgrowing BABYLAND.

No more nonsense. There is fun enough in sense. The world is full of interesting things; and, if they come to a growing child not in discouraging tangles but an easy one at a time, there is fun enough in getting hold of them. That is the way to grow. OUR LITTLE MEN AND WOMEN helps such growth as that. Beginnings of things made easy by words and pictures; not too easy. The reading habit has got to another stage.

A dollar for such a school as that for a year.

* * * * *

Then comes THE PANSY with stories of child-life, travel at home and abroad, adventure, history old and new, religion at home and over the seas, and roundabout tales on the International Sunday School Lesson.

Pansy the editor; THE PANSY the magazine. There are thousands and thousands of children and children of larger growth all over the country who know about Pansy the writer, and THE PANSY the magazine. There are thousands and thousands more who will be glad to know.

A dollar a year for THE PANSY.

* * * * *

The reading habit is now pretty well established; not only the reading habit, but liking for useful reading; and useful reading leads to learning.

Now comes WIDE AWAKE, vigorous, hearty, not to say heavy. No, it isn’t heavy, though full as it can be of practical help along the road to sober manhood and womanhood. Full as it can be! There is need of play as well as of work; and WIDE AWAKE has its mixture of work and rest and play. The work is all toward self-improvement; so is the rest; and so is the play. $2.40 a year.

* * * * *

Specimen copies of all the Lothrop magazines for fifteen cents; any one for five―in postage stamps.

Address D. Lothrop Company, Boston.

You little know what help there is in books for the average housewife.

Take _Domestic Problems_, for instance, beginning with this hard question: “How may a woman enjoy the delights of culture and at the same time fulfil her duties to family and household?” The second chapter quotes from somebody else: “It can’t be done. I’ve tried it; but, as things now are, it can’t be done.”

Mrs. Diaz looks below the surface. Want of preparation and culture, she says, is at the bottom of a woman’s failure, just as it is of a man’s.

The proper training of children, for instance, can’t be done without some comprehension of children themselves, of what they ought to grow to, their stages, the means of their guidance, the laws of their health, and manners. But mothers get no hint of most of these things until they have to blunder through them. Why not? Isn’t the training of children woman’s mission? Yes, in print, but not in practice. What is her mission in practice? Cooking and sewing!

Woman’s worst failure then is due to the stupid blunder of putting comparatively trivial things before the most important of all. The result is bad children and waste of a generation or two―all for putting cooking and sewing before the training of children.

Now will any one venture to say that any particular mother, you for instance, has got to put cooking and sewing before the training of children?

Any mother who really makes up her mind to put her children first can find out how to grow tolerable children at least.

And that is what Mrs. Diaz means by preparation―a little knowledge beforehand―the little that leads to more.

It _can_ be done; and _you_ can do it! Will you? It’s a matter of choice; and you are the chooser.

Domestic Problems. By Mrs. A. M. Diaz. $1. D. Lothrop Company, Boston.

We have touched on only one subject. The author treats of many.

* * * * *

Dr. Buckley the brilliant and versatile editor of the _Christian Advocate_ says in the preface of his book on northern Europe “I hope to impart to such as have never seen those countries as clear a view as can be obtained from reading” and “My chief reason for traveling in Russia was to study Nihilism and kindred subjects.”

This affords the best clue to his book to those who know the writer’s quickness, freshness, independence, force, and penetration.

The Midnight Sun, the Tsar and the Nihilist. Adventures and
Observations in Norway, Sweden and Russia. By J. M. Buckley, LL. D.
72 illustrations, 376 pages. $3. D. Lothrop Company, Boston.

Just short of the luxurious in paper, pictures and print.

* * * * *

The writer best equipped for such a task has put into one illustrated book a brief account of every American voyage for polar exploration, including one to the south almost forgotten.

American Explorations in the Ice Zones. By Professor J. E. Nourse,
U. S. N. 10 maps, 120 illustrations, 624 pages. Cloth, $3, gilt edges
$3.50, half-calf $6. D. Lothrop Company, Boston.

Not written especially for boys; but they claim it.

The wife of a U. S. lighthouse inspector, Mary Bradford Crowninshield, writes the story of a tour of inspection along the coast of Maine with two boys on board―for other boys of course. A most instructive as well as delightful excursion.

The boys go up the towers and study the lamps and lanterns and all the devices by which a light in the night is made to tell the wary sailor the coast he is on; and so does the reader. Stories of wrecks and rescues beguile the waiting times. There are no waiting times in the story.

All Among the Lighthouses, or Cruise of the Goldenrod. By Mary
Bradford Crowninshield. 32 illustrations, 392 pages. $2.50. D.
Lothrop Company, Boston.

There’s a vast amount of coast-lore besides.

* * * * *

Mr. Grant Allen, who knows almost as much as anybody, has been making a book of twenty-eight separate parts, and says of it: “These little essays are mostly endeavors to put some of the latest results of science in simple, clear and intelligible language.”

Now that is exactly what nine hundred and ninety-nine in a thousand of us want, if it isn’t dry. And it isn’t dry. Few of those who have the wonderful knowledge of what is going on in the learned world have the gift of popular explanation―the gift of telling of it. Mr. Allen has that gift; the knowledge, the teaching grace, the popular faculty.

Common Sense Science. By Grant Allen. 318 pages. $1.50. D. Lothrop
Company, Boston.

By no means a list of new-found facts; but the bearings of them on common subjects.

We don’t go on talking as if the earth were the centre of things, as if Galileo never lived. Huxley and Spencer have got to be heard. Shall we wait two hundred and fifty years?

The book is simply an easy means of intelligence.

* * * * *

There is nothing more dreary than chemistry taught as it used to be taught to beginners. There is nothing brighter and fuller of keen delight than chemistry taught as it can be taught to little children even.

Real Fairy Folks. By Lucy Rider Meyer, A. M. 389 pages. $1.25. D.
Lothrop Company, Boston.

“I’ll be their teacher―give them private scientific lectures! Trust me to manage the school part!” The book is alive with the secrets of things.

* * * * *

It takes a learned man to write an easy book on almost any subject.

Arthur Gilman, of the College for Women, at Cambridge, known as the “Harvard Annex,” has made a little book to help young people along in the use of the dictionary. One can devour it in an hour or two; but the reading multiplies knowledge and means of knowledge.

Short Stories from the Dictionary. By Arthur Gilman, M. A. 129 pages.
60 cents. D. Lothrop Company, Boston.

An unconscious beginning of what may grow to be philology, if one’s faculty lies that way. Such bits of education are of vastly more importance than most of us know. They are the seeds of learning.

Elizabeth P. Peabody at the age of eighty-four years has made a book of a number of essays, written during fifty years of a most productive life, on subjects of lasting interest, published forgotten years ago in _Emerson’s Magazine_, _The Dial_, Lowell’s _Pioneer_, etc.

Last Evening with Allston and Other Papers. 350 pages. $1.50. D.
Lothrop Company, Boston.

* * * * *

The wife of Frémont, the Pathfinder of forty years ago and almost President thirty years ago, has written a bookful of reminiscences.

Souvenirs of My Time. By Jessie Benton Frémont. 393 pages. $1.50. D.
Lothrop Company, Boston.

Mrs. Frémont has long been known as a brilliant converser and story-teller. Her later years have been given to making books; and the books have the freshness and sparkle of youth.

* * * * *

The literary editor of the _Nation_ gathers together nearly a hundred poems and parts of poems to read to children going to sleep.

Bedside Poetry, a Parents’ Assistant in Moral Discipline. 143 pages.
Two bindings, 75 cents and $1. D. Lothrop Company, Boston.

The poems have their various bearings on morals and graces; and there is an index called a key to the moralities. The mother can turn, with little search, to verses that put in a pleasant light the thoughts the little one needs to harbor. Hence the sub-title.

Readers of poetry are almost as scarce as poetry―Have you noticed how little there is in the world? how wide the desert, how few the little oases?

Through the Year with the Poets. Edited by Oscar Fay Adams. 12 bijou
books of the months, of about 130 pages each. 75 cents each. D.
Lothrop Company, Boston.

Is it possible? Is there enough sweet singing ringing lustrous verse between heaven and earth to make twelve such books? There is indeed; and heaven and earth are in it!

* * * * *

Ginx’s Baby, a burlesque book of most serious purpose, made a stir in England some years ago; and, what is of more account, went far to accomplish the author’s object.

Evolution of Dodd. By William Hawley Smith. 153 pages. $1. D. Lothrop
Company, Boston.

Dodd is the terrible schoolboy. How he became so; who is responsible; what is the remedy―such is the gist of the book.

As bright as Ginx’s Baby. A bookful of managing wisdom for parents as well as teachers.

* * * * *

Questions such as practical boys and girls are asking their mothers all the year round about things that come up. Not one in ten of the mothers can answer one in ten of the questions.

Household Notes and Queries, A Family Reference-Book. By the Wise
Blackbird. 115 pages. 60 cents.

It is handy to have such a book on the shelf, and handier yet to have the knowledge that’s in it in one’s head.

_Classified List.—Pansy._

THE PANSY BOOKS.

There are substantial reasons for the great popularity of the “Pansy Books,” and foremost among these is their truth to nature and to life. The genuineness of the types of character which they portray is indeed remarkable.

“Her stories move alternately to laughter and tears.”…
“Brimful of the sweetness of evangelical religion.”…
“Girl life and character portrayed with rare power.”…
“Too much cannot be said of the insight given into the true way
of studying and using the word of God.”… These are a few
quotations from words of praise everywhere spoken. The “Pansy
Books” may be purchased by any Sunday-school without hesitation
as to their character or acceptability.

_Each volume 12mo, $1.50._

Chautauqua Girls at Home.
Christie’s Christmas.
Divers Women.
Echoing and Re-echoing.
Endless Chain (An).
Ester Ried.
Ester Ried Yet Speaking.
Four Girls at Chautauqua.
From different Standpoints.
Hall in the Grove (The).
Household Puzzles.
Interrupted.
Julia Ried.
King’s Daughter (The).
Links in Rebecca’s Life.
Mrs. Solomon Smith Looking On.
Modern Prophets.
Man of the House (The).
New Graft on the Family Tree (A).
One Commonplace Day.
Pocket Measure (The).
Ruth Erskine’s Crosses.
Randolphs (The).
Sidney Martin’s Christmas.
Those Boys.
Three People.
Tip Lewis and his Lamp.
Wise and Otherwise.

_Classified List.―Poetry._

=THROUGH THE YEAR WITH THE POETS.―December, January, February,
March, April, May.= Arranged and compiled by OSCAR FAY ADAMS.
Each 75 cents.

The cream of English literature, past and current, has been skimmed with a judicious and appreciative hand.―_Boston Transcript._

=WAIFS AND THEIR AUTHORS.= By A. A. HOPKINS. A collection of poems
many of which are now for the first time published with the
names of the authors. Quarto, cloth, gilt, $2.00; quarto, full
gilt, gilt edges, $2.50.

=WHEN I WAS A CHILD.= By ERNEST W. SHURTLEFF. Illustrated, $1.00.

A simple, graceful poem, fresh with memories of school and vacation days, of games and sports in the country.―_Chicago Advance._

=WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT.= Illustrated, $2.50.

Nothing more exquisite in the way of a presentation book.―_B. B. Bulletin._

=WOMAN IN SACRED SONG.= Compiled and edited by MRS. GEORGE CLINTON
SMITH. With an introduction by Frances E. Willard. Illustrated.
$3.50.

It gives a very full representation of the contributions of woman to sacred song, though of course the main bulk of this has been in modern times.―_Illustrated Weekly._