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TOLSTOY    ON    ART 


L.  N   TOLSTOY  and  A.  P.CHEKHOV 
At  Gwrprot  in  (he  Crimea,  during  ToUtay't  \Une*a  in  1902 


54--5^ 


TOLSTOY 

ON 

ART 

BY 

AYLMER   MAUDE 


<\ 


an 


HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON  EDINBURGH  GLASGOW  TORONTO 

MELBOURNE     CAPE  TOWN     BOMBAY     CALCUTTA 


Printed  in  the  United  SLites  of  America 
Prr»»  of  Geo.  H.  SUit  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  USA 


PREFACE 

The  title  of  this  book  calls  for  some  explanation.  What 
is  of  value  in  it  all  belongs  to,  or  derives  from,  Tolstoy.  Why 
then  is  it  not  issued  simply  as  a  translation  of  Tolstoy's  essays 
on  art? 

The  case  is  this:  When  Tolstoy's  What  is  Art?  (his  chief 
work  on  the  subject)  appeared  in  1898,  it  gave  rise  to  ex- 
tensive controversy.  Several  critics  maintained  that  his  prop- 
ositions were  incomprehensible  or  ridiculous. 

It  happened  that  I  had  translated  the  book  into  English 
in  personal  consultation  with  Tolstoy,  besides  exchanging  a 
score  of  letters  with  him  discussing  every  point  in  the  book 
that  was  not  perfectly' plain  to  me.  When  my  translation 
was  completed  and  he  had  read  it  carefully,  he  wrote  a  pref- 
ace for  it,  in  which  he  appealed  to  "all  who  are  interested 
in  my  views  on  art  only  to  judge  of  them  by  the  work  in  its 
present  shape."  He  also  said,  "This  book  of  mine,  What  is 
Art?  appears  now  for  the  first  time  in  its  true  form.  More 
than  one  edition  has  already  been  issued  in  Russia,  but  in 
each  case  it  has  been  mutilated  by  the  censor." 

I  wrote  a  thirty-page  Introduction  to  the  book,  in  which 
I  set  out,  as  clearly  as  I  could,  what  I  understood  to  be 
Tolstoy's  essential  meaning,  and  in  reply  to  an  attack  on 
Tolstoy  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  I  wrote  another  article — 
which  appeared  in  the  Contemporary  Review — recapitulating 
my  understanding  of  the  matter.  Both  these  essays  received 
Tolstoy's  emphatic  approval.  Of  the  first  he  wrote,  "I  have 
read  your  Introduction  with  great  pleasure.  You  have  ad- 
mirably and  strongly  expressed  the  fundamental  thought  of 


vi  PREFACE 

the  book,"  and  of  the  second  he  wrote,  "Your  article  pleased 
me  exceedingly,  so  clearly  and  strongly  is  the  fundamental 
thought  expressed." 

It  therefore  happens  that,  though  I  had  contributed  no 
original  ideas  and  had  merely  restated  Tolstoy's  views,  my 
articles  serve  as  a  decisive  reply  to  those  who  maintained  that 
Tolstoy  meant  something  he  did  not  mean. 

As  evidence  of  his  intention,  therefore,  these  essays  are 
worth  reproducing.  Had  I  let  the  book  be  published  simply 
as  a  translation  of  Tolstoy,  while  including  in  it  so  much 
matter  of  my  own,  I  should  have  been  reproached  for  encum- 
bering the  translation  with  matter  not  written  by  Tolstoy. 
The  objections  to  that  course  seem  stronger  than  those  to  the 
course  I  have  adopted;  and  no  third  way  of  dealing  with  the 
matter  suggested  itself  to  me. 

The  book  is  intended  less  for  those  who  specialise  in  some 
particular  sphere  or  art  and  are  satisfied  with  the  views  held 
by  their  coterie,  than  for  readers  interested  in  the  relation  of 
art  to  life  in  general,  and  who  wish  to  understand  why  art  is 
of  importance  to  mankind. 

The  illustrations  consist  chiefly  of  copies  of  Russian  pic- 
tures mentioned  by  Tolstoy  and  which,  since  the  Revolution, 
are  not  readily  procurable.  It  has  not  in  all  cases  been  possi- 
ble to  procure  first-rate  reproductions  but,  such  as  they  are, 
they  show  what  Tolstoy  was  talking  about  and,  as  he  was  di- 
recting attention  to  the  feelings  they  convey  rather  than  to 
their  technique,  the  quality  of  the  reproduction  is  not  of  pri- 
mary importance. 

It  is  inconvenient  that  the  name  of  a  great  writer  should  be 
spelt  in  more  than  one  way ;  so  I  take  this  opportunity  to  men- 
tion that  not  only  did  Tolstoy  write  his  name  with  a  y,  as  did 
his  wife  and  his  literary  executors,  but  that  this  is  in  accord 
with  the  plan  laid  down  by  the  British  Academy,   in  its 


PREFACE  vii 

"Scheme  for  the  Transliteration  into  English  of  words  and 
names  belonging  to  Russian  and  other  Slavonic  languages." 
On  the  Committee  that  dealt  with  this  matter  were  Sir  Paul 
Vinogradoff,  Dr.  Hagberg  Wright,  Dr.  Seton  Watson,  Mr. 
Nevill  Forbes,  Mr.  Minns,  and  other  eminent  authorities. 
The  agreement  of  Tolstoy's  own  practice  with  the  conclusions 
arrived  at  by  such  a  Committee  should  suffice  to  set 
this  vexed  question  finally  at  rest.  It  is  indeed  seldom  wise 
to  attempt  to  improve  on  a  great  modern  writer's  way  of 
spelling  his  own  name. 

This  volume  presents,  for  the  first  time  in  English,  a  com- 
plete collection  of  Tolstoy's  essays  on  art,  and  contains  some 
that  had  not  previously  been  translated. 

What  is  Art?,  which  has  appeared  before,  gives,  I  think, 
the  most  lucid  statement  of  the  nature  of  artistic  activity  and 
of  its  relation  to  the  rest  of  life,  that  has  ever  been  penned. 
The  rest  of  the  essays  are  chiefly  valuable  for  the  light  they 
throw  on  the  process  by  which  Tolstoy — himself  a  great  ar- 
tist both  in  fiction  and  in  the  drama — arrived  at  the  solution 
of  this  problem,  which  had  occupied  his  mind  from  his  youth 
upwards,  but  which  he  did  not  succeed  in  solving  to  his  satis- 
faction until  he  had  reached  the  age  of  three  score  years  and 
ten. 

Aylmer  Maude. 
Great  Baddow 

Chelmsford 
England 

26th  September,  1924 


CONTENTS 

PART  PAGE 

VIA  Survey  of  Tolstoy's  Essays  on  Art  (1924)       ....      1 

II    Schoolboys  and  Art  (1861)       21 

III    The  Last  Supper  (1885) 29 

*&  IV    On  Truth  in  Art  (1887)        33 

^7   V    "  What  is  Truth  ?"  (1890)       36 

VI    Introduction  to  Amiel's  Journal  (1893) 38 

VII    Introduction  to  S.  T.  Semenov's  Peasant  Stories  (1894)  .    43 
VIII    Introduction  to  the  Works  of  Guy  de  Maupassant  (1894)    46 
IX    From  a  Letter  to  Peter  Verigin,  the  Doukhobor  Leader 

(^95)      72 

J     X    On  Art  (c.  1895-7) 75 

j    XI    An  Introduction  to  "  What  is  Art  ?  "  (1899)     ....    91 
XII    Tolstoy's  Preface  to  "  What  is  Art  ?  "    (1898) .    .    .    .117 

/  (Sill)  What  is  Art  ?  (1898) 121 

Appendices       334 

J  q5v)  Tolstoy's  View  of  Art  (1900  &  1924) 358 

XV    Preface  to  Polenz's  Novel  Der  Biittnerbauer    (1902)    .     .  378 
XVI    An  Afterword,  by  Tolstoy,  to  Chekhov's  Story,  Darling 

(1905) • 388 

XVII    Shakespeare  and  the  Drama  (1906) 393 

"  XVIII    A  Talk  on  the  Drama  (c.  1907) 464 

XIX    Two  Kinds  of  Mental  Activity  (1908)       466 

XX    Preface  to  N.  Orlov's  Album  of  Russian  Peasants  (1909)  .  468 

Appendix  :  Darling  by  Anton  Chekhov        474 

Index 491 

ix 


ERRATA 

P.  271.   For  English  Academy  read  Royal  Academy 

P.  274.  Illustration  "  Charity."  For  British  Academy  read  Royal  Academy 

P.  465.   Delete  date  at  end. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


L.  N.  Tolstoy  and  A.  P.  Chekhov Frontispiece 

At  Gaspra,  in  the  Crimea,  during  Tolstoy's  illness  in  1902 

PAQB 

"The   Last   Supper" 30 

After  a  painting  by  N.  N.  Gay,  1863 

"What    is    Truth?" 36 

After  a  painting  by  N.  N.  Gay,  1890 

"The    Day    of    Judgment" 270 

A  painting  by  V.  M.  Vasnetsov  in  Kiev  Cathedral 

A  Sketch  illustrating  Turgenev's  story,  "The  Quail"     .      .      .      .272 
By  V.  M.  Vasnetsov 

"Charity" 274 

By  Walter  Langley,  British  Academy,  1897 

"A  Triumphal   Procession" 288 

A  drawing  by  I.  N.  Kramskoy 

"Der  Salontiroler" 290 

By  Franz  Defregger 

"The  Angels  at  the  Tomb  of  Christ" 298 

By  E.  Manet 

"The  Return  from  Work" 470 

By  N.  Orlov 

"The   Monopoly" 472 

By  N.   Orlov 


TOLSTOY    ON    ART 


TJ  s  is  a  NEW  book.  Since  others  are  perhaps 
w;  ting  for  it,  please  do  not  retain  it  longer 
necessary. 


.., 


TOLSTOY    ON    ART 

PART  I 

A  SURVEY  OF  TOLSTOY'S  ESSAY  ON  ART 

Tolstoy's  little  volume  What  is  Art?  being  out  of  print 
in  England  at  present,  it  occurs  to  me  that  it  may  be  well, 
instead  of  republishing  it  separately,  to  do  what  has  not  be- 
fore been  done  and  bring  together  into  a  single  volume  all 
Tolstoy's  writings  on  art,  especially  as  some  of  these  which 
certainly  deserve  attention,  are  not  included  in  any  of  the 
editions  of  his  works  that  have  been  published  in  England  or 
in  America. 

Tolstoy's  views  on  art  are  often  referred  to,  but  seldom  cor- 
rectly presented.  In  the  leading  British  literary  organ,  the 
Times  Literary  Supplement,  of  28th  April  1921,  for  instance, 
two  reviewers,  dealing  with  different  works,  referred  to  What 
is  Art?  and  both  of  them  attributed  to  Tolstoy  views  he  had 
never  either  expressed  or  held.  A  letter  in  reply  appeared  a 
fortnight  later  in  the  same  paper,  saying: 

"Allow  me  to  point  out  to  the  reviewer  of  Mr.  Joad's  Common-Sense 
Ethics  that  Tolstoy  never  'came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  word  beauty 
means  nothing  and  is  useless.'  On  the  contrary,  What  is  Art?  furnishes 
evidence — were  evidence  needed — that  Tolstoy  knew  the  meaning  of  the 
word  and  found  it  useful.  For  instance,  he  says:  'I  fear  it  will  be 
urged  against  me  that  having  denied  that  the  conception  of  beauty  can 
supply  a  standard  for  works  of  art,  I  contradict  myself  by  acknowledg- 
ing ornaments  to  be  works  of  art.  The  reproach  is  unjust,  for  the 
subject-matter  of  all  kinds  of  ornamentation  consists  not  in  the  beauty, 

1 


2  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

but  in  the  feeling  (of  admiration  of  and  delight  in  the  combination  of 
lines  and  colours)  which  the  artist  has  experienced  and  with  which  he 
infects  the  spectator.  Art  remains  what  it  was  and  what  it  must  be: 
nothing  but  the  infection  by  one  man  of  another,  or  of  others,  with  the 
feelings  experienced  by  the  infector.  Among  these  feelings  is  the  feel- 
ing of  delight  at  what  pleases  the  sight  ..." 

"Here  and  elsewhere  in  the  same  book  he  understands  and  approves 
of  beauty,  and  he  uses  the  word,  as  in  a  passage  in  which  he  denounces 
exclusive  art  produced  for  a  select  circle  as  having  'lost  its  beauty,'  but 
he  is  careful  not  to  base  his  definition  of  art  on  the  use  of  the  word 
beauty,  because  that  would  merely  substitute  one  problem  for  another, 
since  there  is  as  much  vagueness  in  the  use  of  the  word  'beauty'  as  in  that 
of  the  word  'art.'  'There  is  no  objective  definition  of  beauty.'  Tolstoy 
required  a  clear  workable  definition,  and  found  one  which  meets  the  case. 

"The  reviewer  of  Mr.  Hind's  Art  and  I  says:  'Tolstoy  held  that  a 
Russian  peasant,  just  because  he  was  a  Russian  peasant,  was  a  born 
judge  of  art.'  This  is  again  a  flagrant  misrepresentation.  What  Tol- 
stoy says  is  that  the  highest  art  has  been  understood  by  simple  unper- 
verted  peasant  labourers;  there  is  no  special  claim  made  on  behalf  of 
Russians.  He  instances  the  poems  of  Homer,  admitted  to  be  very  great 
art  yet  eagerly  listened  to  by  'men  of  those  times  who  were  even  less 
educated  than  our  labourers.'  Tolstoy's  argument  is,  that  a  perverted 
education  may  sterilize  man's  capacity  to  enjoy  art,  but  that  an  unper- 
verted  man  naturally  possesses  'that  simple  feeling  familiar  to  the  plain- 
est man  and  even  to  a  child,  that  sense  of  infection  with  another's  feel- 
ing— compelling  us  to  joy  in  another's  gladness,  to  sorrow  at  another's 
grief,  and  to  mingle  souls  with  another — which  is  the  very  essence  of 
art.' " 


It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  instances  both  of  the  attention 
paid  to  Tolstoy's  views  and  of  the  misrepresentation  of  them 
that  is  still  common,  but  the  above  will  suffice  for  the  present 
purpose. 

Something  happened  at  the  time  of  the  first  appearance  of 
What  is  Art?  which  hindered  the  due  understanding  of  it. 
Among  his  many  reformist  activities,  Tolstoy  wished  to  see 
the  business  of  publishing  set  on  a  new  basis,  and  he  assumed 
that  it  would  be  easy  to  improve  on  the  methods  employed  by 


A  SURVEY  3 

the  best  existing  publishers.  Desiring  no  profit  from  his 
works,  he  was  inclined  to  encourage  the  publishing  experi- 
ments of  people  who  professed  agreement  with  his  social  and 
religious  views;  and  it  happened  that  What  is  Art?  was  com- 
pleted just  at  the  time  when  a  small  and  impecunious  group 
calling  itself  The  Brotherhood  Publishing  Co.  had  started 
business  in  London,  to  propagate  Tolstoyan  views.  At  his 
wish  and  at  that  of  his  friend  Tchertkoff  this  Brotherhood 
Publishing  Co.  was  entrusted  with  the  first  publication  of 
the  version  of  What  is  Art?  which  I  had  made  from  Tolstoy's 
manuscript  chapter  by  chapter  in  consultation  with  him  as 
he  wrote.  It  thus  happened  that  the  manager  of  the 
Brotherhood  Publishing  Co.  received  the  work  before  anyone 
in  France  and,  without  asking  permission,  supplied  to  a  Paris 
periodical  the  chapters  in  which  French  writers  and  painters 
of  the  day  were  drastically  dealt  with.  The  publication  of 
this  detached  portion  of  the  book  apart  from  the  chapters  dis- 
closing his  general  argument  was  much  regretted  by  Tolstoy. 
It  had  the  appearance  of  a  wilful  and  unprovoked  attack  on 
a  number  of  distinguished  individuals  and  evoked  great 
indignation;  so  that  when,  shortly  afterwards,  the  book  itself 
appeared  in  France,  it  was  at  once  met  by  a  storm  of  invective 
and  denunciation. 

Now  in  those  days  French  criticism  led  the  literary  world 
of  Europe  and  America,  especially  in  regard  to  Russian 
literature,  and  in  face  of  this  storm  only  certain  of  the  most 
independent  English  critics  ventured  to  trust  their  own  judg- 
ment and  to  testify  to  the  value  and  importance  of  Tolstoy's 
work. 

During  the  quarter  of  a  century  that  has  passed  since  then 
his  views  have  so  far  penetrated  the  public  mind  that  some 
of  them  are  already  becoming  commonplaces,  but  there  are 
many  indications  that  his  message  is  still  far  from  being 
completely  understood. 


4  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  see  how  Tolstoy's  opinions  on  art 
grew  and  developed.  At  the  age  of  thirty,  in  February,  1858, 
he  joined  the  Moscow  Society  of  Lovers  of  Russian  Litera- 
ture, and  delivered  a  lecture  on  "The  Supremacy  of  the  Artis- 
tic Element  in  Literature. "  It  was  never  published,  and  has 
now  been  lost.  From  the  record  that  remains,  it  would  seem 
that  he  argued  that  art  should  treat  of  what  is  always  beautiful 
and  of  what  is  as  unalterable  as  the  fundamental  laws  of  the 
soul,  and  that  he  condemned  the  utilization  of  art  for  the 
indictment  of  particular  social  evils  in  one's  own  age  and 
country.  Many  literary  men  in  Russia  were  then  much  con- 
cerned about  the  emancipation  of  the  serfs,  and  Tolstoy 
seems  to  have  suggested  that  they  were  making  art  a  tool,  and 
failing  to  employ  it  in  the  loftiest  way.  He  had  evidently  far  v 
to  travel  before  reaching  his  ultimate  conclusions. 

In  the  winter  of  1861,  when  absorbed  in  the  school  he  had 
started  for  peasant  children  at  Yasnaya  Polyana,  he  went 
for  a  walk  late  one  evening  with  some  lads  of  ten  or  twelve 
years  of  age.  Their  talk  turned  on  singing,  drawing,  and  art 
in  general.  Tolstoy's  account  of  this  walk  will  be  found  in 
the  next  chapter.  He  says:  "We  began  to  speak  of  the  fact 
that  not  everything  exists  for  use,  but  that  there  is  also  beauty, 
and  that  art  is  beauty,  and  we  understood  one  another,  and 
Fedka  quite  understood  what  singing  is  for.  It  feels  strange 
to  repeat  what  we  said  then,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  we  said 
all  that  can  be  said  about  utility,  and  plastic  and  moral 
beauty." 

In  another  article  of  that  period  he  speaks  of  his  amaze- 
ment at  finding  that  these  young  peasant  boys,  when  relieved 
of  the  technical  and  mechanical  difficulties  of  writing  by 
having  it  done  for  them,  could  compose  stories  showing  high 
artistic  feeling. 

After  many  experiments  he  found  that  the  most  efficacious 
way  of  stimulating  these  boys  was  to  suggest  to  them  interest- 


„ 


A  SURVEY 


ing  themes:  for  instance,  that  they  should  write  short  stories 
to  illustrate  popular  proverbs.  When  they  became  interested 
in  framing  these  stories,  it  was  not  in  the  first  instance  they 
who  had  to  do  the  actual  writing,  but  Tolstoy  who  wrote  at 
their  dictation.  In  this  way  their  eagerness  and  their 
creative  faculty  were  not  checked,  and  it  was  possible  quickly 
to  point  out  to  them  wherein  the  real  difficulties  of  authorship 
lie.  The  real  difficulty,  to  anyone  possessed  of  imagination 
and  an  active  mind,  is  to  select  from  all  the  thoughts  that 
suggest  themselves  those  which  are  really  most  essential  to 
the  story,  to  avoid  repetition,  and  to  maintain  a  due  propor- 
tion between  the  various  parts.  As  soon  as  the  boys  found  that 
they  really  could  compose  stories  which  interested  other  people 
(and  a  talented  child  is  able  to  do  this  almost  from  the  first 
if  he  is  judiciously  advised  and  his  exuberances  checked) 
they  naturally  became  intensely  eager  to  master  the  mechani- 
cal difficulties,  especially  as  Tolstoy  was  careful  not  to  annoy 
them  by  injudicious  remarks  about  the  tidiness  of  their  copy- 
books, the  quality  of  their  penmanship,  or  mere  grammatical 
errors.  A  mastery  of  these  things  can  best  be  acquired  through 
the  boy's  desire  to  avoid  absurdity  and  to  be  intelligible. 
Tolstoy  found  that  it  merely  annoys  boys  to  be  told  that  a 
certain  mistake  infringes  a  rule  of  grammar.  They  care 
nothing  about  grammar — they  detest  it.  But  if  you  put  the 
thing  another  way  round,  and  point  out  to  a  child  that  what 
he  has  said  is  unintelligible,  or  is  open  to  misconstruction,  or 
is  not  the  best  way  of  saying  the  thing,  he  understands  the 
common  sense  of  that,  and  learns  his  grammar  or  orthography 
in  order  to  reach  the  result  he  desires. 

Similarly  with  all  the  sciences.  Things  that  the  school- 
books  and  the  pedagogues  often  begin  with,  dry  classifications 
and  unknown  words,  have  the  effect  of  repelling  a  boy  and 
making  him  withdraw  into  his  shell  as  a  tortoise  does  at  the 
approach  of  danger.     The  proper  way,  Tolstoy  says,  is  to 


6  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

begin  with  things  the  child  can  verify  by  his  own  observation, 
and  in  which  he  can  be  expected  to  take  an  intelligent  interest. 
When  he  already  possesses  an  accumulation  of  facts  which 
to  him  are  real  and  interesting,  he  may  be  glad  enough  to 
accept  classification  and  terminology,  to  enable  him  to  sort 
out  his  facts  and  deal  with  them  more  easily. 

With  music  also  this  is  true.  Tolstoy  achieved  remarkable 
success  by  avoiding  the  usual  pedantry  and  compulsion,  not 
obliging  any  boy  to  work  at  it  who  did  not  like  it,  and  help- 
ing the  pupils  to  get  quickly  at  the  real  art  of  the  thing  in  its 
simplest  forms. 

Convinced  of  the  artistic  capacity  of  these  lads  Tolstoy 
declared : 

"I  think  the  need  to  enjoy  art  and  to  serve  art  is  inherent  in  every 
human  being  whatever  race  or  class  he  may  belong  to,  and  that  this 
need  has  its  rights  and  should  be  satisfied.  Taking  that  position  as 
an  axiom,  I  say  that,  if  the  enjoyment  and  production  of  art  by  every 
one  presents  inconveniences  and  inconsistencies,  the  reason  lies  in  the 
character  and  direction  art  has  taken:  about  which  we  must  be  on  our 
guard  lest  we  foist  anything  false  on  the  rising  generation  and  lest  we 
prevent  it  from  producing  something  new  both  in  form  and  matter." 

He  was  much  troubled  by  the  lack  of  good  books  for  the 
people,  and  wrote:  "Let  us  print  good  books  for  the 
people.  .  .  .  How  simple  and  easy  it  seems,  like  all  great 
thoughts!  There  is  only  one  obstacle,  namely,  that  there 
exist  no  good  books  for  the  people  either  here  or  in  Europe. 
To  print  such  books  they  must  first  be  produced,  and  none 
of  our  philanthropists  think  of  undertaking  that  line  of 
work." 

This  was  in  1862.  Twenty  years  later  Tolstoy  set  himself 
to  the  task  he  saw  to  be  so  necessary,  and  wrote  that  delightful 
series  of  short  and  simple  stories  for  the  people,  which  are 
collected  in  the  volume  of  Twenty-Three  Tales.1     He  also 

1  Oxford  University  Press,  "World's  Classics"  series,  London  and  New  York. 


A  SURVEY  7 

published  a  short  play  called  The  First  Distiller,  adapted  for 
performance  at  any  country  fair  or  by  any  workers'  group,  and 
among  his  posthumous  plays  there  is  another  of  similar  char- 
acter, The  Cause  of  It  All.  They  are  both  included  in  the 
volume  of  his  Plays  issued  in  The  World's  Classics  series. 

It  is  of  course  harder  to  produce  work  which  shall  really 
convey  a  feeling  to  a  wide  audience  than  it  is  for  a  writer  to 
restrict  himself  to  a  circle  who  have  undergone  the  same 
training,  culture,  and  social  experience,  as  himself.  To  reach 
the  wide  mass  of  humanity  the  artist,  in  addition  to  real  sin- 
cerity, must  have  the  qualities  of  brevity  and  simplicity,  as 
one  sees  them  exemplified  in  the  Gospel  parables,  the  Old 
Testament  stories,  popular  folk  tales,  the  old  ballads,  and  in 
a  lesser  degree  in  such  modern  works  as  Dickens'  The  Christ- 
mas Carol.  But  if  the  achievement  be  difficult,  its  social 
importance  is  immensely  great,  and  nothing  in  modern  litera- 
ture in  this  direction  has  been  more  successful  than  Tolstoy's 
stories  in  Twenty-Three  Tales.  They  have  made  their  way 
into  all  languages  and  have  been  welcomed  everywhere  by 
young  and  old,  learned  and  simple  alike. 

Curiously  enough,  the  Oxford  University  Press  edition  of 
Tolstoy's  works,  the  aim  of  which  is  to  give  English-speaking 
readers  a  more  readable,  reliable,  authoritative,  and  complete, 
rendering  of  Tolstoy's  works  than  had  previously  been  pro- 
duced, originated  from  Tolstoy's  efforts  to  provide  good  liter- 
ature for  the  Russian  people.  When  the  late  W.  T.  Stead 
visited  him  at  Yasnaya  Polyana  they  discussed  the  possibility 
of  providing  popular  editions  of  the  best  literature  at  a  cheap 
price.  Tolstoy  spoke  of  what  was  being  done  in  chat  direction 
under  his  auspices  in  Moscow.  And  Stead  after  his  return 
to  England  issued  a  series  of  penny  booklets  containing 
summaries  of  the  best  books.  This  plan  aimed  too  high, 
and  was  not  permanently  successful;  but  Grant  Richards, 
who  was  one  of  Stead's  assistants  at  the  time,  saw  the  possi- 


8  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

bilities  in  the  idea  and,  after  starting  his  own  business, 
brought  out  the  World's  Classics  series,  well-printed  and 
well-bound  at  a  very  moderate  price.  One  of  the  volumes  he 
issued  was  Essays  and  Letters  by  Tolstoy.  The  book  met 
with  Tolstoy's  cordial  approval,  and  of  the  rendering  he  wrote 
me:  "Your  translations  are  very  good  because,  besides  hav- 
ing excellent  command  of  both  languages,  you  also  love  the 
thoughts  you  transmit;  this  gives  me  great  pleasure."  Henry 
Frowde,  who  was  the  London  representative  of  the  Oxford 
University  Press,  took  over  the  series  when  Grant  Richards 
failed,  and  continued  it.  Twenty-Three  Tales  was  the  next 
Tolstoy  volume  that  was  added,  and  others  followed.  What 
distinguishes  the  World  Classics  among  other  series  of  inex- 
pensive books  is  the  care  devoted  to  the  editing  and  to  the 
quality  of  the  versions  produced.  In  this  respect  it  claims 
to  be  far  ahead  of  any  other  edition  of  Tolstoy's  works. 

Tolstoy's  marriage  and  the  production  of  War  and  Peace,1 
Anna  Karenina1  and  the  First  Russian  Reading  Books  occu- 
pied him  for  twenty  years,  during  which  he  wrote  little  about 
the  philosophy  of  art,  though  references  to  art  in  his  novels 
and  stories  indicate  that  its  influence  on  life  always  occupied 
his  mind.  He  had  previously  in  Lucern  (1857)  described 
an  itinerant  Swiss  musician  and  expressed  indignation  that 
the  wealthy  tourists  who  enjoyed  that  musician's  art  failed  to 
contribute  to  his  needs.  A  year  later,  in  Albert,  he  described 
a  drunken  but  talented  violinist  he  met  in  Petersburg.  In 
actual  life  he  took  Rudolph  (the  prototype  of  Albert)  to 
Yasnaya  Polyana,  and  there  studied  music  with  him. 

In  War  and  Peace1  there  is  a  striking  passage  dealing  with 
the  effect  of  Natasha's  singing  on  Nicholas,  when  he  returns 
home  in  despair  after  heavy  losses  at  cards  (ch.  15,  Book  IV, 
pp.  434-5). 

Later,  in  1879,  in  his  very  interesting  Confession1  in  the 

1  Oxford  University  Press,  "World's  Classics"  series,  London  and  New  York. 


A  SURVEY  9 


course  of  a  scathing  denunciation  of  the  life  of  the  social 
circles  to  which  he  belonged  he  says: 

"During  that  time  I  began  to  write  from  vanity,  covetousness,  and 
pride.  In  my  writings  I  did  the  same  as  in  my  life.  To  get  fame  and 
money,  for  the  sake  of  which  I  wrote,  it  was  necessary  to  hide  the  good 
and  to  display  the  evil.  And  I  did  so.  How  often  in  my  writings  I 
contrived  to  hide  under  the  guise  of  indifference,  or  even  of  banter,  those 
strivings  towards  goodness  which  gave  meaning  to  my  life !  And  I  suc- 
ceeded in  this  and  was  praised. 

"At  twenty-six  years  of  age  I  returned  to  Petersburg  after  the  war 
and  met  the  writers.  They  received  me  as  one  of  themselves  and  flattered 
me.  And  before  I  had  time  to  look  round  I  had  adopted  the  views  on 
life  of  the  set  of  authors  I  had  come  among,  and  these  views  completely 
obliterated  all  my  former  strivings  to  improve.  Those  views  furnished 
a  theory  which  justified  the  dissoluteness  of  my  life. 

"The  view  of  life  of  these  people,  my  comrades  in  authorship,  con- 
sisted in  this:  that  life  in  general  goes  on  developing,  and  in  this  de- 
velopment we — men  of  thought — have  the  chief  part;  and  among  men 
of  thought  it  is  we — artists  and  poets  * — who  have  the  greatest  influence. 
Our  vocation  is  to  teach  mankind.  And  lest  the  simple  question  should 
suggest  itself:  what  do  I  know  and  what  can  I  teach?  it  was  explained 
in  this  theory  that  this  need  not  be  known,  and  that  the  artist  and  poet 
teach  unconsciously.  I  was  considered  an  admirable  artist  and  poet, 
and  therefore  it  was  very  natural  for  me  to  adopt  this  theory.  I,  artist 
and  poet,  wrote  and  taught,  without  myself  knowing  what.  For  this  I 
was  paid  money;  I  had  excellent  food,  lodging,  women,  and  society,  and 
I  had  fame;  which  showed  that  what  I  taught  was  very  good. 

"This  faith  in  the  meaning  of  poetry  and  in  the  development  of  life 
was  a  religion,  and  I  was  one  of  its  priests.  To  be  its  priest  was  very 
pleasant  and  profitable.  And  I  lived  a  considerable  time  in  this  faith 
without  doubting  its  validity.  But  in  the  second,  and  especially  in  the 
third  year  of  this  life,  I  began  to  doubt  the  infallibility  of  this  religion 
and  to  examine  it.  My  first  cause  of  doubt  was  that  I  began  to  notice 
that  the  priests  of  this  religion  were  not  all  in  accord  among  themselves. 
Some  said:  we  are  the  best  and  most  useful  teachers;  we  teach  what  is 
needed  but  the  others  teach  wrongly.     Others  said:  No!  we  are  the  real 

1  In  Russian  the  word  'poet'  is  used  not  only  of  writers  of  verse,  but  also  of 
writers  of  fiction  and  poetic  prose. 


10  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

teachers  and  you  teach  wrongly.  And  they  disputed,  quarrelled,  abused, 
cheated,  and  tricked  one  another.  There  were  also  many  among  us  who 
did  not  care  who  was  right  and  who  was  wrong,  but  were  simply  bent 
on  attaining  their  covetous  aims  by  means  of  this  activity  of  ours.  All 
this  obliged  me  to  doubt  the  validity  of  our  creed. 

"Moreover,  having  begun  to  doubt  the  truth  of  the  authors'  creed 
itself,  I  also  began  to  observe  its  priests  more  attentively,  and  I  became 
convinced  that  almost  all  the  priests  of  that  religion,  the  writers,  were 
immoral,  and  for  the  most  part  men  of  bad  worthless  character,  much 
inferior  to  those  whom  I  had  met  in  my  former  dissipated  and  military 
life;  but  they  were  self-confident  and  self-satisfied  as  only  those  can  be 
who  are  quite  holy  or  who  do  not  know  what  holiness  is.  These  people 
revolted  me,  and  I  realized  that  that  faith  was  a  fraud. 

"But  strange  to  say,  though  I  understood  this  fraud  and  renounced 
it,  yet  I  did  not  renounce  the  rank  these  people  gave  me:  the  rank  of 
artist,  poet  and  teacher.  I  naively  imagined  that  I  was  a  poet  and 
artist  and  could  teach  everybody  without  myself  knowing  what  I  was 
teaching,  and  I  acted  accordingly. 

"From  my  intimacy  with  these  men  I  acquired  a  new  vice:  abnormally 
developed  pride,  and  an  insane  assurance  that  it  was  my  vocation  to 
teach  men,  without  knowing  what. 

"To  remember  that  time  and  my  own  state  of  mind  and  that  of  those 
men  (though  there  are  thousands  like  them  to-day)  is  sad  and  terrible 
and  ludicrous,  and  arouses  exactly  the  feeling  one  experiences  in  a 
lunatic  asylum. 

"We  were  all  then  convinced  that  it  was  necessary  for  us  to  speak, 
write,  and  print,  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  that  it  was  all  wanted  for 
the  good  of  humanity.  And  thousands  of  us,  contradicting  and  abusing 
one  another,  all  printed  and  wrote — teaching  others.  And  without  re- 
marking that  we  knew  nothing,  and  that  to  the  simplest  of  life's  ques- 
tions: What  is  good  and  what  is  evil?  we  did  not  know  how  to  reply, 
we  all,  not  listening  to  one  another,  talked  at  the  same  time,  sometimes 
backing  and  praising  one  another  in  order  to  be  backed  and  praised  in 
turn,  sometimes  getting  angry  with  one  another — just  as  in  a  lunatic 
asylum. 

"Thousands  of  workmen  laboured  to  the  extreme  limit  of  their  strength 
day  and  night,  setting  the  type  and  printing  millions  of  words  which 
the  post  carried  all  over  Russia,  and  we  still  went  on  teaching,  and  could 
in  no  way  find  time  to  teach  enough,  and  were  always  angry  that  suf- 
ficient attention  was  not  paid  us. 


A  SURVEY  11 

"It  was  terribly  strange,  but  it  is  now  quite  comprehensible.  Our 
real  innermost  concern  was  to  get  as  much  money  and  praise  as  possible. 
To  gain  that  end  we  could  do  nothing  except  write  books  and  papers. 
So  we  did  that.  But  in  order  to  do  such  useless  work  and  to  feel  as- 
sured that  we  were  very  important  people  we  required  a  theory  justify- 
ing our  activity.  And  so  among  us  this  theory  was  devised:  'All  that 
exists  is  reasonable.  All  that  exists  develops.  And  it  all  develops  by 
means  of  culture.  And  culture  is  measured  by  the  circulation  of  books 
and  newspapers.  And  we  are  paid  money  and  are  respected  because  we 
write  books  and  newspapers,  and  therefore  we  are  the  most  useful  and 
the  best  of  men.'  This  theory  would  have  been  all  very  well  if  we  had 
been  unanimous,  but  as  every  thought  expressed  by  one  of  us  was  met 
by  a  diametrically  opposed  thought  expressed  by  another,  we  ought  to 
have  been  driven  to  reflection.  But  we  ignored  this;  people  paid  us 
money,  and  those  on  our  side  praised  us;  so  each  of  us  considered  him- 
self justified. 

"It  is  now  clear  to  me  that  this  was  just  as  in  a  lunatic  asylum;  but 
then  I  only  dimly  suspected  this,  and,  like  all  lunatics,  simply  called 
all  men  lunatics  except  myself." 

And  further  on  he  says: 

"Art,  poetry?  .  .  .  Under  the  influence  of  success  and  the  praise  of 
men  I  had  long  assured  myself  that  this  was  a  thing  one  could  do  though 
death  was  drawing  near — death  which  destroys  all  things,  including  my 
work  and  its  remembrance;  but  soon  I  saw  that  that  too  was  a  fraud. 
It  was  plain  to  me  that  art  was  an  adornment  of  life,  an  allurement  to 
life.  But  life  had  lost  its  attraction  for  me;  so  how  could  I  attract 
others?  As  long  as  I  was  not  living  my  own  life  but  was  borne  on  the 
waves  of  some  other  life — as  long  as  I  believed  that  life  had  a  meaning, 
though  one  I  could  not  express — the  reflection  of  life  in  poetry  and  art 
of  all  kinds  afforded  me  pleasure:  it  was  pleasant  to  look  at  life  in  the 
mirror  of  art.  But  when  I  began  to  seek  the  meaning  of  life,  and  felt 
the  necessity  of  living  my  own  life,  that  mirror  became  for  me  unneces- 
sary, superfluous,  ridiculous,  or  painful.  I  could  no  longer  soothe  my- 
self with  what  I  now  saw  in  the  mirror,  namely,  that  my  position  was 
stupid  and  desperate.  It  was  all  very  well  to  enjoy  the  sight  when  in 
the  depth  of  my  soul  I  believed  that  my  life  had  a  meaning.  Then  the 
play  of  lights — comic,  tragic,  touching,  beautiful,  and  terrible — in  life 
amused  me.  But  when  I  knew  life  to  be  meaningless  and  terrible,  the 
play  in  the  mirror  could  no  longer  amuse  me." 


12  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

But  it  is  plain  that  in  his  Confession  Tolstoy  is  not  pri- 
marily concerned  with  the  philosophy  of  art.  He  introduces 
it  only  as  part  of  his  scathing  indictment  of  the  life  of  the 
well-to-do  classes. 

Similarly  in  What  Then  Must  We  Do?  (1884)  his  terrific 
indictment  of  modern  civilisation  includes  frequent  reference 
to  art  and  science,  but  there  is  no  separate  discussion  of  art, 
and  his  main  point  is  that,  if  art  is  as  necessary  and  beneficial 
to  man  as  is  generally  supposed,  a  civilization  is  morally  inde- 
fensible that  practically  excludes  the  mass  of  the  people  from 
its  enjoyment — including  those  who  spend  their  whole  lives 
in  printing  books,  building  theatres,  libraries,  and  picture 
galleries,  making  paints  and  canvas  for  artists,  or  providing 
food,  clothing,  shelter,  fuel  and  conveyance,  for  all  who  devote 
themselves  to  art.  If  the  labourer  produces  material  food 
that  the  artist  consents  to  consume,  the  artist  should  in  com- 
mon fairness  produce  mental  and  spiritual  food  adapted  for 
the  labourer's  consumption.  But  we,  says  Tolstoy,  consume 
what  the  labourer  produces  for  us  and  then  write  books,  son- 
nets, and  sonatas,  not  for  him  but  for  one  another,  dishonestly 
leaving  his  mental  needs  unsatisfied.  That  indictment, 
powerful  as  it  is,  is  a  thing  apart  from  Tolstoy's  elucidation 
of  the  philosophy  of  art,  and  finds  its  place  better  in  What 
Then  Must  We  Do?  (which  is  due  to  appear  shortly  in  the 
World's  Classics  series)  than  in  this  volume. 

In  1889  appeared  The  Kreutzer  Sonata,1  containing  some 
striking  references  to  music. 

The  opinions  there  expressed  are  put  into  the  mouth  of 
Pozdnyshev,  a  man  mentally  unbalanced,  who  has  killed  his 
wife  without  any  convincing  proof  that  his  jealousy  was  well* 
grounded.  Tolstoy  makes  Pozdnyshev's  abnormality  quite 
clear.  He  is  described  as  terribly  nervous  and  excitable, 
"with  unnaturally  glittering  eyes  which  kept  rapidly  moving 

1  Oxford  University  Press,   "World's  Classics"  series,  London  and  New   York. 


A  SURVEY  13 

om  one  object  to  another."  Pozdnyshev  says  that  he  was 
"on  the  very  point  of  suicide";  remarks  that  "you  can  drive 
me  to  madness.  I  cannot  answer  for  myself."  We  are  told 
of  "the  mad  animal  jealousy  in  him."  And  he  says,  "  I  could 
not  have  said  what  it  was  I  wanted.  It  was  downright 
madness!" 

His  whole  way  of  expressing  himself  is  extreme,  and  grant- 
ing that  Tolstoy  uses  him  to  express  in  exaggerated  form 
views  he  himself  arrived  at  while  writing  the  book,  we  have  no 
right  to  add  anything  to  such  emphatic  utterances. 

What  then  does  this  Pozdnyshev  say?     He  says: 

"One  of  the  most  distressing  conditions  of  life  for  a  jealous  man  (and 
every  one  is  jealous  in  our  world)  are  certain  society  conventions  which 
allow  a  man  and  woman  the  greatest  and  most  dangerous  proximity. 
You  would  become  a  laughing-stock  to  others  if  you  tried  to  prevent 
such  nearness  at  balls,  or  the  nearness  of  doctors  to  their  women-patients, 
or  of  people  occupied  with  art,  sculpture,  or  especially  music.  A  couple 
are  occupied  with  the  noblest  of  arts,  music;  this  demands  a  certain 
nearness,  and  there  is  nothing  reprehensible  in  that,  and  only  a  stupid 
jealous  husband  can  see  anything  undesirable  in  it.  Yet  everybody 
knows  that  it  is  by  means  of  those  very  pursuits,  especially  of  music, 
that  the  greater  part  of  the  adulteries  in  our  society  occur.  .  .  ." 

In  another  passage  he  continues  his  narration: 

"The  dinner  was,  as  dinners  are,  dull  and  pretentious.  The  music 
began  pretty  early.  Oh,  how  I  remember  every  detail  of  that  evening! 
I  remember  how  he  brought  in  his  violin,  unlocked  the  case,  took  off 
a  cover  a  lady  had  embroidered  for  him,  drew  out  the  violin,  and  began 
tuning  it.  I  remember  how  my  wife  sat  down  with  pretended  uncon- 
cern, under  which  I  saw  that  she  was  trying  to  conceal  great  timidity — 
chiefly  as  to  her  own  ability — sat  down  at  the  piano,  and  then  the  usual 
a  on  the  piano  began,  the  pizzicato  of  the  violin,  and  the  arrangement 
of  the  music.  Then  I  remember  how  they  glanced  at  one  another, 
turned  to  look  at  the  audience  who  were  seating  themselves,  said  some- 
thing to  one  another  and  began.  He  took  the  first  chords.  His  face 
grew  serious,  stern,  and  sympathetic,  and  listening  to  the  sounds  he 


14  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

produced,  he  touched  the  strings  with  careful  fingers.  The  piano 
answered  him.     The  music  began.  .  .  . 

"They  played  Beethoven's  Kreutzer  Sonata.  Do  you  know  the  first 
presto?  You  do?  Ugh!  Ugh!  It  is  a  terrible  thing,  that  sonata. 
And  especially  that  part.  And  in  general  music  is  a  dreadful  thing! 
What  is  it?  I  don't  understand.  What  is  music?  What  does  it  do? 
And  why  does  it  do  what  it  does?  They  say  music  exalts  the  soul. 
Nonsense,  it  is  not  true !  It  has  an  effect,  an  awful  effect — I  am  speak- 
ing of  myself — but  not  of  an  exalting  kind.  It  has  neither  an  exalting 
nor  a  debasing  effect,  but  it  produces  agitation.  How  can  I  put  it? 
Music  makes  me  forget  myself,  my  real  position;  it  transports  me  to  some 
other  position,  not  my  own.  Under  the  influence  of  music  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  feel  what  I  do  not  really  feel,  that  I  understand  what  I  do 
not  understand,  that  I  can  do  what  I  cannot  do.  I  explain  it  by  the 
fact  that  music  acts  like  yawning,  like  laughter:  I  am  not  sleepy,  but  I 
yawn  when  I  see  some  one  yawning;  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  laugh  at, 
but  I  laugh  when  I  hear  people  laughing. 

"Music  carries  me  immediately  and  directly  into  the  mental  condi- 
tion in  which  the  man  was  who  composed  it.  My  soul  merges  with  his 
and  together  with  him  I  pass  from  one  condition  into  another;  but  why 
this  happens,  I  don't  know.  You  see,  he  who  wrote,  let  us  say,  the 
Kreutzer  Sonata — Beethoven — knew  of  course  why  he  was  in  that 
condition;  that  condition  caused  him  to  do  certain  actions,  and  there- 
fore that  condition  had  a  meaning  for  him,  but  for  me — none  at  all. 
That  is  why  music  only  agitates  and  doesn't  lead  to  a  conclusion. 
Well,  when  a  military  march  is  played,  the  soldiers  step  to  the  music  and 
the  music  has  achieved  its  object.  A  dance  is  played,  I  dance,  and 
the  music  has  achieved  its  object.  Mass  has  been  sung,  I  receive  Com- 
munion, and  that  music  too  has  reached  a  conclusion.  Otherwise  it  is 
only  agitating,  and  what  ought  to  be  done  in  that  agitation  is  lacking. 
That  is  why  music  sometimes  acts  so  dreadfully,  so  terribly.  In  China, 
music  is  a  State  affair.  And  that  is  as  it  should  be.  How  can  one 
allow  anyone  who  pleases  to  hypnotize  another,  or  many  others,  and  do 
what  he  likes  with  them.  And  especially  that  this  hynotist  should  be 
the  first  immoral  man  who  turns  up? 

"It  is  a  terrible  instrument  in  the  hands  of  any  chance  user!  Take 
that  Kreutzer  Sonata,  for  instance,  how  can  that  first  presto  be  played 
in  a  drawing-room  among  ladies  in  low-necked  dresses?  To  hear  that 
played,  to  clap  a  little,  and  then  to  eat  ices  and  talk  of  the  latest  scandal? 
Such  things  should  only  be  played  on  certain  important  significant  oc- 


A  SURVEY  15 

casions,  and  then  only  when  certain  actions  answering  to  such  music 
are  wanted;  play  it  then  and  do  what  the  music  has  moved  you  to. 
Otherwise  an  awakening  of  energy  and  feeling  unsuited  both  to  the  time 
and  the  place,  to  which  no  outlet  is  given,  cannot  but  act  harmfully. 
At  any  rate  on  me  that  piece  had  an  awful  effect;  it  was  as  if  quite  new 
feelings,  new  possibilities,  of  which  I  had  till  then  been  unaware,  had 
been  revealed  to  me.  'That's  how  it  is:  not  at  all  as  I  used  to  think 
and  live,  but  that  way/  something  seemed  to  say  within  me.  What  this 
new  thing  was  that  had  been  revealed  to  me,  I  could  not  explain  to 
myself,  but  the  consciousness  of  this  new  condition  was  very  joyous. 
All  those  same  people,  including  my  wife  and  him,  appeared  in  a 
new  light. 

"After  that  allegro  they  played  the  beautiful,  but  common  and 
unoriginal,  andante  with  trite  variations,  and  the  very  weak  finale. 
Then,  at  the  request  of  the  visitors,  they  played  Ernst's  Elegy  and  a 
few  small  pieces.  They  were  all  good,  but  they  did  not  produce  on 
me  one-hundredth  part  of  the  impression  the  first  piece  had.  The 
effect  of  the  first  piece  formed  the  background  for  them  all. 

"I  felt  lighthearted  and  cheerful  the  whole  evening.  I  had  never 
seen  my  wife  as  she  was  that  evening.  Those  shining  eyes,  that  severe, 
significant  expression  while  she  played,  and  her  melting  languor  and 
feeble,  pathetic,  and  blissful  smile  after  they  had  finished.  I  saw  all 
that,  but  did  not  attribute  any  meaning  to  it  except  that  she  was  feeling 
what  I  felt,  and  that  to  her  as  to  me  new  feelings,  never  before  ex- 
perienced, were  revealed  or,  as  it  were,  recalled.  The  evening  ended 
satisfactorily  and  the  visitors  departed." 

Subsequently  Pozdnyshev  says : 

"Only  then  did  I  remember  their  faces  that  evening  when,  after  the 
Kreutzer  Sonata,  they  played  some  impassioned  little  piece,  I  don't 
remember  by  whom  impassioned  to  the  point  of  obscenity." 

These  allusions  of  Pozdnyshev  to  music  have  frequently 
been  misrepresented,  owing  no  doubt  to  the  title  of  the  story. 
But  anyone  who  reads  it  carefully  will  see  that  he  does  not 
attribute  any  dissolute  influence  to  the  Kreutzer  Sonata.  He 
expressly  says  that  it  was  some  little  piece  by  a  composer 
whose  name  he  does  not  remember  which  was  " sensual  to  the 


16  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

point  of  obscenity."  Of  the  Kreutzer  Sonata,  and  of  music 
generally,  what  he  says  is  that  it  can  have  a  "terrible"  influ- 
ence, because  it  lifts  a  man  out  of  his  ordinary  condition  and 
arouses  emotions  which  upset  his  balance  and  expose  him  to 
various  influences,  which,  amid  certain  surroundings,  may 
be  bad. 

It  is  an  instance  of  the  thoughtlessness  with  which  works 
of  fiction  are  often  read,  that  these  utterances  attributed  to 
Pozdnyshev  have  been  taken  as  an  indication  that  Tolstoy 
himself  regarded  Beethoven's  Kreutzer  Sonata  as  an  immoral 
work!  One  should  compare  Pozdnyshev's  utterances  with 
what  Tolstoy  had  said  in  War  and  Peace,  when  Nicholas 
Rostov  felt  his  whole  mood  altered  by  his  sister's  singing, 
and  ceased  to  despair  or  for  a  time  even  to  feel  his  losses. 
Music  in  both  cases  lifted  people  out  of  their  customary  or 
accidental  mood,  and  released  energies  which  might  flow  in 
different  directions  according  to  circumstances. 

"Oh,  how  that  chord  vibrated,  and  how  moved  was  something  that 
was  best  in  Rostov's  soul!  And  this  something  was  apart  from  every- 
thing else  in  the  world.  What  were  losses  and  Dolokhov  and  words  of 
honour?  .  .  .  All  nonsense!  One  might  kill  and  rob  and  yet  be 
happy!" 

To  see  more  clearly  what  was  Tolstoy's  considered  opin- 
ions about  music,  one  must  turn  to  What  is  Art?  p.  287 : 

"Sometimes  people  who  are  together,  if  not  hostile  to  one  another,  are 
at  least  estranged  in  mood  and  feeling,  till  perhaps  a  story,  a  per- 
formance, a  picture  ...  but  oftenest  of  all  music,  unites  them  all  as  by 
an  electric  flash,  and  in  place  of  their  former  isolation  and  even  enmity, 
they  are  all  conscious  of  union  and  mutual  love.  Each  is  glad  that  an- 
other feels  what  he  feels;  glad  of  the  communion  established  not  only 
between  him  and  all  present,  but  also  with  all  now  living  who  will  yet 
share  the  same  impression;  and  more  than  that,  he  feels  the  mysterious 
gladness  of  a  communion  which,  reaching  beyond  the  grave,  unites  us 


A  SURVEY  17 

with  all  men  of  the  past  who  have  been  moved  by  the  same  feelings  and 
with  all  men  of  the  future  who  will  yet  be  touched  by  them." 

That  passage  effectually  disposes  of  the  suggestion  that 
Tolstoy  regarded  the  normal  effects  of  music  as  harmful. 

Tolstoy  felt  that  all  art,  by  its  power  to  sway  man's  feel- 
ings, contains  much  that  is  dangerous  and  terrible  as  well  as 
much  that  is  necessary  and  ennobling,  but  one  cannot  read 
What  is  Art?  without  recognizing  how  strongly  he  felt  the 
beneficial  effect  music  may  have. 

Besides  these  references  in  his  novels  and  stories  before  he 
had  fully  cleared  the  matter  up  in  his  own  mind  and  had 
expressed  it  in  What  is  Art?  Tolstoy  dealt  with  various  as- 
pects of  the  matter,  more  particularly  from  the  ethical  side, 
in  a  series  of  articles,  most  of  which  aimed  at  drawing  atten- 
tion to  stories  or  pictures  of  which  he  specially  approved. 
Among  the  earliest  of  these  were  a  note  to  accompany  a  repro- 
duction of  his  friend  Gay's  picture,  The  Last  Supper, — a  very 
simple  account  of  the  incident  depicted,  and  an  article  On 
Truth  in  Art,  which  served  as  preface  to  a  book  intended  for 
children;  these  were  followed  by  an  important  and  discrim- 
inating preface  to  Guy  de  Maupassant's  works  which  greatly 
interested  Tolstoy,  and  by  an  appreciative  preface  to  Seme- 
nov's  Peasant  Stories.  After  these  came  an  essay  On  Art,  in 
which  Tolstoy  attempted  to  deal  with  the  general  philosophy 
of  the  matter,  but  he  was  dissatisfied  with  this  attempt  and 
withheld  it  from  publication  till  the  matter  had  completely 
cleared  itself  up  in  his  mind,  and  he  had  expressed  it  in 
What  is  Art?  in  a  way  that  seemed  to  him  adequate. 

When  What  is  Art?  appeared,  Bernard  Shaw  wrote:  "This 
book  is  a  most  effective  booby  trap.  It  is  written  with  so 
utter  a  contempt  for  the  objections  which  the  routine  critic  is 
sure  to  allege  against  it  that  many  a  dilettantist  reviewer  has 
already  accepted  it  as  a  butt  set  up  by  Providence.  ,  .  .  Who- 


18  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

ever  is  really  conversant  with  art  recognizes  in  it  the  voice 
of  the  master."  And  Mr.  A.  B.  Walkley  said :  "This  calmly 
and  cogently  reasoned  effort  to  put  art  on  a  new  basis  is  a 
literary  event  of  the  first  importance."  Now  the  "booby  trap" 
of  which  Shaw  speaks  can  be  tried  in  this  way.  Induce  some 
friend — preferably  one  interested  in  art,  or  who  has  precon- 
ceived opinions  on  the  subject, — to  read  Tolstoy's  book,  and  if 
you  find  that  on  reading  it  he  concentrates  on  the  dross  he  can 
find  in  it  and  devotes  himself  to  points  and  examples  he  can 
disagree  with,  while  remaining  blind  to  the  gold  it  contains, 
you  have  caught  your  booby!  For  there  is  much  gold  to  be 
found  in  it,  and  the  gold  is  more  valuable  than  the  dross. 

Before  that  (in  1893)  he  had  published  a  preface  to  a 
translation  of  extracts  from  Amiel's  Journal.  Later  he  wrote 
prefaces  to  a  Russian  translation  of  W.  von  Polenz's  German 
novel,  Der  Biittnerbauer  (in  1902),  and  to  Chekhov's  story, 
Darling  (in  1905),  and  notes  to  reproductions  of  Orlov's 
Pictures  of  Peasant  Life  (in  1909). 

Besides  these,  in  his  last  years,  he  wrote  his  highly  contro- 
versial article  On  Shakespeare,  in  1906,  of  which  one  may 
say  that,  though  he  read  English  with  facility,  Tolstoy  was 
not  so  at  home  in  our  language  that  he  could  be  "enchanted 
by  the  mere  word  music  that  makes  Shakespeare  so  irresistible 
in  English,"  to  borrow  a  phrase  from  Bernard  Shaw.  But 
Tolstoy's  experience  as  a  dramatist  caused  him  to  acknowl- 
edge that  "the  movement  of  feeling,  its  increase,  alteration, 
and  the  combination  of  many  contradictory  feelings,  are  often 
expressed  truly  and  strongly  in  some  of  Shakespeare's  scenes. 
And  when  performed  by  good  actors  this  evokes,  at  least  for  a 
time,  sympathy  with  the  characters  presented.  Shakespeare, 
himself  an  actor  and  a  clever  man,  knew  how  to  express  not 
by  speech  only  but  by  exclamations,  gestures,  and  the  repeti- 
tion of  words,  the  spiritual  conditions  and  variations  of  feel- 


A  SURVEY  19 


ing  that  occur  in  the  characters  he  presents  in  his  plays.  So, 
for  instance,  in  many  places  Shakespeare's  characters,  instead 
of  uttering  words,  only  exclaim  or  weep,  or  in  the  middle  of  a 
monologue  often  show  by  a  gesture  the  strain  of  their  posi- 
tion (as  when  Lear  says  Tray  you  undo  this  button'),  or  in 
a  moment  of  strong  emotion  they  repeat  a  question,  and  cause 
a  word  that  has  struck  them  to  be  repeated,  as  is  done  by 
Othello,  Macduff,  Cleopatra,  and  others.  Similar  clever 
methods  of  revealing  the  movements  of  feeling,  furnishing 
good  actors  with  opportunities  of  showing  their  powers,  have 
often  been  mistaken,  and  are  mistaken,  by  many  critics  for 
the  presentation  of  character." 

Apart  from  this  practical  mastery  of  stage-craft,  which 
gives  actors  and  actresses  such  great  opportunities,  Tolstoy 
denies  the  claims  usually  made  on  behalf  of  Shakespeare  as  a 
thinker  or  a  faithful  presenter  of  characters  true  to  life.  He 
gives  reasons,  examples,  and  instances,  for  his  opinion,  and 
if  he  is  in  error  it  should  not  be  difficult  for  Shakespeare- 
lovers  to  furnish  as  closely  reasoned  a  reply.  All  that  need 
here  be  said  is  that,  knowing  what  a  strongly  established 
opinion  he  was  challenging,  he  perhaps  emphasised  his  state- 
ment the  more — for  moderation  was  never  a  characteristic 
of  his. 

There  is  some  indication  that  he  was  conscious  of  another 
side  of  the  case,  for  once,  when  his  friend,  A.  P.  Chekhov, 
came  to  see  him  when  he  was  ill  in  bed,  he  pressed  the  latter's 
hand  at  parting  and  said,  "Good-bye,  Anton*  Pavlovich. 
You  know  how  fond  I  am  of  you,  and  how  I  detest  Shake- 
speare.    Still,  he  did  write  plays  better  than  you  do." 

A  Talk  on  the  Drama  has  been  added,  which  is  taken  from 
I.  Teneromo's  Life  and  Talks  of  L.  N.  Tolstoy  (St.  Peters- 
burg, undated,  but  c.  1907).  This  bears  many  signs  of  au- 
thenticity, corresponds  with  what  one  knows  of  Tolstoy's 


20  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

views,   and  seems  sufficiently  interesting  to  justify  its   in- 
clusion. 

In  an  Appendix  is  given  a  translation  of  Chekhov's  Dar- 
ling, that  readers  of  Tolstoy's  preface  to  that  work  may  see 
what  he  was  writing  about. 


PART  II 

SCHOOLBOYS  AND  ART 

The  following  account  of  Tolstoy's  walk  with  boys  from  his  school 
at  Yasnaya  Polyana  is  taken  from  Chapter  VIII,  The  Schools,  in 
Aylmer  Maude's  Life  of  Tolstoy,  Volume  1,  (Constable,  London). 
It  shows  how  Tolstoy,  for  the  second  time,  found  himself  faced  by 
the  question:  What  is  Art?  which  had  arisen  when  he  spoke  to  the 
Society  of  Lovers  of  Russian  Literature.  This  time  it  was  put  to  him 
by  a  ten-year-old  peasant  boy,  and  it  then  seemed  to  him  that  "we 
said  all  that  can  be  said  about  utility  and  plastic  and  moral  beauty." 

The  classes  generally  finish  about  eight  or  nine  o'clock 
(unless  carpentering  keeps  the  elder  boys  somewhat  later), 
and  the  whole  band  run  shouting  into  the  yard,  and  there,  call- 
ing to  one  another,  begin  to  separate,  making  for  different 
parts  of  the  village.  Occasionally  they  arrange  to  coast 
down-hill  to  the  village  in  a  large  sledge  that  stands  outside 
the  gate.  They  tie  up  the  shafts,  throw  themselves  into  it, 
and  squealing,  disappear  from  sight  in  a  cloud  of  snow, 
leaving  here  and  there  on  their  path  black  patches  of  children 
who  have  tumbled  out.  In  the  open  air,  out  of  school  (for 
all  its  freedom),  new  relations  are  formed  between  pupil  and 
teacher:  freer,  simpler  and  more  trustful — those  very  relations 
which  seem  to  us  the  ideal  which  School  should  aim  at. 

Not  long  ago  we  read  Gogol's  story  Viy  *  in  the  highest 
class.  The  final  scenes  affected  them  strongly,  and  excited 
their  imagination.  Some  of  them  played  the  witch,  and  kept 
alluding  to  the  last  chapters.  .  .  . 

iThe  Viy  is  an  Earth-Spirit,  and  Gogol's  tale  is  gruesome. 

21 


22  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Out  of  doors  it  was  a  moonless  winter  night,  with  clouds  in 
the  sky,  not  cold.  We  stopped  at  the  crossroads.  The  elder 
boys,  in  their  third  year  at  school,  stopped  near  me  asking 
me  to  accompany  them  further.  The  younger  ones  looked  at 
us  and  rushed  off  down-hill.  They  had  begun  to  learn  with 
a  new  master,  and  between  them  and  me  there  is  not  the  same 
confidence  as  between  the  older  boys  and  myself. 

"Well,  let  us  go  to  the  wood"  (a  small  wood  about  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  yards  from  the  house),  said  one  of  them. 
The  most  insistent  was  Fedka,  a  boy  of  ten,  with  a  tender, 
receptive,  poetic  yet  daring  nature.  Danger  seems  to  form 
the  chief  condition  of  pleasure  for  him.  In  summer  it  always 
frightened  me  to  see  how  he,  with  two  other  boys,  would  swim 
out  into  the  very  middle  of  the  pond,  which  is  nearly  one 
hundred  and  twenty  yards  wide,  and  would  now  and  then 
disappear  in  the  hot  reflection  of  the  summer  sun  and  swim 
under  water;  and  how  he  would  then  turn  on  his  back,  caus- 
ing fountains  of  water  to  rise,  and  calling  with  his  high- 
pitched  voice  to  his  comrades  on  the  bank  to  see  what  a  fine 
fellow  he  was. 

He  now  knew  there  were  wolves  in  the  wood,  and  so  he 
wanted  to  go  there.  All  agreed;  and  the  four  of  us  went  to 
the  wood.  Another  boy,  a  lad  of  twelve,  physically  and  mor- 
ally strong,  whom  I  will  call  Semka,  went  on  in  front  and 
kept  calling  and  "ah-ou-ing"  with  his  ringing  voice,  to  some 
one  at  a  distance.  Pronka,  a  sickly,  mild,  and  very  gifted 
lad,  from  a  poor  family  (sickly  probably  chiefly  from  lack 
of  food),  walked  by  my  side.  Fedka  walked  between  me  and 
Semka,  talking  all  the  time  in  a  particularly  gentle  voice: 
now  relating  how  he  had  herded  horses  in  summer,  now  say- 
ing there  was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  and  now  asking,  "Sup- 
pose one  should  jump  out?"  and  insisting  on  my  giving  some 
reply.  We  did  not  go  into  the  wood:  that  would  have  been 
too  dreadful;  but  even  where  we  were,  near  the  wood,  it  was 


SCHOOLBOYS  AND  ART  23 

darker,  the  road  was  scarcely  visible,  and  the  lights  of  the 
village  were  hidden  from  view.  Semka  stopped  and  listened : 
"Stop,  you  fellows!     What  is  this?"  said  he  suddenly. 

We  were  silent  and,  though  we  heard  nothing,  things 
seemed  to  grow  more  gruesome. 

"What  shall  we  do  if  it  leaps  out  .  .  .  and  comes  at  us?" 
asked  Fedka. 

We  began  to  talk  about  Caucasian  robbers.  They  remem- 
bered a  Caucasian  tale  I  had  told  them  long  ago,  and  I  again 
told  them  of  "braves,"  of  Cossacks,  and  of  Hadji  Murad.1 
Semka  went  on  in  front,  treading  boldly  in  his  big  boots, 
his  broad  back  swaying  regularly.  Pronka  tried  to  walk  by 
my  side,  but  Fedka  pushed  him  off  the  path,  and  Pronka — 
who,  probably  on  account  of  his  poverty,  always  submitted 
— only  ran  up  alongside  at  the  most  interesting  passages, 
sinking  in  the  snow  up  to  his  knees. 

Everyone  who  knows  anything  of  Russian  peasant  children 
knows  that  they  are  not  accustomed  to,  and  cannot  bear,  any 
caresses,  affectionate  words,  kisses,  hand-touchings,  and  so 
forth.  I  have  seen  a  lady  in  a  peasant  school,  wishing  to  pet 
a  boy,  say:  "Come,  I  will  give  you  a  kiss,  dear ! "  and  actu- 
ally kiss  him;  and  the  boy  was  ashamed  and  offended,  and 
could  not  understand  why  he  had  been  so  treated.  Boys  of 
five  are  already  above  such  caresses — they  are  no  longer 
babies.  I  was  therefore  particularly  struck  when  Fedka, 
walking  beside  me,  at  the  most  terrible  part  of  the  story  sud- 
denly touched  me  lightly  with  his  sleeve,  and  then  clasped 
two  of  my  fingers  in  his  hand,  and  kept  hold  of  them.  As 
soon  as  I  stopped  speaking,  Fedka  demanded  that  I  should 
go  on,  and  did  this  in  such  a  beseeching  and  agitated  voice 
that  it  was  impossible  not  to  comply  with  his  wish. 

"Now  then,  don't  get  in  the  way!"  said  he  once  angrily 

1 A  daring  leader  of  the  hill-tribes,  who  was  prominent  at  the  time  Tolstoy 
was  serving  in  the  Caucasus. 


24  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

to  Pronka,  who  had  run  in  front  of  us.  He  was  so  carried 
away  as  even  to  be  cruel ;  so  agitated  yet  happy  was  he,  hold- 
ing on  to  my  fingers,  that  he  could  let  no  one  dare  to  interrupt 
his  pleasure. 

"More !     More !      It  is  fine ! "  said  he. 

We  had  passed  the  wood  and  were  approaching  the  village 
from  the  other  end. 

"Let's  go  on,"  said  all  the  boys  when  the  lights  became 
visible.     "Let  us  take  another  turn! " 

We  went  on  in  silence,  sinking  here  and  there  in  the  snow, 
not  hardened  by  much  traffic.  A  white  darkness  seemed  to 
sway  before  our  eyes;  the  clouds  hung  low,  as  though  some- 
thing had  heaped  them  upon  us.  There  was  no  end  to  that 
whiteness,  amid  which  we  alone  crunched  along  the  snow. 
The  wind  sounded  through  the  bare  tops  of  the  aspens,  but 
where  we  were,  behind  the  woods,  it  was  calm. 

I  finished  my  story  by  telling  how  a  "brave,"  surrounded  by 
his  enemies,  sang  his  death-song  and  threw  himself  on  his 
dagger.     All  were  silent. 

"Why  did  he  sing  a  song  when  he  was  surrounded?"  asked 
Semka. 

"Weren't  you  told? — he  was  preparing  for  death!"  replied 
Fedka,  aggrieved. 

"I  think  he  said  a  prayer,"  added  Pronka. 

All  agreed.     Fedka  suddenly  stopped. 

"How  was  it,  you  told  us,  your  Aunt  had  her  throat  cut?" 
asked  he.  (He  had  not  yet  had  enough  horrors.)  "Tell  us! 
Tell  us!" 

I  again  told  them  that  terrible  story  of  the  murder  of  the 
Countess  Tolstoy,1  and  they  stood  silently  about  me  watch- 
ing my  face. 

"The  fellow  got  caught! "  said  Semka. 

1  Some  details  of  this  crime  are  given  in  "Why  do  Men  Stupefy  Themselves?" 
in  Essays  and  Letters,  published  in  the  World's  Classics. 


SCHOOLBOYS  AND  ART  25 

e  was  afraid  to  go  away  in  the  night,  while  she  was 
lying  with  her  throat  cut!"  said  Fedka;  "I  should  have  run 
away!"  and  he  gathered  my  two  fingers  yet  more  closely  in 
his  hand. 

We  stopped  in  the  thicket  beyond  the  threshing-floor  at  the 
very  end  of  the  village.  Semka  picked  up  a  dry  stick  from 
the  snow  and  began  striking  it  against  the  frosty  trunk  of  a 
lime  tree.  Hoar  frost  fell  from  the  branches  on  to  our  caps, 
and  the  noise  of  the  blows  resounded  in  the  stillness  of  the 
wood. 

"Lev  Nikolaevich,"  said  Fedka  to  me  (I  thought  he  was 
again  going  to  speak  about  the  Countess),  "why  does  one 
learn  singing?     I  often  think,  why,  really,  does  one?" 

What  made  him  jump  from  the  terror  of  the  murder  to 
this  question  heaven  only  knows ;  yet  by  the  tone  of  his  voice, 
the  seriousness  with  which  he  demanded  an  answer,  and  the 
attentive  silence  of  the  other  two,  one  felt  that  there  was  some 
vital  and  legitimate  connection  between  this  question  and  our 
preceding  talk.  Whether  the  connection  lay  in  some  response 
to  my  suggestion  that  crime  might  be  explained  by  lack  of 
education  (I  had  spoken  of  that),  or  whether  he  was  testing 
himself — transferring  himself  into  the  mind  of  the  murderer 
and  remembering  his  own  favourite  occupation  (he  has  a 
wonderful  voice  and  immense  musical  talent),  or  whether 
the  connection  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  felt  that  now  was  the 
time  for  sincere  conversation,  and  all  the  problems  demand- 
ing solution  rose  in  his  mind — at  any  rate  his  question  sur- 
prised none  of  us. 

"And  what  is  drawing  for?  And  why  write  well?"  said 
I,  not  knowing  at  all  how  to  explain  to  him  what  art  is 
for. 

"What  is  drawing  for?"  repeated  he  thoughtfully.  He 
really  was  asking,  What  is  Art  for?  And  I  neither  dared  nor 
could  explain. 


26  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

"What  is  drawing  for?"  said  Semka.  "Why,  you  draw 
anything,  and  can  then  make  it  from  the  drawing." 

"No,  that  is  designing,"  said  Fedka.  "But  why  draw 
figures?" 

Semka's  matter-of-fact  mind  was  not  perplexed. 

"What  is  a  stick  for,  and  what  is  a  lime  tree  for?"  &aid 
he,  still  striking  the  tree. 

"Yes,  what  is  a  lime  tree  for?"  said  I. 

"To  make  rafters  of,"  replied  Semka. 

"But  what  is  it  for  in  summer,  when  not  yet  cut  down?" 

"It's  no  use  then." 

"No,  really,"  insisted  Fedka;  "why  does  a  lime  tree  grow?" 

And  we  began  to  speak  of  the  fact  that  not  everything 
exists  for  use,  but  that  there  is  also  beauty,  and  that  Art  is 
beauty;  and  we  understood  one  another,  and  Fedka  quite 
understood  why  the  lime  tree  grows  and  what  singing  is 
for. 

Pronka  agreed  with  us,  but  he  thought  rather  of  moral 
beauty:  goodness. 

Semka  understood  with  his  big  brain,  but  did  not  acknowl- 
edge beauty  apart  from  usefulness.  He  was  in  doubt  (as 
often  happens  to  men  with  great  reasoning  power) :  feeling 
Art  to  be  a  force,  but  not  feeling  in  his  soul  the  need  of  that 
force.  He,  like  them,  wished  to  get  at  Art  by  his  reason,  and 
tried  to  kindle  that  fire  in  himself. 

"We'll  sing  Who  hath  to-morrow.  I  remember  my  part," 
said  he.  (He  has  a  correct  ear,  but  no  taste  or  refinement  in 
singing.)  Fedka,  however,  fully  understood  that  the  lime 
tree  is  good  when  in  leaf:  good  to  look  at  in  summer;  and  that 
that  is  enough. 

Pronka  understood  that  it  is  a  pity  to  cut  it  down,  because 
it,  too,  has  life: 

"Why,  when  we  take  the  sap  of  a  lime,  it's  like  taking 
blood." 


SCHOOLBOYS  AND  ART  27 

Semka,  though  he  did  not  say  so,  evidently  thought  that 
there  was  little  use  in  a  lime  when  it  was  sappy. 

It  feels  strange  to  repeat  what  we  then  said,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  we  said  all  that  can  be  said  about  utility,  and 
plastic  and  moral  beauty. 

We  went  on  to  the  village.  Fedka  still  clung  to  my  hand ; 
now,  it  seemed  to  me,  from  gratitude.  We  all  were  nearer 
one  another  that  night  than  we  had  been  for  a  long  time. 
Pronka  walked  beside  us  along  the  broad  village  street. 

"See,  there  is  still  a  light  in  Masanov's  house,"  said  he. 
"As  I  was  going  to  school  this  morning,  Gavruka  was  com- 
ing from  the  pub,  as  dru-u-nk  as  could  be !  His  horse  all  in 
a  lather  and  he  beating  it!  I  am  always  sorry  for  such 
things.     Really,  why  should  it  be  beaten?" 

"And  the  other  day,  coming  from  Tula,  my  daddy  gave 
his  horse  the  reins,"  said  Semka;  "and  it  took  him  into  a 
snowdrift,  and  there  he  slept — quite  drunk." 

"And  Gavruka  kept  on  beating  his  horse  over  the  eyes, 
and  I  felt  so  sorry,"  repeated  Pronka  again.  "Why  should 
he  beat  it?     He  got  down  and  just  flogged  it." 

Semka  suddenly  stopped. 

"Our  folk  are  already  asleep,"  said  he,  looking  in  at  the 
window  of  his  crooked,  dirty  hut.  "Won't  you  walk  a  little 
longer?" 

"No." 

"Go-o-od-bye,  Lev  Nikolaevich ! "  shouted  he  suddenly, 
and  tearing  himself  away  from  us  as  it  were  with  an  effort, 
he  ran  to  the  house,  lifted  the  latch  and  disappeared. 

"So  you  will  take  each  of  us  home?  First  one  and  then 
the  other?"  said  Fedka. 

We  went  on.  There  was  a  light  in  Pronka's  hut,  and  we 
looked  in  at  the  window.  His  mother,  a  tall  and  handsome 
but  toil-worn  woman,  with  black  eyebrows  and  eyes,  sat  at 
the  table,  peeling  potatoes.     In  the  middle  of  the  hut  hung 


28  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

a  cradle.  Pronka 's  brother,  the  mathematician  from  our 
second  class,  was  standing  at  the  table,  eating  potatoes  with 
salt.     It  was  a  black,  tiny,  and  dirty  hut. 

"What  a  plague  you  are!"  shouted  the  mother  at  Pronka. 
"Where  have  you  been?" 

Pronka  glanced  at  the  window  with  a  meek,  sickly  smile. 
His  mother  guessed  that  he  had  not  come  alone,  and  her  face 
immediately  assumed  a  feigned  expression  that  was  un- 
pleasant. 

Only  Fedka  was  left. 

"The  travelling  tailors  are  at  our  house,  that  is  why  there's 
a  light  there,"  said  he  in  the  softened  voice  that  had  come  to 
him  that  evening.  "Good-bye,  Lev  Nikolaevich ! "  added 
he,  softly  and  tenderly,  and  he  began  to  knock  with  the  ring 
attached  to  the  closed  door.  "Let  me  in!"  his  high-pitched 
voice  rang  out  amid  the  winter  stillness  of  the  village.  It 
was  long  before  they  opened  the  door  for  him.  I  looked  in 
at  the  window.  The  hut  was  a  large  one.  The  father  was 
playing  cards  with  a  tailor,  and  some  copper  coins  lay  on 
the  table.  The  wife,  Fedka's  stepmother,  was  sitting  near  the 
torch-stand,  looking  eagerly  at  the  money.  The  young  tailor, 
a  cunning  drunkard,  was  holding  his  cards  on  the  table,  bend- 
ing them,  and  looking  triumphantly  at  his  opponent.  Fedka's 
father,  the  collar  of  his  shirt  unbuttoned,  his  brow  wrinkled 
with  mental  exertion  and  vexation,  changed  one  card  for 
another,  and  waved  his  horny  hand  in  perplexity  above  them. 

"Let  me  in!" 

The  woman  rose  and  went  to  the  door. 

"Good-bye! "  repeated  Fedka,  once  again.  "Let  us  always 
have  such  walks!" 


PART  III 
THE  LAST  SUPPER 

Letter-press  to  accompany  a  Half-tone  Reproduction  of 
N.  N.  Gay's  Picture,  "The  Last  Supper." 

John  XIII,  v.  1-35  inclusive. 

Jesus  said:  "Ye  have  heard  that  it  was  said,  Thou  shalt 
love  thy  neighbor,  and  hate  thine  enemy:  but  I  say  unto 
you,  Love  your  enemies  ..." 

At  the  last  supper  Jesus  showed  this  by  his  acts. 

Having  washed  the  feet  of  his  twelve  disciples,  he  said: 
"I  have  given  you  an  example,  that  ye  also  should  do  as  I 
have  done  to  you." 

What  had  Jesus  done,  and  what  was  the  example  he  gave 
to  his  disciples? 

When  after  supper  Jesus  began  to  wash  the  feet  of  his 
disciples  and  Simon  Peter  wished  to  oppose  it,  Jesus  said  to 
him:  "What  I  do  thou  knowest  not  now;  but  thou  shalt 
understand  hereafter.     Ye  are  clean  but  not  all." 

Neither  Simon  Peter  nor  the  other  disciples  then  under- 
stood why  he  said  this.  Only  Judas  Iscariot  understood 
what  Jesus  was  doing  when,  kneeling  before  him,  he  washed 
his  feet. 

Having  washed  the  feet  of  his  betrayer,  Jesus  rose,  put  on 
his  garment,  and  having  again  sat  down,  said:  "Know  ye 
what  I  have  done  to  you?  Ye  call  me  Master,  and  ye  say 
well;  for  so  I  am." 

But  they,  not  knowing  that  Judas  was  a  traitor,  did  not 

29 


30  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

understand  what  he  had  done  and  what  he  was  teaching 
them. 

Then,  being  troubled  in  spirit,  Jesus  said:  "Verily,  verily, 
I  say  unto  you,  that  one  of  you  shall  betray  me." 

And  again  they  did  not  understand  what  he  was  doing  or 
what  he  was  saying  to  them.  They  only  looked  at  one  an- 
other seeking  to  discover  of  whom  he  spoke. 

Meanwhile  the  beloved  disciple  of  Jesus  was  reclining  on 
his  bosom.  And  Simon  Peter,  raising  himself,  beckoned  to 
the  beloved  disciple  that  he  should  ask  the  teacher  of  whom 
he  spoke. 

And  the  beloved  disciple,  leaning  back  on  Jesus'  breast, 
asked  him. 

But  Jesus  did  not  give  a  direct  reply,  knowing  that  if  he 
named  his  enemy  the  disciples  would  be  indignant  and  would 
want  to  punish  the  traitor. 

Wishing  not  to  destroy  but  to  save  Judas,  Jesus,  instead  of 
replying,  reached  out  his  hand,  took  a  piece  of  bread,  and 
said  softly:  "He  it  is  for  whom  I  shall  dip  the  sop  and 
give  it  him,"  and  when  he  had  given  the  sop  to  Judas  he 
said:     "What  thou  doest  do  quickly." 

The  disciples,  having  heard  this,  thought  that  Jesus  was 
sending  Judas  into  the  town  to  buy  what  was  needed  for  the 
feast. 

But  Judas  understood  that  Jesus  was  saving  him  from  the 
wrath  of  the  disciples,  and  immediately  arose. 

That  is  what  is  shown  in  the  picture. 

The  beloved  disciple,  John,  is  the  only  one  who  knows  who 
is  the  traitor. 

He  leaps  up  from  his  seat  and  stares  at  Judas.  He  does 
not  understand,  does  not  believe  that  a  living  man  can  hate 
one  who  so  loves  him.  He  is  sorry  for  the  unfortunate  man 
and  terrified  for  him.     Simon  Peter  guesses  the  truth  from 


* 


THE  LAST  SUPPER  31 


ohn's  look,  and  turns  his  eyes  now  on  John,  now  on  Jesus, 
and  now  on  the  betrayer;  and  in  his  ardent  heart  anger  and 
desire  to  defend  his  beloved  teacher  flame  up. 

Judas  has  risen,  gathered  up  his  garment,  thrown  it  around 
him,  and  taken  the  first  step,  but  his  eyes  cannot  turn  away 
from  the  saddened  face  of  the  teacher.  There  is  still  time. 
He  can  still  turn  back  and  fall  at  his  feet  confessing  his  sin, 
but  the  devil  already  possesses  his  heart. 

"Do  not  submit! "  he  says  to  him.  "Do  not  yield  to  weak- 
ness, do  not  subject  yourself  to  reproaches  from  the  proud 
disciples.  They  are  looking  at  you  and  only  awaiting  a 
chance  to  humiliate  you.     Go!" 

Jesus  lies  leaning  on  his  arm.  He  is  not  looking,  but  sees 
all,  and  knows  what  is  going  on  in  Judas'  heart,  and  he  waits 
and  suffers  on  his  account.  He  pities  the  son  of  perdition. 
Jesus  with  his  own  hand  has  fed  his  enemy,  washed  his  feet, 
saved  him  from  human  punishment,  and  until  the  end  calls 
him  to  repentance  and  forgives  him.  Yet  Judas  does  not 
return  to  him. 

And  Jesus  grieves  for  Judas,  and  for  all  who  do  not  come 
to  him. 

Judas  went  out  and  hid  himself  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night. 

Hardly  had  the  door  closed  before  the  disciples  all  realized 
who  the  betrayer  was.  They  are  agitated  and  indignant. 
Peter  wants  to  run  after  him.  But  Jesus  raises  his  head  and 
says:  "Little  children,  yet  a  little  while  I  am  with 
you.  A  new  commandment  I  give  unto  you,  that  ye  love  one 
another;  even  as  I  have  loved  you,  that  ye  love  one  another. 
By  this  shall  it  be  known  that  ye  are  my  disciples,  if  ye  have 
love  one  to  another."  And  only  then  did  Simon  Peter  and 
the  other  ten  understand  what  Jesus  had  done.  Only  then 
did  they  understand  that  having  all  his  life  long  shown  them 


32  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

an  example  of  love  of  one's  neighbour,  he  has  now  given  an 
example  of  love  of  one's  enemy. 

To  the  last  moment  he  loved  and  pitied  Judas,  his  enemy, 
called  him  to  himself  and  despite  his  unrepentance  saved  him 
from  the  anger  of  the  disciples. 


PART  IV 
ON  TRUTH  IN  ART 

Preface  to  a  Miscellany,  "The  Flower  Garden,"  for  Children. 

"O  generation  of  vipers,  how  can  ye,  being  evil,  speak  good  things? 
for  out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart  the  mouth  speaketh.  The  good 
man  out  of  his  good  treasure  bringeth  forth  good  things:  and  the  evil 
man  out  of  his  evil  treasure  bringeth  forth  evil  things.  And  I  say  unto 
you,  that  every  idle  word  that  men  shall  speak,  they  shall  give  account 
thereof  in  the  day  of  judgment.  For  by  thy  words  thou  shalt  be  justified, 
and  by  thy  words  thou  shalt  be  condemned."     (Matt,  xii,  34-37.) 

In  this  book  besides  stories  in  which  true  occurrences  are 
narrated  there  are  also  stories,  traditions,  proverbs,  legends, 
fables,  and  fairy  tales,  that  have  been  composed  and  written 
for  man's  benefit. 

We  have  chosen  such  as  we  consider  to  be  in  accord 
with  Christ's  teaching,  and  therefore  regard  as  good  and 
truthful. 

Many  people,  especially  children,  when  reading  a  story, 
fairy-tale,  legend,  or  fable,  ask  first  of  all:  "Is  it  true?" 
and  if  they  see  that  what  is  described  could  not  have  hap- 
pened, they  often  say:  "Oh,  this  is  mere  fancy,  it  isn't 
true." 

Those  who  judge  so,  judge  amiss. 

Truth  will  be  known  not  by  him  who  knows  only  what 
has  been,  is,  and  really  happens,  but  by  him  who  recognizes 
what  should  be,  according  to  the  will  of  God. 

He  does  not  write  the  truth  who  describes  only  what  has 
happened,  and  what  this  or  that  man  has  done,  but  he  who 
shows  what  people  do  that  is  right,  that  is,  in  accord  with 

33 


34  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

God's  will,  and  what  people  do  wrong,  that  is,  contrary  to 
God's  will. 

Truth  is  a  path.  Christ  said,  "I  am  the  way,  the  truth 
and  the  life." 

And  so  he  will  not  know  the  truth  who  looks  down  at  his 
feet,  but  he  who  discerns  by  the  sun  which  way  to  go. 

All  verbal  compositions  are  good  and  necessary  not  when 
they  describe  what  has  happened,  but  when  they  show  what 
ought  to  be;  not  when  they  tell  what  people  have  done,  but 
when  they  set  a  value  on  what  is  good  and  evil — when  they 
show  men  the  narrow  path  of  God's  will,  which  leads  to  life. 

And  in  order  to  show  that  path  one  must  not  describe  merely 
what  happens  in  the  world.  The  world  abides  in  evil  and  is 
full  of  offence.  If  one  is  to  describe  the  world  as  it  is,  one 
will  describe  much  evil  and  the  truth  will  be  lacking.  In 
order  that  there  may  be  truth  in  what  one  describes,  it  is 
necessary  to  write  not  about  what  is,  but  about  what  should 
be;  to  write  not  the  truth  of  what  is,  but  of  the  kingdom  of 
God  which  is  drawing  nigh  unto  us,  but  is  not  as  yet.  That 
is  why  there  are  mountains  of  books  in  which  we  are  told 
what  really  has  happened  or  might  have  happened,  yet  they 
are  all  false  if  those  who  write  them  do  not  themselves  know 
what  is  good  and  what  is  evil,  and  do  not  know  and  do  not 
show  the  one  path  which  leads  to  the  kingdom  of  God.  And 
there  are  fairy-tales,  parables,  fables,  legends  in  which  mar- 
vellous things  are  described  which  never  happened,  or  ever 
could  happen,  and  these  legends,  fairy-tales  and  fables  are 
true  because  they  show  wherein  the  will  of  God  has  always 
been,  and  is,  and  will  be :  they  show  the  truth  of  the  kingdom 
of  God. 

There  may  be  a  book,  and  there  are  indeed  many  novels  and 
stories,  that  describe  how  a  man  lives  for  his  passions,  suffers, 
torments  others,  endures  danger  and  want,  schemes,  strug- 
gles with  others,  escapes  from  his  poverty,  and  at  last  is 


TRUTH  IN  ART  35 

united  with  the  object  of  his  love  and  becomes  distinguished, 
rich,  and  happy.  Such  a  book,  even  if  everything  described 
in  it  really  happened,  and  though  there  were  in  it  nothing  im- 
probable, would  nevertheless  be  false  and  untrue,  because  a 
man  who  lives  for  himself  and  his  passions,  however  beautiful 
his  wife  may  be  and  however  distinguished  and  rich  he  be- 
comes, cannot  be  happy. 

And  there  may  be  a  legend  of  how  Christ  and  his  apostles 
walked  on  earth  and  went  to  a  rich  man,  and  the  rich  man 
would  not  receive  him,  and  they  went  to  a  poor  widow,  and 
she  received  him.  And  then  he  commanded  a  barrel  full  of 
gold  to  roll  to  the  rich  man  and  sent  a  wolf  to  the  poor  widow 
to  eat  up  her  last  calf,  and  it  might  prove  a  blessing  for  the 
widow,  and  be  bad  for  the  rich  man. 

Such  a  story  is  totally  improbable,  because  nothing  of  what 
is  described  ever  happened  or  could  happen ;  but  it  may  all  be 
true  because  in  it  is  shown  what  always  should  be — what  is 
good  and  what  is  evil,  and  what  a  man  should  strive  after  in 
order  to  do  the  will  of  God. 

No  matter  what  wonders  are  described,  or  what  animals 
may  talk  in  human  language,  what  flying  carpets  may  carry 
people  from  place  to  place,  the  legends,  parables,  or  fairy- 
tales will  be  true  if  there  is  in  them  the  truth  of  the  kingdom 
of  God.  And  if  that  truth  is  lacking,  then  everything 
described,  however  well  attested,  will  be  false,  because 
it  lacks  the  truth  of  the  kingdom  of  God.  Christ  himself 
spoke  in  parables,  and  his  parables  have  remained  eternally 
true.     He  only  added,  "Take  heed,  how  ye  hear." 


PART  V  * 
WHAT  IS  TRUTH? 

It  was  in  1890  that  N.  N.  Gay  painted  the  well-known  pic- 
ture of  Tolstoy  in  his  room  at  Yasnaya  Polyana. 

The  picture  which  aroused  most  interest  at  Yasnaya  that 
year,  however,  was  not  a  portrait  of  Tolstoy,  but  Gay's 
"What  is  Truth?"  which  had  been  exhibited  in  Petersburg 
early  in  the  year  and  prohibited.  After  being  exhibited  pri- 
vately, Gay  brought  it  to  show  to  Tolstoy,  on  whom  it  made 
a  deep  impression. 

Already  in  January,  when  Gay  had  sent  him  a  drawing 
of  it,  Tolstoy  had  written  to  him : 

"I  am  always  thinking  about  you  and  your  picture.  I  am  longing  to 
hear  how  it  is  received.  I  am  troubled  over  the  figure  of  Pilate  which, 
with  that  arm,  seems  wrong  somehow.  I  don't  say  it  is,  I  only  ask.  If  the 
connoisseurs  say  that  that  figure  is  correct,  I  shall  be  satisfied.  About 
the  rest  I  know,  and  have  no  need  to  ask  anyone's  opinion." 

Though  Tolstoy  knew  very  well  that  Pilate's  arm  was  not 
well  drawn,  he  was  immensely  pleased  with  the  treat- 
ment of  the  subject  and  the  thought  and  feeling  expressed. 
Feinermann  tells  us: 

"Leo  Tolstoy,  when  he  saw  that  painting,  was  so  shaken  and  agitated 
that  for  days  after  he  could  hardly  speak  of  anything  else. 

'I  am  in  raptures,'  he  said.  That's  a  master!  I  confess  that  I  my- 
self only  now  understand  the  deep  and  true  meaning  of  that  short  pas- 
sage which  always  appeared  to  me,  as  it  has  to  all  the  Bible  commenta- 
tors, unfinished  and  abrupt.  Pilate  asked,  "What  is  Truth?"  and  then 
went  out  to  the  crowd  without  waiting  for  a  reply.     And  everybody  reads 

1  From  The  Life  of  Tolstoy  Vol  II,  by  Aylmer  Maude. 

36 


"WHAT  IS  TRUTH?" 

After  a  painting  by  N.  N.  Gay,  1890 


WHAT  IS  TRUTH?  37 

and  understands  it  that  way.  But  this  picture  gives  a  different  inter- 
pretation. Pilate  does  not  ask  what  truth  is,  expecting  a  reply.  No! 
in  the  form  of  a  question  he  contemptuously  replies!  When  Christ  says 
that  he  has  come  into  the  world  as  a  witness  of  Truth,  Pilate  with  a 
laugh  and  a  contemptuous  gesture  throws  the  words  carelessly  at  him: 
"And  what  is  Truth?  Truth  is  a  relative  thing;  everybody  takes  it  his 
own  way!"  and,  evidently  considering  his  retort  decisive,  he  went  out  to 
the  crowd.  That  is  the  light  in  which  the  moment  is  seized.  It  is  new, 
it  is  profound,  and  how  strongly  and  clearly  the  picture  expresses  it! 
That  fat  shaven  neck  of  the  Roman  Governor,  that  half-turned,  large, 
well-fed,  sensual  body,  that  out-stretched  arm  with  its  gesture  of  con- 
tempt— are  all  splendid — it  is  alive.  It  breathes  and  impresses  itself 
on  the  memory  for  ever.  And  the  face  .  .  .  Together  with  all  the  dig- 
nity of  that  Roman  figure  there  goes  a  slavish  anxiety  about  himself: 
the  mean  trepidation  of  a  petty  soul.  He  is  afraid  he  may  be  denounced 
at  Rome  .  .  .  And  this  smallness  of  soul  is  wonderfully  caught  by  Gay, 
and  notwithstanding  the  toga,  and  his  height,  and  his  majestic  pose, 
Pilate  appears  so  petty  before  the  wornout  sufferer  who  has  undergone 
during  the  night  arrest,  judgment,  and  insults.  ...  A  wonderful  pict- 
ure!    That  is  the  way  to  paint!' 

"Gay,  touched  and  deeply  moved  by  Tolstoy's  delight,  embraced  and 
kissed  him,  and  said:  'Do  not  praise  it  .  .  .  You  will  praise  me  so 
that  I  shall  become  proud.  I  am  afraid  of  that.  ...  I  shan't  be  able 
to  paint I'" 


PART  VI 
INTRODUCTION  TO  AMIEL'S  "JOURNAL." 

About  eighteen  months  ago  I  chanced  for  the  first  time 
to  read  Amiel's  book,  Fragments  d'un  journal  intime.  I  was 
struck  by  the  importance  and  profundity  of  its  contents,  the 
beauty  of  its  presentation,  and  above  all  by  the  sincerity  of 
this  book. 

While  reading  it  I  marked  the  passages  which  specially 
struck  me.  My  daughter  1  undertook  to  translate  these  pas- 
sages and  in  this  way  these  extracts  from  Fragments  d'un 
journal  intime  were  formed:  that  is  to  say,  they  are  extracts 
from  the  whole  many-volumed  diary  Amiel  wrote  day 
by  day  during  thirty  years,  much  of  which  remained  un- 
printed. 

Henri  Amiel  was  born  at  Geneva  in  1821,  and  was  soon 
left  an  orphan.  Having  completed  a  course  of  higher  edu- 
cation at  Geneva,  Amiel  went  abroad  and  spent  some  years 
at  the  universities  of  Heidelberg  and  Berlin.  Returning  in 
1849  to  his  native  land  he,  a  young  man  of  28,  obtained  a 
professorship  at  the  Geneva  Academy,  first  of  Esthetics  and 
afterwards  of  Philosophy,  which  he  held  till  his  death. 

Amiel's  whole  life  was  passed  at  Geneva,  where  he  died 
in  1881,  in  no  way  distinguished  from  the  large  number  of 
those  ordinary  professors  who,  mechanically  compiling  their 
lectures  from  the  latest  books  on  their  specialities,  pass  them 
on  in  an  equally  mechanical  way  to  their  hearers,  and  from 
the  yet  greater  number  of  writers  of  verse  lacking  in  sub- 

1  That  is,  Marya  Lvovna,   Tolstoy's  second  daughter,  who  was  devoted  both 
to  her  father  and  to  his  teachings. 

38 


AMIEL'S  "JOURNAL"  39 

stance,  who  supply  these  wares,  which  though  no  one  needs 
them  are  still  sold  by  tens  of  thousands  in  the  periodicals 
that  are  published. 

Amiel  had  not  the  slightest  success  either  in  the  academic 
or  literary  field.  When  he  was  already  approaching  old  age 
he  wrote  of  himself  as  follows: 

"What  have  I  been  able  to  extract  from  the  gifts  bestowed 
upon  me,  and  from  the  special  circumstances  of  my  life  of 
half-a-century?  What  have  I  drawn  from  my  soil?  Is  all 
my  scribbling  collected  together — my  correspondence,  these 
thousands  of  sincere  pages,  my  lectures,  my  articles,  my 
verses,  my  various  memoranda — anything  but  a  collection  of 
dry  leaves?  To  whom  and  for  what  have  I  been  of  use? 
And  will  my  name  live  for  even  a  day  after  me,  and  will  it 
have  any  meaning  for  anyone?  An  insignificant,  empty  life! 
Vie  nulle!" 

Two  well-known  French  authors  have  written  on  Amiel 
and  his  Journal  since  his  death — his  friend,  the  well-known 
critic,  E.  Scherer,  and  the  philosopher  Caro.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  note  the  sympathetic  but  rather  patronizing  tone  in 
which  both  these  writers  refer  to  Amiel,  regretting  that  he 
lacked  the  qualities  necessary  for  the  production  of  real 
works.  Yet  the  real  works  of  these  two  writers — the  critical 
works  of  Scherer  and  the  philosophical  works  of  Caro — will 
hardly  long  outlive  their  authors,  while  the  accidental,  unreal 
work  of  Amiel,  his  Journal,  will  always  remain  a  living  book, 
needed  by  men  and  fruitfully  affecting  them. 

For  a  writer  is  precious  and  necessary  for  us  only  to  the 
extent  to  which  he  reveals  to  us  the  inner  labour  of  his  soul 
— supposing,  of  course,  that  his  work  is  new  and  has  not  been 
done  before.  Whatever  he  may  write — a  play,  a  learned 
work,  a  story,  a  philosophic  treatise,  lyric  verse,  a  criticism,  a 
satire — what  is  precious  to  us  in  an  author's  work  is  only 
that  inner  labour  of  his  soul,  and  not  the  architectural  struc- 


40  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

ture  in  which  usually,  and  I  think  always,  distorting  it,  he 
packs  his  thoughts  and  feelings. 

All  that  Amiel  poured  into  a  ready  mould:  his  lectures, 
treatises,  poems,  are  dead;  but  his  Journal,  where,  without 
thinking  of  the  form,  he  only  talked  to  himself,  is  full  of 
life,  wisdom,  instruction,  consolation,  and  will  ever  remain 
one  of  those  best  of  all  books  which  have  been  left  to  us 
accidentally  by  such  men  as  Marcus  Aurelius,  Pascal,  and 
Epictetus. 

Pascal  says:  "There  are  only  three  kinds  of  people:  those 
who,  having  found  God,  serve  Him;  those  who,  not  having 
found  Him,  are  engaged  in  seeking  Him,  and  those  who, 
though  they  have  not  found  Him,  do  not  seek  Him. 

"The  first  are  sensible  and  happy;  the  last  are  senseless 
and  unhappy;  the  second  are  unhappy,  but  sensible." 

I  think  that  the  contrast  Pascal  makes  between  the  first 
and  the  second  groups,  between  those  who,  as  he  says  in  an- 
other place,  having  found  God,  serve  Him  with  their  whole 
heart,  and  those  who,  not  having  found  Him,  seek  Him  with 
their  whole  heart,  is  not  only  not  so  great  as  he  thought,  but 
does  not  exist  at  all.  I  think  that  those  who  with  their  whole 
heart  and  with  suffering  (en  gemissant,  as  Pascal  says) 
seek  God,  are  already  serving  Him.  They  are  serving  Him 
because  by  the  suffering  they  endure  in  their  search  they 
are  laying,  and  revealing  to  others,  the  road  to  God,  as  Pascal 
himself  did  in  his  Pensees,  and  as  Amiel  did  all  his  life  in 
his  Journal. 

Amiel's  whole  life,  as  presented  to  us  in  this  Journal,  is 
full  of  this  suffering  and  whole-hearted  search  for  God.  And 
the  contemplation  of  this  search  is  the  more  instructive  be- 
cause it  never  ceases  to  be  a  search,  never  becomes  settled, 
and  never  passes  into  a  consciousness  of  having  attained  the 
truth,  or  into  a  teaching.  Amiel  is  not  saying  either  to  him- 
self or  to  others,  "I  now  know  the  truth — hear  me!"     On  the 


AMIEL'S  "JOURNAL"  41 

contrary  it  seems  to  him,  as  is  natural  to  one  who  is  sincerely 
seeking  truth,  that  the  more  he  knows  the  more  he  needs  to 
know,  and  he  unceasingly  does  all  he  can  to  learn  more  and 
more  of  truth,  and  is  therefore  constantly  aware  of  his  ignor- 
ance. He  is  continually  speculating  on  what  Christianity 
and  the  condition  of  a  Christian  should  be,  never  for  a  mo- 
ment pausing  on  the  thought  that  Christianity  is  the  very 
thing  that  he  is  professing,  and  that  he  is  himself  realizing 
the  condition  of  a  Christian.  And  yet  the  whole  Journal 
is  full  of  expressions  of  the  most  profound  Christian  under- 
standing and  feeling.  And  these  expressions  act  on  the 
reader  with  special  force  just  by  their  unconsciousness  and 
sincerity.  He  is  talking  to  himself,  not  thinking  that  he  is 
overheard,  neither  attempting  to  appear  convinced  of  what 
he  is  not  convinced  of,  nor  hiding  his  sufferings  and  his 
search. 

It  is  as  if  one  were  present  without  a  man's  knowledge  at 
the  most  secret,  profound,  impassioned  inner  working  of  his 
soul,  usually  hidden  from  an  outsider's  view. 

And  therefore  while  one  may  find  many  more  shapely 
and  elegant  expressions  of  religious  feeling  than  Amiel's,  it 
is  difficult  to  find  any  more  intimate  or  more  heart-searching. 
Not  long  before  his  death,  knowing  that  his  illness  might 
any  day  end  in  strangulation,  he  wrote: 

"When  you  no  longer  dream  that  you  have  at  your  disposal 
tens  of  years,  a  year,  or  a  month,  when  you  already  reckon 
in  tens  of  hours  and  the  coming  night  brings  with  it  the  menace 
of  the  unknown,  obviously  one  renounces  art,  science,  poli- 
tics, and  is  content  to  talk  with  oneself,  and  that  is  possible  up 
to  the  very  end.  This  inner  conversation  is  the  only  thing 
left  to  him  who  is  sentenced  to  death  but  whose  execution 
is  delayed.  He  (this  condemned  man)  concentrates  within 
himself.  He  no  longer  emits  rays,  but  only  talks  with  his 
own  soul.     He  no  longer  acts,  but  contemplates  .  .  .     Like 


44  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

touches  me.  A  village  youth  comes  to  Moscow  to  find  a 
place  and,  helped  by  a  coachman  from  his  part  of  the  country 
who  is  living  with  a  rich  merchant,  he  gets  a  job  as  the  yard- 
porter's  assistant.  This  place  had  previously  been  held  by 
an  old  man.  The  merchant,  by  his  coachman's  advice,  had 
discharged  the  old  man  and  taken  the  lad  in  his  place.  The 
lad  comes  in  the  evening  to  begin  his  service,  and  standing 
in  the  yard  he  hears  the  old  man  complain  in  the  porter's 
lodge  that  through  no  fault  of  his  he  has  been  dismissed, 
merely  to  give  place  to  a  younger  man.  The  lad  suddenly 
feels  pity  for  the  old  man  and  is  ashamed  to  have  pushed 
him  out.  He  considers  the  matter,  hesitates,  and  finally 
decides  to  give  up  the  situation  which  he  needs  so  much  and 
would  have  been  so  glad  to  take. 

All  this  is  told  in  such  a  way  that  every  time  I  read  it  I 
feel  that  the  author  would  not  only  have  wished  to,  but  cer- 
tainly would,  have  acted  in  that  way  under  similar  circum- 
stances; his  feelings  infect  me  and  I  feel  pleased,  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  too  should  have  done,  or  have  been  ready 
to  do,  something  good. 

Sincerity  is  Semenov's  chief  merit.  But  besides  that,  his 
content  is  always  important:  important  because  it  relates  to 
the  most  important  class  in  Russia,  the  peasantry,  whom 
Semenov  knows  as  only  a  peasant  can  know  them  who  him- 
self lives  in  the  laborious  village;  and  the  content  of  his 
stories  is  also  important  because,  in  them  all,  the  chief  interest 
is  not  in  external  events  or  in  the  peculiarity  of  the  life,  but 
in  the  way  men  approach  or  fall  away  from  the  ideal  of 
Christian  truth,  which  is  present  clearly  and  firmly  in  the 
author's  soul  and  supplies  him  with  a  safe  standard  and  ap- 
praisement of  the  quality  and  importance  of  human  actions. 
The  form  of  the  stories  fully  corresponds  to  their  content:  it 
is  serious  and  simple,  the  details  are  always  correct,  and  there 


SEMENOV'S  PEASANT  STORIES  45 

are  no  false  notes.  What  is  particularly  good  is  the  language, 
often  quite  original  in  its  expressions,  but  always  natural  and 
strikingly  strong  and  picturesque,  in  which  the  characters  of 
the  story  speak. 


PART  VIII 

INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  WORKS  OF  GUY  DE 
MAUPASSANT 

(This  article  was  written  by  Tolstoy  in  1894,  to  serve  as  preface  to  a  Russian 
edition  of  a  selection  of  Guy  de  Maupassant's  stories.) 

It  was,  I  think,  in  1881  that  Turgenev  while  visiting  me 
took  out  of  his  portmanteau  a  small  French  book  entitled 
La  Maison  Tellier,  and  gave  it  to  me. 

"Read  it  some  time,"  said  he  in  an  off-hand  way  just  as, 
a  year  before,  he  had  given  me  a  number  of  Russian  Wealth 
that  contained  an  article  by  Garshin,  who  was  then  only  be- 
ginning to  write.  Evidently  on  this  occasion,  as  in  Garshin's 
case,  he  was  afraid  of  influencing  me  one  way  or  the  other 
and  wished  to  know  my  own  unbiassed  opinion. 

"It  is  by  a  young  French  writer,"  said  he.  "Have  a  look  at 
it.  It  isn't  bad.  He  knows  you  and  appreciates  you  highly," 
he  added  as  if  wishing  to  propitiate  me.  "As  a  man  he  re- 
minds me  of  Druzhinin.  He  is,  like  Druzhinin,  an  excellent 
son,  an  admirable  friend,  un  homme  d'un  commerce  sur,1  and, 
besides  that,  he  associates  with  the  working  people,  guides 
them,  and  helps  them.  Even  in  his  relations  with  women 
he  reminds  me  of  Druzhinin."  And  Turgenev  told  me  some- 
thing astonishing,  incredible,  of  Maupassant's  conduct  in  that 
respect. 

That  time  ( 1881 )  was  for  me  a  period  of  most  ardent  inner 
reconstruction  of  my  whole  outlook  on  life,  and  in  this  re- 
construction the  activity  called  the  fine  arts,  to  which  I  had 
formerly  devoted  all  my  powers,  had  not  only  lost  the  im- 

1  A    reliable    man. 

46 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  47 

portance  I  formerly  attributed  to  it,  but  had  become  sim- 
ply obnoxious  to  me  on  account  of  the  unnatural  position  it 
had  hitherto  occupied  in  my  life,  as  it  does  generally  in  the 
estimation  of  the  people  of  the  well-to-do  classes. 

And  therefore  such  works  as  the  one  Turgenev  was  recom- 
mending to  me  did  not  then  interest  me  in  the  least.  But  to 
please  him  I  read  the  book  he  had  handed  me. 

From  the  first  story,  La  Maison  Tellier,  despite  the  in- 
decency and  insignificance  of  the  subject  of  the  story,  I  could 
not  help  recognizing  that  the  author  had  what  is  called  talent. 

He  possessed  that  particular  gift  called  talent,  which  con- 
sists in  the  capacity  to  direct  intense  concentrated  attention  ac- 
cording to  the  author's  tastes  on  this  or  that  subject,  in  con- 
sequence of  which  the  man  endowed  with  this  capacity  sees 
in  the  things  to  which  he  directs  his  attention  some  new  aspect 
which  others  have  overlooked;  and  this  gift  of  seeing  what 
others  have  not  seen  Maupassant  evidently  possessed.  But 
judging  by  the  little  volume  I  read,  he  unfortunately  lacked 
the  chief  of  the  three  conditions,  besides  talent,  essential  to  a 
true  work  of  art.  These  are :  ( 1 )  a  correct,  that  is,  a  moral 
relation  of  the  author  to  his  subject;  (2)  clearness  of  expres- 
sion, or  beauty  of  form, — the  two  are  identical;  and  (3) 
sincerity,  that  is,  a  sincere  feeling  of  love  or  hatred  of  what 
the  artist  depicts.  Of  these  three,  Maupassant  possessed 
only  the  two  last  and  was  quite  lacking  in  the  first.  He  had 
not  a  correct,  that  is  a  moral,  relation  to  the  subjects  depicted. 

Judging  by  what  I  read  I  was  convinced  that  Maupassant 
possessed  talent,  that  is  to  say,  the  gift  of  attention  reveal- 
ing in  the  objects  and  facts  of  life  with  which  he  deals  quali- 
ties others  have  not  perceived.  He  was  also  master  of  a 
beautiful  style,  expressing  what  he  wanted  to  say  clearly, 
simply,  and  with  charm.  He  was  also  master  of  that  condi- 
tion of  true  artistic  production  without  which  a  work  of  art 
does  not  produce  its  effect,  namely,  sincerity;  that  is,  he  did 


48  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

not  pretend  that  he  loved  or  hated,  but  really  loved  or  hated 
what  he  described.  But  unfortunately  lacking  the  first  and 
perhaps  the  chief  condition  of  worthy  artistic  production,  a 
correct  moral  relation  to  what  he  described — that  is  to  say,  a 
knowledge  of  the  difference  between  good  and  evil — he  loved 
and  described  things  that  should  not  have  been  loved  and  de- 
scribed. Thus,  in  this  little  volume,  the  author  described  with 
great  detail  and  fondness  how  women  seduce  men,  and  men 
women;  and  in  La  femme  de  Paul  he  even  describes  certain 
obscenities  difficult  to  understand.  And  he  presents  the  coun- 
try labouring  folk  not  merely  with  indifference  but  even  with 
contempt,  as  though  they  were  animals. 

This  unconsciousness  of  the  difference  between  good  and 
evil  is  particularly  striking  in  the  story,  JJne  partie  de  cam- 
pagne,  in  which  is  given,  as  a  very  pleasant  and  amusing 
joke,  a  detailed  description  of  how  two  men  rowing  with  bare 
arms  in  a  boat  tempt  and  afterwards  seduce  at  the  same  time, 
one  of  them  an  elderly  mother  and  the  other  a  young  girl,  her 
daughter. 

The  sympathy  of  the  author  is  evidently  all  the  time  so 
much  on  the  side  of  these  two  wretches  that  he  not  merely 
ignores,  but  simply  does  not  see,  what  must  have  been  felt 
by  the  seduced  mother  and  the  maid  (her  daughter),  by  the 
father,  and  by  a  young  man  who  is  evidently  engaged  to  the 
daughter;  and  therefore,  not  merely  is  an  objectionable  de- 
scription of  a  revolting  crime  presented  in  the  form  of  an 
amusing  jest,  but  the  occurrence  itself  is  described  falsely,  for 
what  is  given  is  only  one  side,  and  that  the  most  insignificant 
— namely,  the  pleasure  received  by  the  rascals. 

In  that  same  little  volume  there  is  a  story,  Histoire  d'une 
fille  de  ferme,  which  Turgenev  particularly  recommended 
to  me  and  which  particularly  displeased  me,  again  by  this 
incorrect  relation  of  the  author  to  his  subject.  He  evidently 
sees  in  all  the  working  folk  he  describes  mere  animals,  who 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  49 

rise  to  nothing  more  than  sexual  and  maternal  love,  so  that 
his  descriptions  give  one  an  incomplete  and  artificial 
impression. 

Lack  of  understanding  of  the  life  and  interests  of  work- 
ing people  and  the  presentation  of  them  as  semi-brutes  moved 
only  by  sensuality,  spite,  and  greed,  is  one  of  the  chief  and 
most  important  defects  of  most  recent  French  writers,  includ- 
ing Maupassant,  who  not  only  in  this  but  in  all  his  other 
stories  where  he  refers  to  the  people,  always  describes  them  as 
coarse,  dull  animals  at  whom  one  can  only  laugh.  Of  course 
the  French  writers  should  know  the  nature  of  their  own  people 
better  than  I  do ;  but  despite  the  fact  that  I  am  a  Russian  and 
have  not  lived  among  the  French  peasants,  I  nevertheless 
affirm  that  in  so  representing  their  people  the  French  authors 
are  wrong,  and  that  the  French  labourers  cannot  be  such  as 
they  represent  them  to  be.  If  France — such  as  we  know 
her,  with  her  truly  great  men  and  the  great  contributions 
those  great  men  have  made  to  science,  art,  citizenship,  and 
the  moral  development  of  mankind — if  this  France  exists, 
then  that  working  class  which  has  maintained  and  maintains 
on  its  shoulders  this  France  with  its  great  men,  must  consist 
not  of  brutes  but  of  people  with  great  spiritual  qualities,  and 
I  therefore  do  not  believe  what  I  read  in  novels  such  as 
La  terre  l  and  in  Maupassant's  stories ;  just  as  I  should  not 
believe  it  if  I  were  told  of  the  existence  of  a  beautiful  house 
standing  without  foundations.  It  may  very  well  be  these  high 
qualities  of  the  people  are  not  such  as  are  described  to  us  in 
La  petite  Fadette  and  La  mere  aux  diables,2  but  I  am  firmly 
convinced  that  these  qualities  exist,  and  a  writer  who  por- 
trays the  people  only  as  Maupassant  does,  describing  with 
sympathy  only  the  hanches  and  gorges 3  of  the  Breton  servant- 

1  By  Zola. 

2  Stories  by  Georges  Sand. 

3  Hips  and  throats. 


50  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

girls  and  describing  with  detestation  and  ridicule  the  life  of 
the  labouring  men,  commits  a  great  artistic  mistake,  because 
he  describes  his  subject  only  from  one,  and  that  the  least  in- 
teresting, physical,  side  and  leaves  quite  out  of  sight  another, 
and  the  most  important,  spiritual,  side  wherein  the  essence  of 
the  matter  lies. 

On  the  whole,  the  perusal  of  the  little  book  handed  me  by 
Turgenev  left  me  quite  indifferent  to  the  young  writer. 

So  repugnant  to  me  were  the  stories,  Une  partie  de  cam- 
pagne,  La  femme  de  Paul,  L'historie  d'une  fille  de  ferine,  that 
I  did  not  then  notice  the  beautiful  story,  Le  papa  de  Simon, 
and  the  story,  excellent  in  its  description  of  the  night,  Sur 
Veau. 

"Are  there  not  in  our  time,  when  so  many  people  want  to 
write,  plenty  of  men  of  talent  who  do  not  know  to  what  to 
apply  this  gift,  or  who  boldly  apply  it  to  what  should  not, 
and  need  not,  be  described?"  thought  I.  And  so  I  said  to 
Turgenev,  and  thereupon  forgot  about  Maupassant. 

The  first  thing  of  his  that  fell  into  my  hands  after  that 
was  Une  Vie,  which  someone  advised  me  to  read.  That  book 
at  once  compelled  me  to  change  my  opinion  of  Maupassant, 
and  since  then  I  have  read  with  interest  everything  signed  by 
him.  Une  Vie  is  excellent,  not  only  incomparably  the  best 
of  his  novels,  but  perhaps  the  best  French  novel  since  Hugo's 
Les  Miserables.  Here,  besides  remarkable  talent — that  spe- 
cial strenuous  attention  applied  to  the  subject,  by  which  the 
author  perceives  quite  new  features  in  the  life  he  describes — 
are  united  in  almost  equal  degree  all  three  qualities  of  a  true, 
work  of  art,  first,  a  correct,  that  is  a  moral,  relation  of  the 
author  to  his  subject;  secondly,  beauty  of  form;  and  thirdly, 
sincerity,  that  is,  love  of  what  the  author  describes.  Here  the 
meaning  of  life  no  longer  presents  itself  to  the  author  as 
consisting  in  the  adventures  of  various  male  and  female 
libertines;  here  the  subject,  as  the  title  indicates,  is  life — the 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  51 

life  of  a  ruined,  innocent,  amiable  woman,  predisposed  to 
all  that  is  good,  but  ruined  by  precisely  the  same  coarse  animal 
sensuality  which  in  his  former  stories  the  author  presented 
as  if  it  were  the  central  feature  of  life,  dominant  over  all 
else.  And  in  this  book  the  author's  whole  sympathy  is  on 
the  side  of  what  is  good. 

The  form,  which  was  beautiful  in  the  first  stories,  is  here 
brought  to  such  a  pitch  of  perfection  as,  in  my  opinion,  has 
been  attained  by  no  other  French  writer  of  prose.  And  above 
all,  the  author  here  really  loves,  and  deeply  loves,  the  good 
family  he  describes;  and  he  really  hates  that  coarse  debauchee, 
who  destroys  the  happiness  and  peace  of  that  charming  fam- 
ily and,  in  particular,  ruins  the  life  of  the  heroine. 

That  is  why  all  the  events  and  characters  of  this  novel 
are  so  life-like  and  memorable.  The  weak,  kindly,  debili- 
tated mother;  the  upright,  weak,  attractive  father;  the  daugh- 
ter, still  more  attractive  in  her  simplicity,  artlessness,  and 
sympathy  with  all  that  is  good;  their  mutual  relations,  their 
first  journey,  their  servants  and  neighbours;  the  calculating, 
grossly  sensual,  mean,  petty,  insolent  suitor,  who  as  usual 
deceives  the  innocent  girl  by  the  customary  empty  idealization 
of  the  foulest  instincts ;  the  marriage,  Corsica  with  the  beauti- 
ful descriptions  of  nature,  and  then  village  life,  the  husband's 
coarse  faithlessness,  his  seizure  of  power  over  the  property, 
his  quarrel  with  his  father-in-law,  the  yielding  of  the  good 
people  and  the  victory  of  insolence;  the  relations  with  the 
neighbours — all  this  is  life  itself  in  its  complexity  and  va- 
riety. And  not  only  is  all  this  vividly  and  finely  described, 
but  the  sincere  pathetic  tone  of  it  all  involuntarily  infects 
the  reader.  One  feels  that  the  author  loves  this  woman,  and 
loves  her  not  for  her  external  form  but  for  her  soul,  for  the 
goodness  there  is  in  her ;  that  he  pities  her  and  surfers  on  her 
account,  and  this  feeling  is  involuntarily  communicated  to 
the  reader.     And  the  questions;     Why,  for  what  end,  is  this 


52  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

fine  creature  ruined  ?  Ought  it  indeed  to  be  so  ?  arise  of  them- 
selves in  the  reader's  soul,  and  compel  him  to  reflect  on  the 
meaning  of  human  life. 

Despite  the  false  notes  which  occur  in  the  novel,  such  as 
the  minute  description  of  the  young  girl's  skin,  or  the  im- 
possible and  unnecessary  details  of  how,  by  the  advice  of 
an  abbe,  the  forsaken  wife  again  became  a  mother — details 
which  destroy  all  the  charm  of  the  heroine's  purity — and 
despite  the  melodramatic  and  unnatural  story  of  the  injured 
husband's  revenge;  notwithstanding  these  blemishes,  the  novel 
not  only  seemed  to  me  excellent,  but  I  saw  behind  it  no  longer 
a  talented  chatterer  and  jester  who  neither  knew  nor  wished 
to  know  right  from  wrong — as  from  his  first  little  book  Mau- 
passant had  appeared  to  me  to  be — but  a  serious  man  penetrat- 
ing deeply  into  life  and  already  beginning  to  see  his  way  in  it. 

The  next  novel  of  Maupassant's  that  I  read  was  Bel- Ami. 

Bel- Ami  is  a  very  dirty  book.  The  author  evidently  gives 
himself  a  free  hand  in  describing  what  attracts  him,  and  at 
times  seems  to  lose  his  main  negative  attitude  towards  his 
hero  and  to  pass  over  to  his  side:  but  on  the  whole  Bel-Ami, 
like  Une  Vie,  has  at  its  base  a  serious  idea  and  sentiment. 
In  Une  Vie  the  fundamental  idea  is  perplexity  in  face  of  the 
cruel  meaninglessness  of  the  suffering  life  of  an  excellent 
woman  ruined  by  a  man's  coarse  sensuality;  whereas  here  it 
is  not  only  perplexity,  but  indignation,  at  the  prosperity  and 
success  of  a  coarse,  sensual  brute  who  by  that  very  sensual- 
ity makes  his  career  and  attains  a  high  position  in  society; 
and  indignation  also  at  the  depravity  of  the  whole  sphere  in 
which  the  hero  attains  his  success.  In  the  former  novel  the 
author  seems  to  ask:  "For  what,  and  why,  was  a  fine 
creature  ruined?  Why  did  it  happen?"  Here  in  the  latter 
novel  he  seems  to  answer:  all  that  is  pure  and  good  has  per- 
ished and  is  perishing  in  our  society,  because  that  society 
is  depraved,  senseless,  and  horrible. 


GUY  DE  MAtTPASSANT  53 

The  last  scene  in  the  novel — the  marriage  in  a  fashionable 
church  of  the  triumphant  scoundrel,  decorated  with  the  Legion 
of  Honour,  to  the  pure  girl,  the  daughter  of  an  elderly  and 
formerly  irreproachable  mother  whom  he  had  seduced;  a 
wedding  blessed  by  a  bishop  and  regarded  as  something  good 
and  proper  by  everybody — expresses  this  idea  with  extraor- 
dinary force.  In  this  novel,  despite  the  fact  that  it  is  en- 
cumbered with  dirty  details  (in  which  it  is  to  be  regretted  that 
the  author  seems  to  find  pleasure)  the  same  serious  demands 
are  presented  to  life. 

Read  the  conversation  of  the  old  poet  with  Duroy  when 
after  dinner,  if  I  remember  rightly,  they  are  leaving  the 
Walters.  The  old  poet  bares  life  to  his  young  companion, 
and  shows  it  as  it  is,  with  its  eternal  and  inevitable  con- 
comitant and  end — death. 

"She  has  hold  of  me  already,  la  gueuse,"  l  says  he  of  death. 
"She  has  already  shaken  out  my  teeth,  torn  out  my  hair,  crip- 
pled my  limbs,  and  is  now  ready  to  swallow  me.  I  am  al- 
ready in  her  power.  She  is  only  playing  with  me,  as  a  cat 
does  with  a  mouse,  knowing  that  I  cannot  escape.  Fame? 
Riches?  What  is  the  use  of  them,  since  they  cannot  buy  a 
woman's  love?  For  it  is  only  a  woman's  love  that  makes 
life  worth  living,  and  that  too  death  takes  away.  It  takes 
that  away,  and  then  one's  health,  strength,  and  life  itself. 
It  is  the  same  for  everyone,  and  there  is  nothing  else." 

Such  is  the  meaning  of  what  the  old  poet  says.  But  Duroy, 
the  successful  lover  of  all  the  women  who  please  him,  is  so 
full  of  sensual  energy  and  strength  that  he  hears  and  does 
not  hear,  understands  and  does  not  understand,  the  old  poet's 
words.  He  hears  and  understands,  but  the  source  of  sensual 
life  throbs  in  him  so  strongly  that  this  unquestionable  truth, 
foretelling  the  same  end  for  him,  does  not  disturb  him. 

This  inner  contradiction,  besides  its  satirical  value,  gives 

lThe  old  hag. 


54  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

the  novel  its  chief  significance.  The  same  idea  gleams  in 
the  fine  scenes  of  the  death  of  the  consumptive  journalist. 
The  author  sets  himself  the  question:  What  is  this  life? 
How  solve  the  contradiction  between  the  love  of  life,  and  the 
knowledge  of  inevitable  death?  He  seems  to  seek,  pauses, 
and  does  not  decide  either  one  way  or  the  other.  And  there- 
fore the  moral  relation  to  life  in  this  novel  continues  to  be 
correct. 

But  in  the  novels  that  follow,  this  moral  relation  to  life 
grows  confused.  The  appraisement  of  the  phenomena  of 
life  begins  to  waver,  to  grow  obscure,  and  in  the  last  novels 
it  is  quite  perverted. 

In  Mont-Oriol  Maupassant  seems  to  unite  the  motives  of 
his  two  previous  novels  and  repeats  himself  to  order.  De- 
spite the  fine  descriptions  of  the  fashionable  watering-place 
and  of  the  medical  activity  in  it,  which  is  executed  with  del- 
icate taste,  we  have  here  the  same  bull-like  Paul,  just  as  empty 
and  despicable  as  the  husband  in  line  Vie;  and  the  same  de- 
ceived, frank,  meek,  weak,  lonely — always  lonely — good 
woman,  and  the  same  impassive  triumph  of  pettiness  and 
triviality  as  in  Bel- Ami. 

The  thought  is  the  same,  but  the  author's  moral  relation 
to  what  he  describes  is  already  much  lower,  lower  especially 
than  in  Une  Vie.  The  author's  inner  appraisement  of  right 
and  wrong  begins  to  get  confused.  Notwithstanding  his 
abstract  wish  to  be  impartially  objective,  the  scoundrel 
Paul  evidently  has  all  his  sympathy,  and  therefore  the  love 
story  of  this  Paul  and  his  attempts  at  and  success  in  se- 
duction produce  a  discordant  impression.  The  reader  does 
not  know  what  the  author  intends:  is  it  to  show  the  whole 
emptiness  and  vileness  of  Paul  (who  turns  indifferently 
away  from,  and  insults,  a  woman  merely  because  her  waist  has 
been  spoilt  by  her  pregnancy  with  his  child) ;  or,  on  the  con- 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  55 

trary,  is  it  to  show  how  pleasant  and  easy  it  is  to  live  as  this 
Paul  lives? 

In  the  next  novels,  Pierre  et  Jean,  Fort  comme  la  wort,  and 
Notre  coeur,  the  author's  moral  attitude  towards  his  char- 
acters becomes  still  more  confused,  and  in  the  last-named  is 
quite  lost.  All  these  novels  bear  the  stamp  of  indifference, 
haste,  unreality,  and,  above  all,  again  that  same  absence  of 
a  correct  moral  relation  to  life  which  was  present  in  his  first 
writings.  This  began  from  the  time  when  Maupassant's  rep- 
utation as  a  fashionable  author  had  become  established  and 
he  became  liable  to  the  temptation,  so  terrible  in  our  day,  to 
which  every  celebrated  writer  is  subject,  especially  one  so  at- 
tractive as  Maupassant.  In  the  first  place  the  success  of  his 
first  novels,  the  praise  of  the  press,  and  the  flattery  of  society, 
especially  of  women ;  in  the  second  the  ever  increasing  amount 
of  remuneration  (never  however  keeping  up  with  his  con- 
tinually increasing  wants);  in  the  third  the  pertinacity  of 
editors  outbidding  one  another,  flattering,  begging,  and  no 
longer  judging  the  merits  of  the  works  the  author  offers  but 
enthusiastically  accepting  everything  signed  by  a  name  now 
established  with  the  public.  All  these  temptations  are  so 
great  that  they  evidently  turn  his  head,  and  he  succumbs 
to  them;  and  though  he  continues  to  elaborate  the  form  of 
his  work  as  well  as  or  sometimes  even  better  than  before, 
and  even  though  he  is  fond  of  what  he  describes,  yet  he  no 
longer  loves  it  because  it  is  good  or  moral  and  lovable  to 
all,  or  hates  it  because  it  is  evil  and  hateful  to  all,  but  only 
because  one  thing  pleases  and  another  thing  happens  to  dis- 
please him. 

On  all  Maupassant's  novels,  beginning  with  Bel-Ami,  there 
lies  this  stamp  of  haste  and  still  more  of  artificiality.  From 
that  time  Maupassant  no  longer  did  what  he  had  done  in 
his  first  two  novels.     He  did  not  take  as  his  basis  certain 


56  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

moral  demands  and  on  that  ground  describe  the  actions  of 
his  characters,  but  wrote  as  all  hack  novelists  do,  that  is, 
he  devised  the  most  interesting  and  pathetic,  or  most  up-to- 
date  persons  and  situations,  and  made  a  novel  out  of  them, 
adorning  it  with  whatever  observations  he  had  opportunity 
to  make  which  fitted  into  the  framework  of  the  story,  quite 
indifferent  as  to  how  the  incidents  described  were  related  to 
the  demands  of  morality.  Such  are  Pierre  et  Jean,  Fort 
comme  la  mort,  and  Notre  coeur. 

Accustomed  as  we  are  to  read  in  French  novels  of  how 
families  live  in  threes,  always  with  a  lover  known  to  every- 
one except  the  husband,  it  still  remains  quite  unintelligible 
to  us  how  it  happens  that  all  husbands  are  always  fools, 
cocus  et  ridicules,1  but  all  lovers  (who  themselves  in  the 
end  marry  and  become  husbands)  are  not  only  not  cocus  et 
ridicules,  but  are  heroic!  And  still  less  comprehensible  is 
it  how  all  women  can  be  depraved,  and  yet  all  mothers  saintly. 

And  on  these  unnatural  and  unlikely,  and  above  all  pro- 
foundly immoral,  propositions  Pierre  et  Jean  and  Fort  comme 
la  mort  are  built,  and  therefore  the  sufferings  of  the  char- 
acters so  situated  affect  us  but  little.  The  mother  of  Pierre 
and  Jean,  who  can  live  her  whole  life  deceiving  her  husband, 
evokes  little  sympathy  when  she  is  obliged  to  confess  her  sin 
to  her  son,  and  still  less  when  she  justifies  herself  by  asserting 
that  she  could  not  but  avail  herself  of  the  chance  of  happiness 
which  presented  itself.  Still  less  can  we  sympathize  with  the 
gentleman  who,  in  Fort  comme  la  mort,  having  all  his  life 
deceived  his  friend  and  debauched  his  friend's  wife,  now 
only  regrets  that  having  grown  old  he  cannot  seduce  his 
mistress's  daughter.  The  last  novel,  Notre  coeur,  has  even 
no  kernel  at  all  beyond  the  description  of  various  kinds  of 
sex-love.     The  satiated  emotions  of  an  idle  debauchee  are 

1  Deceived  and  ridiculous. 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  57 

described,  who  does  not  know  what  he  wants,  and  who  first 
lives  with  a  woman  yet  more  depraved  than  himself — a  men- 
tally depraved  woman,  who  lacks  even  the  excuse  of  sen- 
suality— then  leaves  her  and  lives  with  a  servant  girl,  and 
then  again  rejoins  the  former,  and,  it  seems,  lives  with  them 
both.  If  in  Pierre  et  Jean  and  Fort  comme  la  mort  there 
are  still  some  touching  scenes,  this  last  novel  excites  only 
disgust. 

The  question  in  Maupassant's  first  novel,  line  Vie,  consists 
in  this:  here  is  a  human  being,  good,  wise,  pleasing,  ready 
for  all  that  is  good,  and  this  creature  is  for  some  reason 
offered  up  as  a  sacrifice  first  to  a  coarse,  small-minded,  stupid 
animal  of  a  husband,  without  having  given  anything  to  the 
world.  Why  is  this?  The  author  puts  that  question  and  as 
it  were  gives  no  answer,  but  his  whole  novel,  all  his  feeling 
of  pity  for  her  and  abhorrence  of  what  has  ruined  her,  serves 
as  answer.  If  there  is  a  man  who  has  understood  her  suf- 
fering and  expressed  it,  then  it  is  redeemed,  as  Job  put  it  to 
his  friends  when  they  said  that  no  one  would  know  of  his 
sufferings.  When  suffering  is  recognized  and  understood, 
it  is  redeemed;  and  here  the  author  has  recognized  and  un- 
derstood and  shown  men  this  suffering,  and  the  suffering  is 
redeemed,  for  once  it  is  understood  by  men  it  will  sooner  or 
later  be  done  away  with. 

In  the  next  novel,  Bel-Ami,  the  question  no  longer  is,  Why 
do  good  persons  suffer?  but  Why  do  wealth  and  fame  go  to 
the  unworthy?  What  are  wealth  and  fame?  How  are  they 
obtained?  And  as  before,  these  questions  carry  with  them 
their  own  answers,  which  consist  in  the  repudiation  of  all 
that  the  crowd  of  men  so  highly  prize.  The  subject  of  this 
second  novel  is  still  serious,  but  the  moral  relation  of  the 
author  to  the  subject  he  describes  already  weakens  consider- 
ably, and  whereas  in  the  first  novel  blots  and  sensuality  which 


58  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

spoil  it  only  appear  here  and  there,  in  Bel-Ami  these  blots 
have  increased  and  many  chapters  are  filled  with  dirt  alone, 
which  seems  to  please  the  author. 

In  the  next  book,  Mont-Oriol,  the  questions:  Why,  and 
to  what  end,  does  the  amiable  woman  suffer  and  the  savage 
male  secure  success  and  happiness?  are  no  longer  put;  but  it 
seems  tacitly  admitted  that  it  should  be  so,  and  hardly  any 
moral  demands  are  felt.  But  without  the  least  necessity, 
uncalled  for  by  any  artistic  consideration,  dirty  sensual  de- 
scriptions are  presented.  As  an  example  of  this  violation  of 
artistic  taste,  resulting  from  the  author's  incorrect  relation 
to  his  subject,  the  detailed  description  in  this  novel  of  the 
heroine  in  her  bath  is  specially  striking.  This  description  is 
quite  unnecessary,  and  is  in  no  way  connected  either  with  the 
external  or  the  inner  purpose  of  the  novel:  "Bubbles  appear 
on  her  pink  skin." 

"Well,  what  of  that?"  asks  the  reader. 

"Nothing  more,"  replies  the  author.  "I  describe  it  because 
I  like  such  descriptions." 

In  the  next  novels,  Pierre  et  Jean  and  Fort  comme  la 
mort,  no  moral  demand  at  all  is  perceptible.  Both  novels 
are  built  on  debauchery,  deceit,  and  falsehood,  which  bring 
the  actors  to  tragic  situations. 

In  the  last  novel,  Notre  cceur,  the  position  of  the  actors 
is  most  monstrous,  wild,  and  immoral ;  they  no  longer  struggle 
with  anything,  but  only  seek  satisfaction  for  their  vanity,  sen- 
suality, and  sexual  desires;  and  the  author  appears  quite  to 
sympathize  with  their  aims.  The  only  deduction  one  can 
draw  from  this  last  novel  is  that  the  greatest  pleasure  in 
life  consists  in  sexual  intercourse,  and  that  therefore  one 
must  secure  that  happiness  in  the  pleasantest  way. 

Yet  more  striking  is  this  immoral  relation  to  life  in  the 
half-novel,  Yvette.  The  subject,  which  is  horrible  in  its 
immorality,  is  as  follows:     A  charming  girl,  innocent  in  soul 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  59 

and  depraved  only  in  the  manners  she  has  learned  in  her 
mother's  dissolute  circle,  leads  a  libertine  into  error.  He 
falls  in  love  with  her,  but  imagining  that  this  girl  knowingly 
chatters  the  obscene  nonsense  she  has  picked  up  in  her 
mother's  society  and  repeats  parrot-like  without  understand- 
ing— imagining  that  she  is  already  depraved — he  coarsely 
offers  her  an  immoral  union.  This  proposal  horrifies  and 
offends  her  (for  she  loves  him) ;  it  opens  her  eyes  to  her  own 
position  and  to  that  of  her  mother,  and  she  suffers  profoundly. 
This  deeply  touching  scene  is  admirably  described:  the  col- 
lision between  a  beautiful  innocent  soul  and  the  depravity 
of  the  world.  And  with  that  it  might  end;  but  the  author, 
without  either  external  or  inner  necessity,  continues  to  write 
and  makes  this  man  penetrate  by  night  to  the  girl  and 
seduce  her.  Evidently  in  the  first  part  of  the  story  the  au- 
thor was  on  the  girl's  side,  but  in  the  later  part  he  has  sud- 
denly gone  over  to  the  debauchee,  and  the  one  impression 
destroys  the  other — the  whole  novel  crumbles  and  falls  to 
pieces  like  ill-kneaded  bread. 

In  all  his  novels  after  Bel-Ami  (I  am  not  now  speaking 
of  the  short  stories,  which  constitute  his  chief  merit  and 
glory — of  them  later)  Maupassant  evidently  submitted  to  the 
theory  which  ruled  not  only  in  his  circle  in  Paris,  but  which 
now  rules  everywhere  among  artists:  that  for  a  work  of  art 
it  is  not  only  unnecessary  to  have  any  clear  conception  of 
what  is  right  and  wrong,  but  that,  on  the  contrary,  an  artist 
should  completely  ignore  all  moral  questions,  there  being 
even  a  certain  artistic  merit  in  so  doing.  According  to  this 
theory  the  artist  may  or  should  depict  what  is  true  to  life, 
what  really  is,  what  is  beautiful  and  therefore  pleases  him, 
or  even  what  may  be  useful  as  material  for  "science";  but 
that  to  care  about  what  is  moral  or  immoral,  right  or  wrong, 
is  not  an  artist's  business. 

I  remember  a  celebrated  painter  showing  me  one  of  his 


60  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

pictures  representing  a  religious  procession.  It  was  all  ex- 
cellently painted,  but  no  relation  of  the  artist  to  his  subject 
was  perceptible. 

"And  do  you  regard  these  ceremonies  as  good  and  consider 
that  they  should  be  performed,  or  not?"  I  asked  him. 

With  some  condescension  to  my  naivete,  he  told  me  that 
he  did  not  know  about  that  and  did  not  want  to  know  it;  his 
business  was  to  represent  life. 

"But  at  any  rate  you  sympathize  with  this?" 

"I  cannot  say  so." 

"Well  then  do  you  dislike  these  ceremonies?" 

"Neither  the  one  thing  nor  the  other,"  replied,  with  a  smile 
of  compassion  at  my  silliness,  this  modern,  highly  cultured 
artist  who  depicted  life  without  understanding  its  purpose  and 
neither  loving  nor  hating  its  phenomena. 

And  so  unfortunately  thought  Maupassant. 

In  his  preface  to  Pierre  et  Jean  he  says  that  people  say 
to  a  writer,  "Consolez-moi,  amusez-moi,  attristez-moi, 
attendrissez-moi,  faites-moi  rever,  faites-moi  rire,  faites-moi 
fremir,  faites-moi  pleurer,  faites-moi  penser.  Seuls  quelques 
esprits  d' elites  demandent  a  V artiste:  faites-moi  quelque 
chose  de  beau  dans  la  forme  qui  vous  conviendra  le  mieux 
d'apres  votre  temperament"  1 

Responding  to  this  demand  of  the  elite  Maupassant  wrote 
his  novels,  naively  imagining  that  what  was  considered  beau- 
tiful in  his  circle  was  that  beauty  which  art  should  serve. 

And  in  the  circle  in  which  Maupassant  moved,  the  beauty 
which  should  be  served  by  art  was,  and  is,  chiefly  woman — 
young,  pretty,  and  for  the  most  part  naked — and  sexual  con- 

1  "Console  me,  amuse  me,  sadden  me,  touch  my  heart,  make  me  dream,  make 
me  laugh,  make  me  tremble,  make  me  weep,  make  me  think.  Only  a  few  chosen 
spirits  bid  the  artist  compose  something  beautiful,  in  the  form  that  best  suits  his 
temperament." 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  61 

nection  with  her.  It  was  so  considered  not  only  by  all  Mau- 
passant's comrades  in  art — painters,  sculptors,  novelists,  and 
poets — but  also  by  philosophers,  the  teachers  of  the  rising 
generation.  Thus  the  famous  Renan,  in  his  work,  Marc 
Aurele,  p.  555,  when  blaming  Christianity  for  not  under- 
standing feminine  beauty,  plainly  says: 

"La  defaut  du  christianisme  apparait  bien  ici.  II  est  trop 
uniquement  moral;  la  beaute,  chez  lui,  est  tout-a-fait  sac- 
rifiee.  Or,  aux  yeux  d'une  philosophie  complete,  la  beaute, 
loin  d'etre  un  avantage  superficiel,  un  danger,  un  inconveni- 
ent, est  un  don  de  Dieu,  comme  la  vertu.  Elle  vaut  la  vertu ; 
la  femme  belle  exprime  aussi  bien  une  face  du  but  divin, 
une  des  fins  de  Dieu,  que  Vhomme  de  genie  ou  la  femme  ver- 
tueuse.  Elle  le  sent  et  de  la  sa  fierte.  Elle  sent  instinctive- 
ment  le  tresor  infini  qu'elle  porte  en  son  corps;  elle  sait  bien 
que,  sans  esprit,  sans  talent,  sans  grande  vertu,  elle  compte 
entre  les  premieres  manifestations  de  Dieu.  Et  pourquoi 
lui  interdire  de  mettre  en  valeur  le  don  qui  lui  a  ete  fait,  de 
sertir  le  diamant  qui  lui  est  echu?  La  femme,  en  se  par  ant, 
accomplit  un  devoir;  elle  pratique  un  art,  art  exquis,  en  un 
sens  le  plus  charmant  des  arts.  Ne  nous  laissons  pas  egarer 
par  le  sourire  que  certain  mots  provoquent  chez  les  gens 
frivoles.  On  decerne  le  palme  du  genie  a  V artiste  grec 
qui  a  su  resoudre  le  plus  delicat  des  problemes,  orner  le  corps 
humain,  c'est  a  dire  orner  la  perfection  meme,  et  Von  ne  veut 
voir  qu'une  affaire  de  chiffons  dans  Vessai  de  collaborer  a 
la  plus  belle  osuvre  de  Dieu,  a  la  beaute  de  la  femme!  La 
toilette  de  la  femme,  avec  tous  ses  raffinements  est  du  grand 
art  a  sa  maniere.  Les  siecles  et  les  pays  qui  savent  y  reussir 
sont  les  grands  siecles,  les  grands  pays,  et  le  christianisme 
montra,  par  V exclusion  dont  il  frappa  ce  genre  de  recherches, 
que  i ideal  social  qu'il  concevait  ne  deviendrait  le  cadre  d'une 
societe  complete  que  bien  plus  tard,  quand  la  revoke  des 


62  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

gens  du  monde  aurait  brise  le  joug  etroit  impose  primitive- 
ment  a  la  secte  par  un  pietisme  exalte."  l 

(So  that  in  the  opinion  of  this  leader  of  the  young  genera- 
tion only  now  have  Paris  milliners  and  coiffeurs  corrected  the 
mistake  committed  by  Christianity,  and  re-established  beauty 
in  the  true  and  lofty  position  due  to  it. ) 

In  order  that  there  should  be  no  doubt  as  to  how  one  is  to 
understand  beauty,  the  same  celebrated  writer,  historian,  and 
savant  wrote  the  drama,  L'Abbesse  de  Jouarre,  in  which  he 
showed  that  to  have  sexual  intercourse  with  a  woman  is  a 
service  of  this  beauty,  that  is  to  say,  is  an  elevated  and  good 
action.  In  that  drama,  which  is  striking  by  its  lack  of  talent 
and  especially  by  the  coarseness  of  the  conversations  between 
d'Arcy  and  the  abbesse,  in  which  the  first  words  make  it  evi- 
dent what  sort  of  love  that  gentleman  is  discussing  wTith  the 
supposedly  innocent  and  highly  moral  maiden,  who  is  not 
in  the  least  offended  thereby — in  that  drama  it  is  shown  that 

1The  defect  of  Christianity  is  clearly  seen  in  this.  It  is  too  exclusively  moral; 
it  quite  sacrifices  beauty.  But  in  the  eyes  of  a  complete  philosophy  beauty,  far 
from  being  a  superficial  advantage,  a  danger,  an  inconvenience,  is  a  gift  of  God, 
like  virtue.  It  is  worth  as  much  as  virtue;  the  beautiful  woman  expresses  an  as- 
pect of  the  divine  purpose,  one  of  God's  aims,  as  well  as  a  man  of  genius  does, 
or  a  virtuous  woman.  She  feels  this,  and  hence  her  pride.  She  is  instinctively 
conscious  of  the  infinite  treasure  she  possesses  in  her  body;  she  is  well  aware 
that  without  intellect,  without  talent,  without  great  virtue,  she  counts  among 
the  chief  manifestations  of  God.  And  why  forbid  her  to  make  the  most  of  the 
gift  bestowed  upon  her,  or  to  give  the  diamond  allotted  to  her  its  due  setting? 
By  adorning  herself  woman  accomplishes  a  duty;  she  practises  an  art,  an  ex- 
quisite art,  in  a  sense  the  most  charming  of  arts.  Do  not  let  us  be  misled  by 
the  smile  which  certain  words  provoke  in  the  frivolous.  We  award  the  palm  of 
genius  to  the  Greek  artist  who  succeeded  in  solving  the  most  delicate  of  prob- 
lems, that  of  adorning  the  human  body,  that  is  to  say,  adorning  perfection  itself, 
and  yet  some  people  wish  to  see  nothing  more  than  an  affair  of  chiffons  in  the 
attempt  to  collaborate  with  the  finest  work  of  God — woman's  beauty!  Woman's 
toilette  with  all  its  refinements  is  a  great  art  in  its  own  way.  The  epochs  and 
countries  which  can  succeed  in  this  arc  the  great  epochs  and  great  countries,  and 
Christianity,  by  the  embargo  it  laid  on  this  kind  of  research,  showed  that  the 
social  ideal  it  had  conceived  would  only  become  the  framework  of  a  complete 
society  at  a  much  later  period,  when  the  revolt  of  men  of  the  world  had  broken 
the  narrow  yoke  originally  imposed  on  the  sect  by  a  fanatical  pietism. 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  63 

the  most  highly  moral  people,  at  the  approach  of  death  to 
which  they  are  condemned,  a  few  hours  before  it  arrives,  can 
do  nothing  more  beautiful  than  yield  to  their  animal  passions. 

So  that  in  the  circle  in  which  Maupassant  grew  up  and  was 
educated,  the  representation  of  feminine  beauty  and  sex-love 
was  and  is  regarded  quite  seriously,  as  a  matter  long  ago 
decided  and  recognized  by  the  wisest  and  most  learned  men, 
as  the  true  object  of  the  highest  art — Le  grand  art. 

And  it  is  this  theory,  dreadful  in  its  folly,  to  which  Maupas- 
sant submitted  when  he  became  a  fashionable  writer;  and,  as 
was  to  be  expected,  this  false  ideal  led  him  in  his  novels 
into  a  series  of  mistakes,  and  to  ever  weaker  and  weaker 
production. 

In  this  the  fundamental  difference  between  the  demands  of 
the  novel  and  of  the  short  story  is  seen.  A  novel  has  for  its 
aim,  even  for  external  aim,  the  description  of  a  whole  human 
life  or  of  many  human  lives,  and  therefore  its  writer  should 
have  a  clear  and  firm  conception  of  what  is  good  and  bad  in 
life,  and  this  Maupassant  lacked;  indeed  according  to  the 
theory  he  held,  that  is  just  what  should  be  avoided.  Had  he 
been  a  novelist  like  some  talentless  writers  of  sensual  novels, 
he  would,  being  without  talent,  have  quietly  described  what 
was  evil  as  good,  and  his  novels  would  have  had  unity,  and 
would  have  been  interesting  to  people  who  shared  his  view. 
But  Maupassant  had  talent,  that  is  to  say,  he  saw  things  in 
their  essentials  and  therefore  involuntarily  discerned  the 
truth.  He  involuntarily  saw  the  evil  in  what  he  wished  to 
consider  good.  That  is  why,  in  all  his  novels  except  the 
first,  his  sympathies  continually  waver,  now  presenting  the 
evil  as  good,  and  now  admitting  that  the  evil  is  evil  and  the 
good  good,  but  continually  shifting  from  the  one  standpoint 
to  the  other.  And  this  destroys  the  very  basis  of  any  artistic 
impression — the  framework  on  which  it  is  built.  People  of 
little  artistic  sensibility  often  think  that  a  work  of  art  possesses 


64  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

unity  when  the  same  people  act  in  it  throughout,  or  when 
it  is  all  constructed  on  one  plot,  or  describes  the  life  of  one 
man.  That  is  a  mistake.  It  only  appears  so  to  a  superficial 
observer.  The  cement  which  binds  any  artistic  production 
into  one  whole  and  therefore  produces  the  illusion  of  being  a 
reflection  of  life,  is  not  the  unity  of  persons  or  situations,  but 
the  unity  of  the  author's  independent  moral  relation  to  his 
subject.  In  reality,  when  we  read  or  look  at  the  artistic  pro- 
duction of  a  new  author  the  fundamental  question  that  arises 
in  our  soul  is  always  of  this  kind:  "Well,  what  sort  of  a 
man  are  you?  Wherein  are  you  different  from  all  the  people 
I  know,  and  what  can  you  tell  me  that  is  new,  about  how 
we  must  look  at  this  life  of  ours?"  Whatever  the  artist  de- 
picts— saints,  robbers,  kings,  or  lackeys — we  seek  and  see  only 
the  artist's  own  soul.  If  he  is  an  established  writer  with 
whom  we  are  already  familiar,  the  question  no  longer  is, 
"What  sort  of  a  man  are  you?"  but,  "Well,  what  more  can 
you  tell  me  that  is  new?"  or,  "From  what  new  side  will  you 
now  illumine  life  for  me?"  And  therefore  a  writer  who  has 
not  a  clear  definite  and  just  view  of  the  universe,  and  es- 
pecially a  man  who  considers  that  this  isn't  even  wanted, 
cannot  produce  a  work  of  art.  He  may  write  much  and 
admirably,  but  a  work  of  art  will  not  result. 

So  it  was  with  Maupassant  in  his  novels.  In  his  first  two 
novels,  and  especially  in  the  first,  Une  Vie,  there  was  a  clear, 
definite,  and  new  relation  to  life,  and  it  was  an  artistic  pro- 
duction; but  as  soon  as,  submitting  to  the  fashionable  theory, 
he  decided  that  this  relation  of  the  author  to  life  was  quite  un- 
necessary and  began  to  write  merely  in  order  faire  quelque 
chose  de  beau  (to  produce  something  beautiful),  his  novels 
ceased  to  be  works  of  art.  In  Une  Vie  and  Bel- Ami  the  author 
knows  whom  he  should  love  and  whom  he  should  hate,  and 
the  reader  agrees  with  him  and  believes  in  him — believes  in 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  65 

the  people  and  events  he  describes.  But  in  Notre  cosur  and 
Yvette  the  author  does  not  know  whom  he  should  love  and 
whom  he  should  hate,  and  the  reader  does  not  know  either. 
And  not  knowing  this,  the  reader  does  not  believe  in  the  events 
described  and  is  not  interested  in  them.  And  therefore,  ex- 
cept the  two  first  or,  strictly  speaking,  excepting  only  the  first 
novel,  all  Maupassant's,  as  novels,  are  weak;  and  if  he 
had  left  us  only  his  novels  he  would  have  been  merely  a 
striking  instance  of  the  way  in  which  brilliant  talents  may 
perish  as  a  result  of  the  false  environment  in  which  he  de- 
veloped and  of  these  false  theories  of  art  that  have  been 
devised  by  people  who  neither  love  nor  understand  it.  But 
fortunately  Maupassant  wrote  short  stories  in  which  he  did 
not  subject  himself  to  the  false  theory  he  had  accepted,  and 
wrote  not  quelque  chose  de  beau,  but  what  touched  or  re- 
volted his  moral  feeling.  And  in  these  short  stories — not 
in  all,  but  in  the  best  of  them — we  see  how  that  moral  feel- 
ing grew  in  the  author. 

And  it  is  in  this  that  the  wonderful  quality  of  every  true 
artist  lies,  if  only  he  does  not  do  violence  to  himself  under 
the  influence  of  a  false  theory.  His  talent  teaches  its  pos- 
sessor and  leads  him  forward  along  the  path  of  moral  de- 
velopment, compelling  him  to  love  what  deserves  love  and  to 
hate  what  deserves  hate.  An  artist  is  an  artist  because  he  sees 
things  not  as  he  wishes  to  see  them  but  as  they  really  are. 
The  possessor  of  a  talent,  the  man,  may  make  mistakes,  but 
his  talent  if  only  it  is  allowed  free  play,  as  Maupassant 
gave  it  free  play  in  his  short  stories,  discloses,  undrapes  the 
object,  and  compels  love  of  it  if  it  deserves  love  and  hatred 
of  it  if  it  deserves  hatred.  With  every  true  artist,  when 
under  the  influence  of  his  circle  he  begins  to  represent  what 
should  not  be  represented,  there  happens  what  happened  to 
Balaam,  who,  wishing  to  bless,  cursed  what  should  be  cursed, 


66  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

and  wishing  to  curse,  blessed  what  should  be  blessed:  in- 
voluntarily he  does,  not  what  he  wishes  to  do  but  what  he 
should  do.     And  this  happened  to  Maupassant. 

There  has  hardly  been  another  writer  who  so  sincerely 
thought  that  all  the  good,  all  the  meaning  of  life,  lies  in 
woman — in  love,  and  who  with  such  strength  of  passion  de- 
scribed woman  and  her  love  from  all  sides;  and  there  has 
hardly  ever  been  a  writer  who  reached  such  clearness  and  ex- 
actitude in  showing  all  the  awful  phases  of  that  very  thing 
which  had  seemed  to  him  the  highest  and  the  greatest  of  life's 
blessings.  The  more  he  penetrated  into  the  question  the  more 
it  revealed  itself,  and  the  more  did  the  coverings  fall  from  it 
and  only  its  horrible  results  and  yet  more  horrible  essence 
remain. 

Read  of  the  idiot  son,  of  the  night  with  a  daughter 
(L'ermite),  of  the  sailor  with  his  sister  (Le  port),  Le  champ 
d'oliviers,  La  petite  Roque,  of  the  English  girl  (Miss 
Harriet),  Monsieur  Parent,  Var  moire  (the  girl  who  fell 
asleep  in  the  cupboard),  the  wedding  in  Sur  Veau,  and  last 
expression  of  all,  Un  cas  de  divorce.  Just  what  was  said 
by  Marcus  Aurelius  when  devising  means  to  destroy  the  at- 
tractiveness of  this  sin  in  his  imagination,  is  what  Maupassant 
does  in  most  vivid  artistic  forms,  turning  one's  soul  inside 
out.  He  wished  to  extol  sex-love,  but  the  better  he  came  to 
know  it  the  more  he  cursed  it.  He  cursed  sex-love  for  the 
misfortunes  and  sufferings  it  bears  within  it,  and  for  the 
disillusionments  and,  above  all,  for  the  falsification  of  real 
love,  for  the  fraud  which  is  in  it  from  which  man  suffers  the 
more  acutely  the  more  trustingly  he  has  yielded  to  the  de- 
ception. 

The  powerful  moral  growth  of  the  author  in  the  course 
of  his  literary  activity  is  recorded  in  indelible  traits  in  these 
charming  short  stories  and  in  his  best  book,  Sur  Veau. 

And  not  alone  in  this  involuntary  and  therefore  all  the 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  67 

more  powerful  dethronement  of  sex-love  is  the  moral  growth 
of  the  author  seen,  but  also  in  the  more  and  more  exalted 
moral  demands  he  makes  upon  life. 

Not  alone  in  sex-love  does  he  see  the  innate  contradiction 
between  the  demands  of  animal  and  rational  man;  he  sees  it 
in  the  whole  organization  of  the  world. 

He  sees  that  the  world  as  it  is,  the  material  world,  is  not 
only  not  the  best  of  worlds,  but  might  on  the  contrary  be  quite 
different — this  thought  is  strikingly  expressed  in  Horla — and 
that  it  does  not  satisfy  the  demands  of  reason  and  life.  He 
sees  that  there  is  some  other  world,  or  at  least  the  demand  for 
such  another  world,  in  the  soul  of  man. 

He  is  tormented  not  only  by  the  irrationality  of  the  material 
world  and  its  ugliness,  but  by  its  unlovingness,  its  discord. 
I  do  not  know  a  more  heart-rending  cry  of  horror  from  one 
who  has  lost  his  way  and  is  conscious  of  his  loneliness,  than 
the  expression  of  this  idea  in  that  most  charming  story, 
Solitude. 

The  thing  that  most  tormented  Maupassant  and  to  which 
he  returns  many  times,  is  the  painful  state  of  isolation,  spirit- 
ual isolation,  of  man;  the  barrier  standing  between  him  and 
his  fellows;  a  barrier,  he  says,  the  more  painfully  felt  the 
nearer  one's  bodily  connexion. 

What  is  it  torments  him,  and  what  would  he  have?  What 
can  destroy  this  barrier?  What  end  this  isolation?  Love — 
not  feminine  love,  which  has  become  disgusting  to  him,  but 
pure,  spiritual,  divine  love.  And  that  is  what  Maupassant 
seeks.  Towards  it,  towards  this  saviour  of  life  long  since 
plainly  disclosed  to  all  men,  he  painfully  strains  from  those 
fetters  in  which  he  feels  himself  bound. 

He  does  not  yet  know  how  to  name  what  he  seeks.  He  does 
not  wish  to  name  it  with  his  lips  alone,  lest  he  should  profane 
his  holy-of -holies.  But  his  unexpressed  striving,  shown  in 
his  dread  of  loneliness,  is  so  sincere  that  it  infects  and  at- 


68  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

tracts  one  more  strongly  than  many  and  many  sermons  about 
love,  uttered  only  by  the  lips. 


The  tragedy  of  Maupassant's  life  is  that  being  in  a  most 
monstrous  and  immoral  circle,  he  by  the  strength  of  his  tal- 
ent, by  that  extraordinary  light  which  was  in  him,  was  es- 
caping from  the  outlook  on  life  held  by  that  circle,  and  was 
already  near  to  deliverance,  was  already  breathing  the  air 
of  freedom  but,  having  exhausted  his  last  strength  in  the 
struggle  and  not  being  able  to  make  a  last  effort — perished 
without  having  attained  freedom. 

The  tragedy  of  that  ruin  lies  in  what  still  afflicts  the  ma- 
jority of  the  so-called  cultured  men  of  our  time. 

Men  in  general  never  have  lived  without  an  expression  of 
the  meaning  of  their  life.  Always  and  everywhere,  highly- 
gifted  men  going  in  advance  of  others  have  appeared — the 
prophets,  as  they  are  called — who  have  explained  to  men  the 
meaning  and  purport  of  their  life;  and  always  the  ordinary, 
average  men,  who  had  not  the  strength  to  explain  that  mean- 
ing for  themselves,  have  followed  the  explanation  of  life  their 
prophets  have  disclosed  to  them. 

That  meaning  was  explained  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 
by  Christianity,  simply,  clearly,  indubitably,  and  joyfully, 
as  is  proved  by  the  lives  of  all  who  acknowledge  it  and 
follow  the  guidance  of  life  which  results  from  that  conception. 

But  then  people  appeared  who  misinterpreted  that  mean- 
ing so  that  it  became  meaningless,  and  men  are  placed  in  the 
dilemma  either  of  acknowledging  Christianity  as  interpreted 
by  Orthodoxy,  Lourdes,  the  Pope,  the  dogma  of  the  Immacu- 
late Conception  and  so  forth,  or  of  going  on  with  life  accord- 
ing to  the  teachings  of  Renan  and  his  kind,  that  is,  living 
without  any  direction  or  understanding  of  life,  following 
only  their  lusts  as  long  as  they  are  strong,  and  their  habits 
when  their  lusts  become  feeble. 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  69 

And  people,  ordinary  people,  choose  the  one  or  the  other, 
sometimes  both,  first  dissoluteness  and  then  Orthodoxy;  and 
thus  whole  generations  live,  shielding  themselves  with  various 
theories,  invented  not  to  disclose  the  truth  but  to  hide  it.  And 
ordinary,  and  more  especially  dull,  people  are  content. 

But  there  are  others — not  many,  they  are  rare — such  as 
Maupassant,  who  with  their  own  eyes  see  things  as  they  are, 
see  their  significance,  see  the  contradictions  in  life  concealed 
from  others,  and  vividly  realize  to  what  these  contradictions 
must  inevitably  lead  them — and  seek  to  solve  them  in  advance. 
They  seek  these  solutions  everywhere  except  where  they  are 
to  be  found,  namely  in  Christianity,  because  Christianity  ap- 
pears to  them  outlived  and  discarded,  repelling  them  by  its 
absurdity.  And  vainly  trying  to  find  these  solutions  for 
themselves,  they  come  to  the  conviction  that  there  are  no  solu- 
tions, and  that  it  is  inherent  in  life  that  one  should  al- 
ways bear  in  oneself  these  unsolved  contradictions.  And  hav- 
ing come  to  such  a  conclusion,  if  these  people  are  feeble  un- 
energetic  natures,  they  put  up  with  such  meaningless  life  and 
are  even  proud  of  their  position,  accounting  their  ignorance 
a  quality  and  a  sign  of  culture.  But  if  they  are  energetic, 
truthful,  and  gifted  natures,  such  as  Maupassant  was,  they 
do  not  endure  this,  but  one  way  or  other  try  to  get  out  of  this 
senseless  life. 

It  is  as  if  men  thirsting  in  a  desert  sought  water  every- 
where except  near  those  people  who,  standing  round  a  spring 
pollute  it  and  offer  stinking  mire  instead  of  the  water  that  un- 
ceasingly flows  beneath  the  mire.  Maupassant  was  in  this 
position;  he  could  not  believe — evidently  it  never  even  en- 
tered his  head — that  the  truth  he  sought  had  long  ago  been 
found  and  was  so  near  him;  but  neither  could  he  believe 
that  man  can  live  in  such  contradiction  as  that  in  which  he 
felt  himself  to  be  living. 

Life,  according  to  the  theories  in  which  he  had  been  brought 


70  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

up,  which  surrounded  him  and  were  corroborated  by  all  the 
lusts  of  his  young,  and  mentally  and  physically  strong,  be- 
ing— life  consists  in  pleasure,  of  which  the  chief  is  to  be 
found  in  woman  with  her  love,  and  in  the  reproduction  of  this 
pleasure  in  its  reflection,  in  the  presentation  of  this  love,  and 
in  exciting  it  in  others.  All  this  might  be  well;  but  on  ex- 
amining these  pleasures  quite  other  things  emerge,  alien  and 
hostile  to  this  love  and  this  beauty:  woman  for  some  reason 
is  disfigured,  becomes  unpleasantly  pregnant  and  repulsive, 
gives  birth  to  children,  unwanted  children;  then  come  de- 
ceptions, cruelties,  moral  suffering,  then  mere  old  age,  and 
ultimately  death. 

Then  is  this  beauty  indeed  beauty?  And  why  is  all  this 
so?  It  would  be  all  very  well  if  one  could  arrest  life,  but 
life  goes  on.  And  what  does  that  mean?  "Life  goes  on" 
means  that  the  hair  falls  out,  turns  grey,  the  teeth  decay,  and 
there  are  wrinkles  and  offensive  breath.  Even  before  all 
is  finished,  everything  becomes  dreadful,  repulsive:  the  rouge, 
the  powder,  the  sweat,  the  smell,  and  the  disgustingness,  are 
evident.  Where  then  is  that  which  I  serve?  Where  is 
beauty?  But  she  is  all!  And  if  she  is  not,  there  is  nothing 
left.     There  is  no  life! 

But  not  merely  is  there  no  life  in  what  seemed  to  be  life: 
one  begins  to  forsake  it  oneself,  one  becomes  weaker,  more 
stupid,  one  decays;  others  before  one's  eyes  seize  those  de- 
lights in  which  all  the  good  of  life  lay.  Nor  is  that  all. 
Some  other  possibility  of  life  begins  to  glimmer  on  one's 
mind;  something  else,  some  other  kind  of  union  with  men, 
with  the  whole  world,  one  which  does  not  admit  of  all  these 
deceptions,  something  which  cannot  by  any  means  be  in- 
fringed; which  is  true  and  forever  beautiful.  But  this  can- 
not be.  It  is  only  the  tantalizing  vision  of  an  oasis  when 
we  know  that  it  does  not  exist  and  that  there  is  nothing  but 
sand  everywhere. 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  71 


Maupassant  reached  that  tragic  moment  in  life  when  the 
struggle  begins  between  the  falseness  of  the  life  about  him 
and  the  truth  of  life  of  which  he  began  to  be  conscious. 
Pangs  of  spiritual  birth  had  already  begun  in  him. 

And  it  is  these  pangs  of  this  birth  that  are  expressed  in 
his  best  work,  especially  in  the  short  stories  printed  in  this 
edition. 

Had  he  not  been  fated  to  die  while  still  suffering,  but  to 
fulfil  all  his  possibilities,  he  would  have  left  us  great  and 
illuminating  works;  but  even  what  he  gave  us  in  the  midst 
of  his  pain  is  much.  Let  us  then  be  thankful  to  this  strong 
and  truthful  man  for  what  he  has  given  us. 


PART  IX 

FROM  A  LETTER  TO  PETER  VERIGIN,  THE 
DOUKHOBOR  LEADER 

The  thoughts  expressed  in  your  letter  about  the  advan- 
tage of  living  intercourse  over  intercourse  by  means  of  dead 
books  pleased  me  greatly  and  I  share  them.  I  write  book-, 
and  therefore  know  all  the  evil  they  produce.  I  know  how 
people  who  do  not  wish  to  receive  the  truth  can  avoid  reading 
books,  or  understanding  what  goes  against  the  grain  and  ex- 
poses them,  and  I  know  how  they  can  misinterpret  and  per- 
vert— as  they  have  done  with  the  Gospels.  All  this  I  know, 
but  yet  I  consider  books  to  be,  in  our  time,  inevitable.  I  say 
"in  our  time"  in  contradistinction  to  the  Gospel  times,  when 
there  were  no  printing-presses  and  books  were  not  used  and 
the  means  of  communication  were  vocal.  Then  it  was  pos- 
sible to  do  without  books,  for  the  enemies  of  truth  had  none. 
But  now  one  cannot  leave  this  powerful  engine  entirely  for 
the  enemies  of  truth  to  use  for  deception,  but  must  also  see 
that  it  is  used  on  the  side  of  truth. 

To  refuse  to  make  use  of  a  book  or  a  letter  to  convey  one's 
thoughts,  or  to  get  at  the  thoughts  of  others,  would  be  like 
refusing  to  use  one's  strength  of  voice  to  convey  to  many 
people  at  once  what  one  has  to  say,  or  the  use  of  one's  ears  to 
understand  what  some  one  is  saying  in  a  loud  voice.  It 
would  be  like  refusing  to  acknowledge  the  possibility  of  con- 
veying thought  except  tete-a-tete  or  in  a  whisper.  Writing 
and  printing  have  but  multiplied  a  thousand,  a  hundred  thou- 
sand, times  the  number  of  people  by  whom  the  thoughts  ex- 
pressed may  be  heard;  but  the  relation  between  him  who  ex- 

72 


LETTER  TO  PETER  VERIGIN  73 

presses  and  him  who  receives  the  thoughts  remains  as  before. 
As  in  conversation  the  hearer  may  grasp  and  understand  what 
is  said  or  may  let  it  go  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other,  so 
it  is  with  printed  matter.  As  the  reader  of  a  book  may  twist 
it  this  way  or  that,  so  also  may  he  who  hears  spoken  words. 
As  in  books  (and  we  constantly  see  this)  much  may  be  written 
that  is  superfluous  and  empty,  so  it  is  with  speech.  A  differ- 
ence exists,  but  it  is  a  difference  that  is  sometimes  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  vocal  sometimes  of  printed  communication.  The 
advantage  of  vocal  communication  is  that  the  hearer  feels  the 
spirit  of  the  speaker,  but  the  disadvantage  is  that  very  often 
empty  talkers  (for  instance  lawyers),  having  a  gift  of 
words,  sway  men  not  by  their  reasonableness  but  by  their 
mastery  of  oratorical  art,  which  is  not  so  with  books.  An- 
other advantage  of  verbal  communication  is  that  a  hearer  who 
has  not  understood  a  matter  can  ask  questions,  but  there  is 
the  accompanying  disadvantage  that  those  who  have  failed  to 
understand  (often  purposely  failed)  can  put  questions  which 
are  not  to  the  point  and  thus  divert  the  stream  of  thought — 
which  is  not  so  with  books. 

The  disadvantages  of  books  are:  first,  that  paper  can  en- 
dure all  things,  and  people  can  have  any  nonsense  printed 
causing  enormous  labour  to  be  wasted  in  paper-making  and 
type-setting,  which  is  not  so  with  vocal  communication,  for 
people  can  refuse  to  listen  to  nonsense.  Secondly,  that  books 
are  multiplying  enormously,  so  that  the  good  ones  get  lost  in 
the  sea  of  empty  and  harmful  ones.  But  then  again  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  press  are  very  great,  and  consist  chiefly  in 
the  fact  that  the  circle  of  hearers  is  extended  a  hundredfold 
or  a  thousandfold  as  compared  to  the  hearers  of  the  spoken 
word.  And  this  increase  in  the  circle  of  readers  is  important, 
not  because  there  are  many  readers,  but  because,  among  the 
millions  of  people  of  different  nations  and  stations  to  whom  a 
book  becomes  accessible,  those  who  share  similar  thoughts 


74  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

discover  one  another,  and  while  living  thousands  of  miles 
apart,  not  knowing  one  another,  are  yet  united  and  live  by 
one  spirit,  having  the  spiritual  joy  and  encouragement  of 
feeling  that  they  are  not  alone.  Such  communication  I  now 
have  with  you  and  with  many,  many,  men  of  other  nations — 
men  who  have  never  seen  me,  but  who  yet  are  nearer  to  me 
than  sons  or  brothers  of  my  own  blood. 

The  chief  consideration  in  favour  of  books  is,  that  since 
men  reached  a  certain  stage  of  development  in  the  external 
conditions  of  life,  books  and  printing  in  general  have  become 
a  means  of  communication  among  men  and  therefore  must 
not  be  neglected.  So  many  harmful  books  have  been  writ- 
ten and  circulated  that  the  evil  can  only  be  met  by  other  books. 
One  wedge  drives  out  another!  Christ  said:  "What  I 
tell  you  in  the  ear  proclaim  upon  the  housetops."  Printing 
is  just  that  proclamation  from  the  housetops.  The  printed 
word  is  a  tongue — a  tongue  that  reaches  very  far ;  and  for  this 
reason  all  that  is  said  of  the  tongue  relates  also  to  the  printed 
word:  "Therewith  bless  we  the  Lord;  and  therewith  curse 
we  men,  made  after  the  likeness  of  God."  Therefore  one  can- 
not be  too  careful  what  one  says  and  listens  to,  nor  what  one 
prints  and  reads.  .  .  . 

The  above  extract  is  from  a  letter  written  to  Verigin  while  he  was  in  exile  at 
Obdorsk,  near  the  mouth  of  the  Obi  in  Northern  Siberia.  The  whole  letter  is 
given  in  Essays  and  Letters  by  Tolstoy,  in  the  "World's  Classics"  series.  Oxford 
University  Press. 

1895. 


PART  X 

The  essay  On  Art  that  follows  was  the  last  attempt  Tolstoy  made, 
after  many  years'  reflection,  to  express  his  views  on  art,  before  he  wrote 
What  is  Art?  This  essay  (On  Art)  did  not  satisfy  him,  but  in  several 
respects  it  drew  very  near  to  what  he  was  finally  to  say.  What  he  had 
not  arrived  at  when  he  wrote  it  was  ( 1 )  the  clear-cut  working  definition 
of  art  which  he  gives  in  his  later  work,  and  (2)  the  clear  perception  of 
the  importance  and  necessity  of  appraising  separately  the  form  of  a  work 
of  art,  which  makes  it  infectious,  and  the  subject-matter  of  feeling  which 
connects  it  with  the  whole  of  life,  and  which  benefits  or  harms  mankind. 

One  feels,  in  On  Art,  that  Tolstoy  is  still  treading  warily  a  path  he 
has  not  fully  explored;  it  was  only  later — in  What  is  Art? — that  he  let 
himself  go,  careless  of  the  eggs  he  broke  and  feelings  he  disturbed,  and 
asserting  his  convictions  with  emphasis  and  exuberance. 

ON  ART: 

What  is  and  What  is  not  Art;  And  When  is  Art  Important 
and  When  is  it  Trivial? 

I 

In  our  life  there  are  many  insignificant  or  even  harmful 
activities  which  enjoy  a  respect  they  do  not  deserve,  or  are 
tolerated  merely  because  they  are  considered  to  be  of  im- 
portance. The  copying  of  flowers,  horses  and  landscapes, 
such  clumsy  learning  of  musical  pieces  as  is  carried  on  in 
most  of  our  so-called  educated  families,  and  the  writing 
of  feeble  stories  and  bad  verses,  hundreds  of  which  appear 
in  the  newspapers  and  magazines,  are  obviously  not  artistic 
activities;  and  the  painting  of  indecent,  pornograpjnc  pic- 
tures stimulating  sensuality,  or  the  composition  of  songs  and 
stories  of  that  nature,  even  if  they  have  artistic  qualities, 
is  not  a  good  activity  worthy  of  respect. 

75 


76  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

And  therefore,  taking  all  the  productions  which  are  con- 
sidered among  us  to  be  artistic,  I  think  it  would  be  useful, 
first,  to  separate  what  really  is  art  from  what  has  no  right  to 
that  name;  and  secondly,  taking  what  really  is  art,  to  dis- 
tinguish what  is  important  and  good  from  what  is  insignificant 
and  bad. 

The  question  of  how  and  where  to  draw  the  line  separating 
Art  from  Not-art,  and  the  good  and  important  in  art  from 
the  insignificant  and  evil,  is  one  of  enormous  importance  to 
life. 

A  great  many  of  the  wrong-doings  and  mistakes  in  our  life 
result  from  our  calling  things  art  which  are  not  art.  We 
accord  an  unmerited  respect  to  things  which  not  only  do  not 
deserve  it,  but  deserve  condemnation  and  contempt.  Apart 
from  the  enormous  amount  of  human  labour  spent  on  the 
preparation  of  articles  needed  for  the  production  of  art: 
studios,  paints,  canvas,  marble,  musical  instruments,  and  the 
theatres  with  their  scenery  and  appliances, — even  the  lives 
of  human  beings  are  actually  perverted  by  the  one-sided 
labours  demanded  in  the  preparation  of  those  who  train  for  the 
arts.  Hundreds  of  thousands  if  not  millions  of  children  are 
forced  to  one-sided  toil,  practising  the  so-called  arts  of  danc- 
ing and  music.  Not  to  speak  of  the  children  of  the  educated 
classes  who  pay  their  tribute  to  art  in  the  form  of  tormenting 
lessons, — children  devoted  to  the  ballet  and  musical  profes- 
sions are  simply  distorted  in  the  name  of  art  to  which  they 
are  dedicated.  If  it  is  possible  to  compel  children  of  seven 
or  eight  to  play  an  instrument,  and  for  ten  or  fifteen  years 
to  continue  to  do  so  for  seven  or  eight  hours  a  day;  if  it  is 
possible  to  place  girls  in  the  schools  for  the  ballet,1  and  then 
to  make  them  cut  capers  during  the  first  months  of  their 
pregnancy,  and  if  all  this  is  done  in  the  name  of  art,  then  it 

1The   schools   for   training   ballet-dancers,   as   well   as   the   theatres   where   the 
chief  ballets  were  performed,  were  State  institutions  in  Russia. 


ON  ART  77 

is  certainly  necessary  to  define,  first  of  all,  what  really  is  art — 
lest  under  the  guise  of  art  a  counterfeit  should  be  produced; 
and  then  also  to  prove  that  art  is  a  matter  of  importance  for 
mankind. 

Where  then  is  the  line  dividing  art,  an  important  and 
necessary  matter  valuable  to  humanity,  from  useless  occupa- 
tions, commercial  productions,  and  even  from  immorality? 
In  what  does  the  essence  and  importance  of  true  art  lie? 

II 

One  theory — which  its  opponents  call  ''tendentious" — says 
that  the  essence  of  true  art  lies  in  the  importance  of  the 
subject  treated  of:  that  for  art  to  be  art,  it  is  necessary  that 
its  content  should  be  something  important,  necessary  to  man, 
good,  moral,  and  instructive. 

According  to  that  theory  the  artist — that  is  to  say  the  man 
who  possesses  a  certain  skill — by  taking  the  most  important 
theme  which  interests  society  at  the  time,  can,  by  clothing  it 
in  what  looks  like  artistic  form,  produce  a  work  of  true  art. 
According  to  that  theory  religious,  moral,  social,  and  political 
truths  clothed  in  what  seems  like  artistic  form  are  artistic 
productions. 

Another  theory,  which  calls  itself  "esthetic,"  or  "art  for 
art's  sake,"  says  that  the  essence  of  true  art  lies  in  the  beauty 
of  its  form ;  that  for  art  to  be  true,  it  is  necessary  that  what  it 
presents  should  be  beautiful. 

According  to  that  theory  it  is  necessary  for  the  production 
of  art,  that  an  artist  should  possess  technique,  and  should  de- 
pict an  object  which  produces  in  the  highest  degree  a  pleasant 
impression ;  and  therefore  a  beautiful  landscape,  flowers,  fruit, 
a  nude  figure,  and  ballets,  will  be  works  of  art. 

A  third  theory — which  calls  itself  "realistic" — says  that 
the  essence  of  art  consists  in  the  truthful,  exact  presentation 


78  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

of  reality:  that,  for  art  to  be  true  it  is  necessary  that  it  should 
depict  life  as  it  really  is. 

According  to  that  theory,  it  follows  that  works  of  art  may 
be  anything  an  artist  sees  or  hears,  all  that  he  is  able  to 
make  use  of  in  his  function  of  reproduction,  independently 
of  the  importance  of  the  subject  or  beauty  of  the  form. 

Such  are  the  theories;  and  on  the  basis  of  each  of  them 
so-called  works  of  art  appear  which  fit  the  first,  the  second, 
or  the  third.  But,  apart  from  the  fact  that  each  of  these  the- 
ories contradicts  the  others,  not  one  of  them  satisfies  the 
chief  demand,  namely,  to  ascertain  the  boundary  which  di- 
vides art  from  commercial,  insignificant,  or  even  harmful 
productions. 

In  accordance  with  each  of  these  theories,  works  can  be 
produced  unceasingly,  as  in  any  handicraft,  and  they  may 
be  insignificant  or  harmful. 

As  to  the  first  theory  ("tendency"),  important  subjects — 
religious,  moral,  social,  or  political — can  always  be  found 
ready  to  hand,  and  therefore  one  can  continually  produce 
works  of  so-called  art.  Moreover,  such  subjects  may  be  pre- 
sented so  obscurely  and  insincerely  that  works  treating  of  the 
most  important  of  them  will  prove  insignificant  and  even 
harmful  when  the  lofty  content  has  been  degraded  by  insincere 
expression. 

Similarly  according  to  the  second  theory  ("esthetic"),  any 
man  having  learned  the  technique  of  any  branch  of  art  can 
incessantly  produce  something  beautiful  and  pleasant,  but 
again  this  beautiful  and  pleasant  thing  may  be  insignificant 
and  harmful. 

Just  in  the  same  way  according  to  the  third  theory  ("realis- 
tic"), everyone  who  wishes  to  be  an  artist  can  incessantly 
produce  objects  of  so-called  art,  because  everybody  is  always 
interested  in  something.     If  the  author  is  interested  in  what 


ON  ART  79 

is  insignificant  and  evil,  then  his  work  will  be  insignificant 
and  evil. 

The  chief  point  is  that,  according  to  each  of  these  three 
theories,  "works  of  art"  can  be  produced  incessantly,  as  in 
every  handicraft,  and  that  they  actually  are  being  so  pro- 
duced. So  that  these  three  dominant  and  discordant  theories 
not  merely  fail  to  fix  the  line  that  separates  art  from  not-art, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  they  serve  more  than  anything  else  to 
stretch  the  domain  of  art  and  to  bring  within  it  all  that  is 
insignificant  and  harmful. 

Ill 

Where  then  is  the  boundary  dividing  art  that  is  needful  and 
important  and  deserves  respect  from  that  which  is  unneces- 
sary, unimportant,  and  deserves  not  respect  but  contempt — 
such  as  productions  which  have  a  plainly  depraving  effect? 
In  what  does  true  artistic  activity  consist? 

To  answer  this  question  clearly  we  must  first  discriminate 
between  artistic  activity  and  another  activity  (usually  con- 
fused with  it),  namely,  that  of  handing  on  impressions  and 
perceptions  received  from  preceding  generations — separating 
such  activity  as  that,  from  the  reception  of  new  impressions — 
those  namely  which  will  thereafter  be  handed  on  from  gen- 
eration to  generation. 

The  handing  on  of  what  was  known  to  former  generations, 
in  the  sphere  of  art,  as  in  the  sphere  of  science,  is  an  activity 
of  teaching  and  learning.  But  the  production  of  something 
new  is  creation — the  real  artistic  activity. 

The  business  of  handing  on  knowledge — teaching — has  not 
an  independent  significance  but  depends  entirely  on  the  im- 
portance people  attach  to  that  which  has  been  created — what 
it  is  they  consider  it  necessary  to  hand  on  from  generation 
to  generation.     And  therefore  the  definition  of  what  a  creation 


80  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

is  will  also  define  what  it  is  that  should  be  handed  on. 
Moreover,  the  teacher's  business  is  not  usually  considered  to 
be  artistic;  the  importance  of  artistic  activity  is  properly 
attributed  to  creation— that  is  to  artistic  production.1 

What  then  is  artistic  (and  scientific)  creation? 

Artistic  (and  also  scientific)  creation  is  such  mental  activ- 
ity as  brings  dimly-perceived  feelings  (or  thoughts)  to  such 
a  degree  of  clearness  that  these  feelings  (or  thoughts)  are 
transmitted  to  other  people. 

The  process  of  "creation" — one  common  to  all  men  and 
therefore  known  to  each  of  us  by  inner  experience — occurs 
as  follows:  a  man  surmises  or  dimly  feels  something  that 
is  perfectly  new  to  him,  which  he  has  never  heard  of  from 
anybody.  This  something  new  impresses  him,  and  in  ordi- 
nary conversation  he  points  out  to  others  what  he  perceives, 
and  to  his  surprise  finds  that  what  is  apparent  to  him  is 
quite  unseen  by  others.  They  do  not  see  or  do  not  feel  what 
he  tells  them  of.  This  isolation,  discord,  disunion  from 
others,  at  first  disturbs  him,  and  verifying  his  own  percep- 
tion the  man  tries  in  different  ways  to  communicate  to  others 

1  The  most  usual  and  widely  diffused  definition  of  art  is  that  art  is  a  parti- 
cular activity  not  aiming  at  material  utility,  but  affording  pleasure  to  people; 
a  pleasure,  it  is  usually  added,  "ennobling  and  elevating  to  the  soul." 

This  definition  corresponds  to  the  conception  of  art  held  by  the  majority  of 
people;  but  it  is  inexact  and  not  quite  clear,  and  admits  of  very  arbitrary  inter- 
pretation. 

It  is  not  clear,  for  it  fuses  in  one  conception  art  as  a  human  activity  producing 
objects  of  art,  and  also  the  feelings  of  the  recipient;  and  it  admits  of  arbitrary 
interpretation,  because  it  does  not  define  wherein  lies  the  pleasure  that  "ennobles 
and  elevates  the  soul."  So  that  one  person  may  declare  that  he  receives  such 
pleasure  from  a  certain  production  from  which  another  does  not  receive  it  at  all. 

And  therefore  to  define  art  it  is  necessary  to  define  the  peculiarity  of  that  ac- 
tivity, both  in  its  origin  in  the  soul  of  the  producer  and  in  the  peculiarity  of  its 
action  on  the  souls  of  the  recipients.  This  activity  is  distinguished  from  any 
other  activity  of  craftsmanship,  or  trade,  or  even  science  (though  it  has  great 
affinity  with  this  last),  in  that  it  is  not  evoked  by  any  material  need,  but  supplies 
to  both  producer  and  recipient  a  special  kind  of  so-called  "artistic  satisfaction." 
To  explain  to  oneself  this  characteristic  we  must  understand  what  impels  people 
to  this  activity — that  is,  how  artistic  production  originates. 


ON  ART  81 

what  he  has  seen,  felt,  or  understood ;  but  these  others  still  do 
not  understand  what  he  communicates  to  them,  or  do  not 
understand  it  as  he  understands  or  feels  it.  And  the  man 
begins  to  be  troubled  by  a  doubt  as  to  whether  he  imagines 
and  dimly  feels  something  that  does  not  really  exist,  or 
whether  others  do  not  see  and  do  not  feel  something  that  does 
exist.  And  to  solve  this  doubt  he  directs  his  whole  strength 
to  the  task  of  making  his  discovery  so  clear  that  there  cannot 
be  the  smallest  doubt,  either  for  himself  or  for  other  people, 
as  to  the  existence  of  that  which  he  perceives;  and  as  soon 
as  this  elucidation  is  completed  and  the  man  himself  no  longer 
doubts  the  existence  of  what  he  has  seen,  understood,  or  felt, 
others  at  once  see,  understand,  and  feel  as  he  does,  and  it  is 
this  effort  to  make  clear  and  indubitable  to  himself  and  to 
others  what  both  to  others  and  to  him  had  been  dim  and 
obscure,  that  is  the  source  from  which  flows  the  production 
of  man's  spiritual  activity  in  general,  or  what  we  call  works  of 
art — which  widen  man's  horizon  and  oblige  him  to  see  what 
had  not  been  perceived  before.1 

It  is  in  this  that  the  activity  of  an  artist  consists;  and  to 
this  activity  is  related  the  feeling  of  the  recipient.  This  feel- 
ing has  its  source  in  imitativeness,  or  rather  in  a  capacity  to 
be  infected,  and  in  a  certain  hypnotism — that  is  to  say  in  the 
fact  that  the  artist's  stress  of  spirit  elucidating  to  himself  the 
subject  that  had  been  doubtful  to  him,  communicates  itself, 
through  the  artistic  production,  to  the  recipients.  A  work  of 
art  is  then  finished  when  it  has  been  brought  to  such  clearness 
that  it  communicates  itself  to  others  and  evokes  in  them  the 
same  feeling  that  the  artist  experienced  while  creating  it. 

What  was  formerly  unperceived,  unfelt,  and  uncompre- 

1  The  division  of  the  results  of  man's  mental  activity  into  scientific,  philosophic, 
theological,  hortatory,  artistic,  and  other  groups,  is  made  for  convenience  of  ob- 
servation. But  such  divisions  do  not  exist  in  reality;  just  as  the  divisions  of 
the  River  Volga  into  the  Tver,  Nizhigorod,  Simbirsk  and  Saratov  sections,  are 
not  divisions  of  the  river  itself,  but  divisons  we  make  for  our  own  convenience. 


82  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

hended,  by  them  is  by  intensity  of  feeling  brought  to  such  a 
degree  of  clearness  that  it  becomes  acceptable  to  all,  and  the 
production  is  a  work  of  art. 

The  satisfaction  of  the  intense  feeling  of  the  artist  who 
has  achieved  his  aim  gives  pleasure  to  him.  Participation 
in  this  same  stress  of  feeling  and  in  its  satisfaction,  a  yield- 
ing to  this  feeling,  the  imitation  of  it  and  infection  by  it 
(as  by  a  yawn),  the  experiencing  in  brief  moments  of  what 
the  artist  has  lived  through  while  creating  his  work,  is  the 
enjoyment  those  who  assimilate  a  work  of  art  obtain. 

Such  in  my  opinion  is  the  peculiarity  distinguishing  art 
from  any  other  activity. 

IV 

According  to  this  division,  all  that  imparts  to  mankind 
something  new,  achieved  by  an  artist's  stress  of  feeling  and 
thought,  is  a  work  of  art.  But  that  this  mental  activity  should 
really  have  the  importance  people  attach  to  it,  it  is  necessary 
that  it  should  contribute  what  is  good  to  humanity,  for  it  is 
evident  that  to  a  new  evil,  to  a  new  temptation  leading  people 
into  evil,  we  cannot  attribute  the  value  given  to  art  as  to  some- 
thing that  benefits  mankind.  The  importance,  the  value,  of 
art  consists  in  widening  man's  outlook,  in  increasing  the 
spiritual  wealth  that  is  humanity's  capital. 

Therefore,  though  a  work  of  art  must  always  include  some- 
thing new,  yet  the  revelation  of  something  new  will  not 
always  be  a  work  of  art.  That  it  should  be  a  work  of  art, 
it  is  necessary: 

(1)  That  the  new  idea,  the  content  of  the  work,  should  be  of  impor- 

tance to  mankind. 

(2)  That  this  content  should  be  expressed  so  clearly  that  people  may 

understand  it. 

(3)  That  what  incites  the  author  to  work  at  his  production  should  be 

an  inner  need  and  not  an  external  inducement. 


ON  ART  83 

And  therefore  that  will  not  be  a  work  of  art  in  which  no 
new  thing  is  disclosed;  and  that  which  has  for  its  content 
what  is  insignificant  and  therefore  unimportant  to  man  will 
not  be  a  work  of  art,  however  intelligibly  it  may  be  expressed 
and  even  if  the  author  has  worked  at  it  sincerely  from  an 
inner  impulse.  Nor  will  that  be  a  work  of  art  which  is  so 
expressed  as  to  be  unintelligible  however  sincere  may  be  the 
author's  relation  to  it;  nor  that  which  has  been  produced  by 
its  author  not  from  an  inner  impulse  but  for  an  external  aim, 
however  important  may  be  its  content  and  however  intel- 
ligible its  expression. 

That  is  a  work  of  art  which  discloses  something  new  and 
at  the  same  time  in  some  degree  satisfies  the  three  conditions : 
content,  form,  and  sincerity. 

And  here  we  come  to  the  problem  of  how  to  define  that 
lowest  degree  of  content,  beauty,  and  sincerity,  which  a  pro- 
duction must  possess  to  be  a  work  of  art. 

To  be  a  work  of  art  it  must,  in  the  first  place,  be  a  thing 
which  has  for  its  content  something  hitherto  unknown  but  of 
which  man  has  need;  secondly,  it  must  show  this  so  intelli- 
gibly that  it  becomes  generally  accessible;  and  thirdly,  it 
must  result  from  the  author's  need  to  solve  an  inner  doubt. 

A  work  in  which  all  three  conditions  are  present  even  to 
a  slight  degree,  will  be  a  work  of  art;  but  a  production  from 
which  even  one  of  them  is  absent  will  not  be  a  work  of  art. 

But  it  will  be  said  that  every  work  contains  something 
needed  by  man,  and  every  work  will  be  to  some  extent  intelli- 
gible, and  that  an  author's  relation  to  every  work  has  some 
degree  "of  sincerity.  Where  is  the  limit  of  needful  content, 
intelligible  expression,  and  sincerity  of  treatment?  A  reply 
to  this  question  will  be  given  us  by  a  clear  perception  of  the 
highest  limit  to  which  art  may  attain:  the  opposite  of  the 
highest  limit  will  show  the  lowest  limit,  dividing  all  that 
cannot  be  accounted  art  from  what  is  art,     The  highest  limit 


84  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

of  content  is  such  as  is  always  necessary  to  all  men.  That 
which  is  always  necessary  to  all  men  is  what  is  good  or  moral.1 
The  lowest  limit  of  content,  consequently,  will  be  such  as  is 
not  needed  by  men,  and  is  a  bad  and  immoral  content.  The 
highest  limit  of  expression  will  be  such  as  is  always  intelli- 
gible to  all  men.  What  is  thus  intelligible  is  that  which  has 
nothing  in  it  obscure,  superfluous,  or  indefinite,  but  only 
what  is  clear,  concise,  and  definite, — what  is  called  beautiful. 
Conversely,  the  lowest  limit  of  expression  will  be  such  as  is 
obscure,  diffuse,  and  indefinite, — that  is  to  say  formless. 
The  highest  limit  of  the  artist's  relation  to  his  subject  will 
be  such  as  evokes  in  the  soul  of  all  men  an  impression  of 
reality — the  reality  not  so  much  of  what  exists,  as  of  what 
goes  on  in  the  soul  of  the  artist.  This  impression  of  reality 
is  produced  by  truth  only;  and  therefore  the  highest  relation 
of  an  author  to  his  subject  is  sincerity.  The  lowest  limit, 
conversely,  will  be  that  in  which  the  author's  relation  to  his 
subject  is  not  genuine,  but  false.  All  works  of  art  lie  between 
these  two  limits. 

A  perfect  work  of  art  will  be  one  in  which  the  content  is 
important  and  significant  to  all  men,  and  therefore  it  will  be 
moral.  The  expression  will  be  quite  clear,  intelligible  to  all, 
and  therefore  beautiful;  the  author's  relation  to  his  work  will 
be  altogether  sincere,  and  heartfelt,  and  therefore  true.  Im- 
perfect works,  but  still  works  of  art,  will  be  such  productions 
as  satisfy  all  three  conditions  though  it  be  but  in  unequal 

1  Half-a-century  ago  no  explanation  would  have  been  needed  of  the  words 
"important",  "good",  and  "moral",  but  in  our  time  nine  out  of  ten  educated  peo- 
ple, at  these  words,  will  ask  with  a  triumphant  air :  "What  is  important,  good 
or  moral?"  assuming  that  these  words  express  something  conditional  and  not 
admitting  of  definition  and  therefore  I   must  answer  this  anticipated  objection. 

That  which  unites  people,  not  by  violence  but  by  love:  that  which  serves  to 
disclose  the  joy  of  the  union  of  men  with  one  another,  is  "important",  "good", 
or  "moral".  "Evil"  and  "immoral"  is  that  which  divides  them,  which  leads  men 
to  the  suffering  that  is  produced  by  disunion.  "Important"  is  that  which  causes 
people  to  understand  and  to  love  what  they  previously  did  not  understand  or 
love. 


ON  ART  85 

degree.  That  only  will  be  no  work  of  art,  in  which  either 
the  content  is  quite  insignificant  and  unnecessary  to  man,  or 
the  expression  quite  unintelligible,  or  the  relation  of  the  author 
to  the  work  is  quite  insincere.  In  the  degree  of  perfection 
attained  in  each  of  these  respects  lies  the  difference  in 
quality  between  all  true  works  of  art.  Sometimes  the  first 
predominates,  sometimes  the  second,  and  sometimes  the  third. 

All  the  remaining  imperfect  productions  fall  naturally,  ac- 
cording to  the  three  fundamental  conditions  of  art,  into  three 
chief  kinds:  1)  those  which  stand  out  by  the  importance 
of  their  content,  2)  those  which  stand  out  by  their  beauty  of 
form,  and  3)  those  which  stand  out  by  their  heartfelt  sin- 
cerity. These  three  kinds  all  yield  approximations  to  perfect 
art  and  are  inevitably  produced  wherever  there  is  art. 

Thus  among  young  artists  heartfelt  sincerity  chiefly  pre- 
vails, coupled  with  insignificance  of  content  and  more  or 
less  beauty  of  form.  Among  older  artists,  on  the  contrary, 
the  importance  of  the  content  often  predominates  over  beauty 
of  form  and  sincerity.  Among  laborious  artists  beauty  of 
form  predominates  over  content  and  sincerity. 

All  works  of  art  may  be  appraised  by  the  prevalence  in 
them  of  the  first,  the  second,  or  the  third  quality,  and  they 
may  all  be  subdivided  into  1)  those  that  have  content  and 
are  beautiful,  but  have  little  sincerity;  2)  those  that  have 
content,  but  little  beauty  and  little  sincerity;  3)  those  that 
have  little  content,  but  are  beautiful  and  sincere,  and  so  on, 
in  all  possible  combinations  and  permutations. 

All  works  of  art,  and  in  general  all  the  mental  activities  of 
man,  can  be  appraised  on  the  basis  of  these  three  fundamental 
qualities ;  and  they  have  been  and  are  so  appraised. 

The  differences  in  valuation  have  resulted,  and  do  result, 
from  the  extent  of  the  demand  presented  to  art  by  certain 
people  at  a  certain  time  in  regard  to  these  three  conditions. 

So  for  instance  in  classical  times  the  demand  for  signifi- 


86  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

cance  of  content  was  much  higher,  and  the  demand  for  clear- 
ness and  sincerity  much  lower  than  they  subsequently  became, 
especially  in  our  time.  The  demand  for  beauty  became 
greater  in  the  Middle  Ages,  but  on  the  other  hand  the  demand 
for  significance  and  sincerity  became  lower;  and  in  our  time 
the  demand  for  sincerity  and  truthfulness  has  become  much 
greater,  but  on  the  other  hand  the  demand  for  beauty,  and 
especially  for  significance,  has  been  lowered. 


The  valuation  of  works  of  art  is  necessarily  correct  when 
all  three  conditions  are  taken  into  account;  and  inevitably 
incorrect  when  works  are  valued  not  on  the  basis  of  all  three 
conditions  but  only  of  one  or  two  of  them. 

And  yet  such  valuation  of  works  of  art  on  the  basis  of 
only  one  of  the  three  conditions  is  a  particularly  prevalent 
error  in  our  time,  lowering  the  general  level  of  what  is  de- 
manded from  art  to  what  can  be  reached  by  a  mere  imitation 
of  it,  and  confusing  the  minds  of  critics,  and  of  the  public, 
and  of  artists  themselves,  as  to  what  is  really  art  and  as  to 
where  its  boundary  lies — the  line  that  divides  it  from  crafts- 
manship and  from  mere  amusement. 

This  confusion  arises  from  the  fact  that  people  who  lack 
the  capacity  to  understand  true  art  judge  of  works  of  art 
from  one  side  only,  and  according  to  their  own  characters  and 
training  observe  in  them  the  first,  the  second,  or  the  third 
side  only,  imagining  and  assuming  that  this  one  side  percep- 
tible to  them — and  the  significance  of  art  based  on  this  one 
condition — defines  the  whole  of  art.  Some  see  only  the  im- 
portance of  the  content,  others  only  the  beauty  of  form,  and 
others  again  only  the  artist's  sincerity  and  therefore  truthful- 
ness. And  according  to  what  they  see,  they  define  the  nature 
of  art  itself,  construct  their  theories,  and  praise  and  encourage 


ON  ART  87 

those  who,  like  themselves,  not  understanding  wherein  a  work 
of  art  consists,  turn  them  out  like  pancakes  and  inundate  our 
world  with  foul  floods  of  all  kinds  of  follies  and  abominations, 
which  they  call  "works  of  art." 

Such  are  the  majority  of  people  and,  as  representatives  of 
that  majority,  such  were  the  originators  of  the  three  esthetic 
theories  already  alluded  to,  which  meet  the  perceptions  and 
demands  of  that  majority. 

All  these  theories  are  based  on  a  misunderstanding  of  the 
whole  importance  of  art,  and  on  severing  its  three  funda- 
mental conditions;  and  therefore  these  three  false  theories  of 
art  clash,  as  a  result  of  the  fact  that  real  art  has  three  funda- 
mental conditions,  of  which  each  of  those  theories  accepts  but 
one. 

The  first  theory,  of  so-called  "tendentious"  art,  accepts  as 
a  work  of  art  one  that  has  for  its  subject  something  which, 
though  it  be  not  new,  is  important  to  all  men  by  its  moral 
content,  independently  of  its  beauty  and  spiritual  depth. 

The  second  ("art  for  art's  sake")  recognizes  as  a  work  of 
art  only  that  which  has  beauty  of  form,  independently  of  its 
novelty,  the  importance  of  its  content,  or  its  sincerity. 

The  third  theory,  the  "realistic,"  recognizes  as  a  work  of 
art  only  that  in  which  the  author  is  sincerely  related  to  his 
subject  and  which  is  therefore  truthful.  The  last  theory 
says  that  however  insignificant  or  even  nasty  may  be  the 
content,  with  a  more  or  less  beautiful  form,  the  work  will  be 
good  if  the  author's  relation  to  what  he  depicts  is  sincere  and 
therefore  truthful. 


VI 

All  these  theories  forget  one  chief  thing — that  neither  im- 
portance, nor  beauty,  nor  sincerity,  provides  the  requisite  for 
works  of  art,  but  that  the  basic  condition  of  the  production  of 


88  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

such  works  is  that  the  artist  should  be  conscious  of  something 
new  and  important.  And  that,  therefore,  as  it  always  has 
been  so  it  always  will  be  necessary  for  a  true  artist  to  be  able 
to  perceive  something  quite  new  and  important.  For  the 
artist  to  see  what  is  new,  it  is  necessary  that  he  should  ob- 
serve and  think,  and  not  occupy  his  life  with  trifles  which 
hinder  his  attentive  penetration  into,  and  meditation  on,  life's 
phenomena.  In  order  that  the  new  things  he  sees  may  be 
important  ones,  the  artist  must  be  a  morally  enlightened  man 
and  he  must  not  live  a  selfish  life,  but  must  share  the  common 
life  of  humanity. 

If  only  he  sees  what  is  new  and  important,  he  will  be  sure 
to  find  a  form  which  will  express  it,  and  the  sincerity  which 
is  an  essential  content  of  artistic  production  will  be  present. 
He  must  be  able  to  express  the  new  subject  so  that  all  may 
understand  it.  For  this  he  must  have  such  mastery  of  his 
craft  that  when  working  he  will  think  as  little  about  the  rules 
of  that  craft  as  a  man  when  walking  thinks  of  the  laws  of 
motion.  And  in  order  to  attain  this,  the  artist  must  not  look 
round  on  his  work  and  admire  it,  must  not  make  technique  his 
aim,  as  one  who  is  walking  should  not  contemplate  and  admire 
his  gait,  but  should  be  concerned  only  to  express  his  subject 
clearly  and  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  intelligible  to  all. 

Finally,  to  work  at  his  subject  not  for  external  aims  but  to 
satisfy  his  inner  need,  the  artist  must  rise  superior  to  motives 
of  avarice  and  vanity.  He  must  love  with  his  own  heart  and 
not  with  another's,  and  not  pretend  that  he  loves  what  others 
love  or  consider  worthy  of  love. 

And  to  attain  all  this  the  artist  must  do  as  Balaam  did 
when  the  messengers  came  to  him,  and  he  went  apart  awaiting 
God,  so  as  to  say  only  what  God  commanded;  and  he  must 
not  do  as  that  same  Balaam  afterwards  did  when,  tempted  by 
gifts,  he  went  to  the  king  against  God's  command,  as  was 


ON  ART  89 

evident  even  to  the  ass  on  which  he  rode,  though  not  perceived 
by  him  while  blinded  by  avarice  and  vanity. 

VII 

In  our  time  nothing  of  that  kind  is  demanded.  A  man 
who  wishes  to  follow  art  need  not  wait  for  some  important 
and  new  perception  to  arise  in  his  soul,  which  he  can  sin- 
cerely love  and  having  loved  can  clothe  in  suitable  form. 
In  our  time  a  man  who  wishes  to  follow  art  either  takes  a 
subject  current  at  the  time  and  one  praised  by  people  who  in 
his  opinion  are  clever,  and  clothes  it  as  best  he  can  in  what  is 
called  "artistic  form";  or  he  chooses  a  subject  which  gives  him 
most  opportunity  to  display  his  technical  skill,  and  with  toil 
and  patience  produces  what  he  considers  to  be  a  work  of  art; 
or  having  received  some  chance  impression  he  takes  what 
caused  that  impression  for  his  subject,  imagining  that  it  will 
yield  a  work  of  art  since  it  happened  to  produce  an  impression 
on  him. 

And  so  there  appear  an  innumerable  quantity  of  so-called 
works  of  art;  which,  as  in  every  mechanical  craft,  can  be 
produced  without  the  least  intermission.  There  always  are 
current  fashionable  notions  in  society,  and  with  patience  a 
technique  can  always  be  learnt,  and  something  or  other  will 
always  seem  interesting  to  someone.  Having  separated  the 
conditions  that  should  be  united  in  a  true  work  of  art,  people 
have  produced  so  many  works  of  pseudo-art  that  the  public, 
the  critics,  and  the  pseudo-artists  themselves,  are  left  quite 
without  any  definition  of  what  they  themselves  hold  to  be 
art. 

The  people  of  to-day  have  as  it  were  said  to  themselves: 
" Works  of  art  are  good  and  useful;  so  it  is  necessary  to  pro- 
duce more  of  them."     It  would  indeed  be  a  very  good  thing 


90  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

if  there  were  more ;  but  the  trouble  is  that  you  can  only  produce 
to  order  works  which  are  no  better  than  works  of  mere  crafts- 
manship because  of  their  lack  of  the  essential  conditions 
of  art. 

A  really  artistic  production  cannot  be  made  to  order,  for 
a  true  work  of  art  is  the  revelation  (by  laws  beyond  our 
grasp)  of  a  new  conception  of  life  arising  in  the  artist's  soul, 
which,  when  expressed,  lights  up  the  path  along  which 
humanity  progresses. 


PART  XI 
AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  "WHAT  IS  ART?" 

Tolstoy's  What  is  Art?  both  in  Russian  and  in  my  translation,  appeared  in 
separate  parts  during  the  first  half  of  1898.  I  wrote  the  following  Introduction 
about  a  year  later,  for  an  edition  issued  in  April  1899. 

An  estimable  and  charming  Russian  lady  I  knew,  felt  so 
strongly  the  charm  of  the  music  and  ritual  of  the  services 
of  the  Russo-Greek  Church  that  she  wished  the  peasants,  in 
whom  she  was  interested,  to  retain  their  blind  faith  though 
she  herself  disbelieved  the  Church  doctrines.  "Their  lives 
are  so  poor  and  bare,  they  have  so  little  art,  so  little  poetry 
and  colour  in  their  lives — let  them  at  least  enjoy  what  they 
have;  it  would  be  cruel  to  undeceive  them,"  said  she. 

Suppose  a  false  and  antiquated  view  of  life  is  supported  by 
means  of  art  and  is  inseparably  linked  to  some  manifesta- 
tions of  art  which  we  enjoy  and  prize;  if  the  false  view  of  life 
be  destroyed  this  art  will  cease  to  appear  valuable.  Is  it 
better  to  screen  the  error  for  the  sake  of  preserving  the  art? 
Or  should  the  art  be  sacrificed  for  the  sake  of  truth? 

Again  and  again  in  history  a  dominant  Church  has  utilized 
art  to  maintain  its  sway  over  men.  Reformers  (early  Chris- 
tians, Mohammedans,  Puritans,  and  others)  have  perceived 
that  art  bound  people  to  the  old  faith  and  have  been  angry 
with  art.  They  diligently  chipped  the  noses  from  statues 
and  images,  and  were  wroth  with  ceremonies,  decorations, 
stained-glass  windows,  and  processions.  They  were  even 
ready  to  banish  art  altogether,  for  besides  the  superstitions 
it  upheld,  they  saw  that  it  depraved  and  perverted  men  by 
dramas,  drinking-songs,  novels,  pictures,  and  dances,  of  a 

91 


92  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

kind  that  awakened  man's  lower  nature.  Yet  art  always 
re-asserted  her  sway  and  to-day  we  are  told  by  many  that  art 
has  nothing  to  do  with  morality — that  art  should  be  followed 
for  art's  sake. 

I  went  one  day  with  a  woman  artist  to  the  Bodkin  Art 
Gallery,  in  Moscow.  In  one  of  the  rooms,  on  a  table,  lay  a 
book  of  coloured  pictures,  issued  in  Paris  and  supplied,  I 
believe,  to  private  subscribers  only.  The  pictures  were  admi- 
rably executed,  but  represented  scenes  in  the  private  cabinets 
of  a  restaurant.  A  particular  crisis  of  sexual  indulgence  was 
the  chief  subject  of  each  picture :  women  extravagantly  dressed 
and  partly  undressed ;  women  exposing  their  legs  and  breasts 
to  men  in  evening  dress;  men  and  women  taking  liberties  with 
each  other,  or  dancing  the  can-can,  etc.,  etc.  My  companion 
the  artist,  a  maiden  lady  of  irreproachable  conduct  and  repu- 
tation, began  deliberately  to  look  at  these  pictures.  I  could 
not  let  my  attention  dwell  on  them  without  ill  effects.  Such 
things  had  a  certain  attraction  for  me  and  tended  to  make  me 
restless  and  nervous.  I  ventured  to  suggest  that  the  subjects 
of  the  pictures  were  objectionable.  But  my  companion  (who 
prided  herself  on  being  an  artist)  remarked  with  conscious 
superiority  that  from  an  artist's  point  of  view  the  subject  was 
of  no  consequence.  The  pictures  being  very  well  executed 
were  artistic,  and  therefore  worthy  of  attention  and  study. 
Morality  had  nothing  to  do  with  art. 

Here  again  is  a  problem.  One  remembers  Plato's  advice 
not  to  let  our  thoughts  run  upon  women  for  if  we  do  we  shall 
not  think  clearly  about  anything  else,  and  one  knows  that  to 
neglect  this  advice  is  to  lose  tranquillity  of  mind;  but  then 
one  does  not  wish  to  be  considered  narrow,  ascetic,  or  in- 
artistic, or  to  lose  artistic  pleasures  which  those  around  us 
esteem  so  highly. 

Again,  the  newspapers  not  long  ago  printed  proposals  to 
construct  a  Wagner  Opera   House,  to  cost,   if   I   recollect 


INTRODUCTION  93 

rightly,  £100,000 — about  as  much  as  a  hundred  labourers 
may  earn  by  five  or  ten  years'  hard  work.  The  writers 
thought  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  such  an  Opera  House 
were  erected  and  endowed.  But  I  had  a  talk  lately  with 
a  man  who,  till  his  health  failed  him,  had  worked  as  a 
builder  in  London.  He  told  me  that  when  he  was  younger 
he  had  been  very  fond  of  theatre-going,  but  later,  when  he 
thought  things  over  and  considered  that  in  almost  every 
number  of  his  weekly  paper  he  read  of  cases  of  people  whose 
death  was  hastened  by  lack  of  sufficient  food,  he  felt  it  was  not 
right  that  so  much  labour  should  be  spent  on  theatres. 

In  reply  to  this  argument  it  is  urged  that  food  for  the  mind 
is  as  important  as  food  for  the  body.  As  the  labouring 
classes  work  to  produce  food  and  necessaries  for  themselves 
and  for  the  cultured,  so  some  of  the  cultured  class  work  to 
produce  plays  and  operas.  It  is  a  division  of  labour.  But 
this  again  invites  the  rejoinder  that,  sure  enough,  the  la- 
bourers produce  food  for  themselves  and  also  food  that  the 
cultured  class  accept  and  consume ;  but  that  the  artists  seem  too 
often  to  produce  their  spiritual  food  for  the  cultured  only — 
at  any  rate  a  singularly  small  share  seems  to  reach  the  country 
labourers  who  work  to  supply  the  bodily  food!  Even  were 
the  division  of  labour  shown  to  be  a  fair  one,  the  division  of 
products  seems  remarkably  one-sided. 

Once  again:  How  is  it  that  often  when  a  new  work  is 
produced,  neither  the  critics,  the  artists,  the  publishers,  nor 
the  public,  seem  to  know  whether  it  is  valuable  or  worth- 
less? Some  of  the  most  famous  books  in  English  literature 
could  at  first  hardly  find  a  publisher,  or  were  savagely  derided 
by  leading  critics;  while  other  works  once  acclaimed  as  mas- 
terpieces are  now  laughed  at  or  utterly  forgotten.  A  play  * 
which  nobody  now  reads  was  once  passed  off  as  a  newly- 
discovered  masterpiece  of  Shakespeare's,  and  was  produced 

1  Ireland's  Vortigern. 


94  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

at  a  leading  London  theatre.  Are  the  critics  playing  blind- 
man's  buff?  Are  they  relying  on  each  other?  Is  each  fol- 
lowing his  own  whim  and  fancy?  Or  do  they  possess  a 
criterion  never  revealed  to  those  outside  the  profession? 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  many  problems  relating  to  art  which 
present  themselves  to  us  all,  and  it  is  the  purpose  of  Tolstoy's 
What  is  Art?  to  enable  us  to  reach  such  a  comprehension  of  art, 
and  of  the  position  art  should  occupy  in  our  lives,  as  will 
enable  us  to  answer  these  questions. 

The  task  is  one  of  enormous  difficulty.  Under  the  cloak 
of  "art"  so  much  selfish  amusement  and  self-indulgence  tries 
to  justify  itself,  and  so  many  mercenary  interests  are  con- 
cerned in  preventing  the  light  from  shining  in  upon  the 
subject,  that  the  clamour  raised  by  this  book  can  only  be 
compared  to  that  raised  by  the  silversmiths  of  Ephesus  when 
they  shouted,  "Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians!"  for  about 
the  space  of  two  hours. 

Elaborate  theories  block  the  path  with  subtle  sophistries 
or  ponderous  pseudo-erudition.  Merely  to  master  these  and 
expose  them  was  by  itself  a  great  labour,  necessary  in  order 
to  clear  the  road  for  any  fresh  view.  To  have  accomplished 
this  in  a  couple  of  chapters  is  a  remarkable  achievement. 
To  have  done  it  without  making  the  book  intolerably  dry  is 
more  wonderful  still.  In  Chapter  III  (where  a  rapid  sum- 
mary of  some  sixty  esthetic  writers  is  given)  even  Tolstoy's 
powers  fail  to  make  the  subject  interesting,  and  he  has  to  plead 
with  his  readers  "not  to  be  overcome  by  dulness,  but  to  read 
these  extracts  through." 

Among  the  writers  mentioned,  English  readers  miss  the 
names  of  John  Ruskin  and  William  Morris,  especially  as 
much  that  Tolstoy  says  is  in  accord  with  their  views. 

Of  Ruskin,  Tolstoy  has  a  very  high  opinion.  I  once  heard 
him  say,  "I  don't  know  why  you  English  make  such  a  fuss 
about  Gladstone — you  have  a  much  greater  man  in  Ruskin." 


INTRODUCTION  95 

As  a  stylist,  too,  Tolstoy  spoke  of  him  with  high  commenda- 
tion. Ruskin,  however,  though  he  wrote  on  art  with  pro- 
found insight  and  said  many  things  with  which  Tolstoy 
fully  agrees,  as  well  as  some  things  he  dissents  from,  has, 
I  think,  nowhere  so  systematized  and  summarized  his  view 
that  it  can  be  readily  quoted  in  the  concise  way  which  has 
enabled  Tolstoy  to  indicate  his  points  of  essential  agreement 
with  Home  (Lord  Karnes),  Veron,  and  Kant.1 

As  to  William  Morris,  we  are  reminded  of  his  dictum  that 
art  is  the  workman's  expression  of  joy  in  his  work,  by  Tol- 
stoy's "As  soon  as  the  author  is  not  producing  art  for  his  own 
satisfaction — does  not  himself  feel  what  he  wishes  to  express 
— a  resistance  immediately  springs  up"  (p.  267);  and  again, 
"In  such  transmission  to  others  of  the  feelings  that  have  arisen 
in  him,  he  (the  artist)  will  find  his  happiness"  (p.  316). 

1 1  leave  this  as  it  stood  in  the  first  edition,  but  after  it  was  written  I 
heard  from  Tolstoy  twice  on  the  subject.  First,  my  friend  Paul  Boulanger  wrote 
from  Yasnaya  Polyana  (24th  June  1901,  O.S.),  during  an  illness  of  Tolstoy's  as 
follows : — 

"You  ask  why  Tolstoy  did  not  mention  Ruskin  in  What  is  Art?  He  asks  me 
to  reply  that  he  did  not  do  so:  first,  because  Ruskin  attributes  a  special  moral 
importance  to  beauty  in  art;  and,  secondly,  because  all  his  writings,  rich  as  they 
are  in  depth  of  thought,  are  yet  not  bound  together  by  any  one  ruling  idea." 

After  Tolstoy's  recovery,  a  letter  (undated)  reached  me  on  17th  August  1901, 
in  which  he  wrote : — 

"I  have  forgotten  what  I  wrote  you  about  Ruskin,  and  fear  it  was  not  cor- 
rect. I  have  lately  read  an  excellent  book  about  him,  Ruskin  et  la  Bible,  I  think 
by  Brunhes.  Ruskin's  chief  limitation  was  that  he  could  never  quite  free 
himself  from  the  Church-Christian  outlook  upon  life.  At  the  time  he  commenced 
his  work  on  social  questions,  when  he  wrote  Unto  this  Last,  he  freed  himself  from 
the  dogmatic  tradition,  but  a  cloudy  Church-Christian  understanding  of  the  de- 
mands of  life — which  made  it  possible  for  him  to  unite  ethical  with  esthetical 
ideals — remained  with  him  to  the  end  and  weakened  his  message.  It  was  also 
weakened  by  the  artificiality,  and  consequent  obscurity,  of  his  poetic  style.  Do 
not  imagine  that  I  deny  the  work  of  this  great  man,  who  has  quite  rightly  been 
called  a  prophet.  I  always  was  charmed  and  am  charmed  by  him,  but  I  point 
out  spots  which  exist  even  on  the  sun.  He  is  specially  good  when  a  wise  writer, 
in  accord  with  him,  makes  extracts  from  him,  as  is  done  in  Ruskin  et  la  Bible 
(which  read),  but  to  read  all  Ruskin  consecutively,  as  I  did,  greatly  weakens  his 
effect." 


96  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Tolstoy  sweeps  over  a  far  wider  range  of  thought,  but  he  and 
Morris  are  not  opposed.  Morris  was  emphasizing  part  of 
what  Tolstoy  is  implying. 

A  difficulty  not  yet  mentioned  lurks  in  the  hearts  of  most  of 
us.  We  have  enjoyed  works  of  "art."  We  have  been  in- 
terested by  the  psychology  analysed  in  a  novel,  or  we  have 
been  thrilled  by  an  unexpected  "effect";  have  admired  the 
exactitude  with  which  real  life  has  been  reproduced,  or  have 
had  our  feelings  touched  by  allusions  to,  or  imitations  of, 
works — old  German  legends,  Greek  myths,  or  Hebrew  poetry 
— which  moved  us  long  ago,  as  they  moved  generations  be- 
fore us.  And  we  thought  all  this  was  "art."  Not  clearly 
understanding  what  art  is  and  wherein  its  importance  lies, 
we  were  not  only  attached  to  these  things,  but  attributed  im- 
portance to  them,  calling  them  "artistic"  and  "beautiful"  with- 
out well  knowing  what  we  meant  by  those  words. 

But  here  is  a  book  that  obliges  us  to  clear  our  minds.  It 
challenges  us  to  define  "art"  and  "beauty,"  and  to  say  what 
grounds  we  have  for  attaching  importance  to  these  things  that 
happen  to  please  us. 

As  to  beauty,  we  find  that  the  definition  given  by  esthetic 
writers  amounts  merely  to  this,  that  "Beauty  is  a  kind  of 
pleasure  received  by  us,  not  having  personal  advantage  for 
its  object."  But  it  follows  from  this,  that  "beauty"  is  a  mat- 
ter of  taste,  differing  among  different  people;  and  to  attach 
special  importance  to  what  pleases  me  (and  others  who  have 
had  the  same  sort  of  training  fhat  I  have  had)  is  merely 
to  repeat  the  old,  old  mistake  which  so  divides  human 
society:  it  is  like  declaring  that  my  race  is  the  best  race, 
my  nation  the  best  nation,  my  Church  the  best  Church, 
and  my  family  the  best  family.  It  indicates  ignorance  and 
selfishness. 

But  "truth  angers  those  whom  it  does  not  convince";  there 


INTRODUCTION  97 

are  people  who  do  not  wish  to  understand  these  things.  It 
seems,  at  first,  as  though  Tolstoy  were  obliging  us  to  sacrifice 
something  valuable.  We  do  not  realize  that  we  are  being 
helped  to  select  the  best  art,  but  we  do  feel  that  we  are  being 
deprived  of  our  sense  of  satisfaction  in  Baudelaire. 

Both  the  magnitude  and  the  difficulty  of  the  task  were  there- 
fore very  great,  but  they  have  been  surmounted  in  a  mar- 
vellous manner.  In  its  construction,  in  co-ordination,  in 
concise  presentation  of  many  converging  thoughts,  this  is, 
probably,  the  most  masterly  of  all  Tolstoy's  works. 

He  was  indeed  peculiarly  qualified  for  the  task  he  has 
accomplished.  It  was  after  many  years  of  work  as  a  writer 
of  fiction,  and  when  he  was  already  standing  in  the  very  fore- 
most rank  of  European  novelists,1  that  he  found  himself  com- 
pelled to  face,  in  deadly  earnest,  the  deepest  problems  of 
human  life.  He  not  only  could  not  go  on  writing  books,  but 
he  felt  he  could  not  live,  unless  he  found  clear  guidance,  so 
that  he  might  walk  with  a  sure  foot  and  know  the  purpose  and 
meaning  of  his  life.  Not  £s  a  mere  question  of  speculative 
curiosity  but  as  a  rnatter  of  vital  necessity,  he  devoted  years 
to  re-discover  the  truths  which  underlie  all  religion. 

To  fit  him  for  this  task  he  possessed  great  knowledge  of 
men  and  books,  a  wide  experience  of  life,  a  knowledge  of 
languages,  and  freedom  from  bondage  to  any  authority  but 
that  of  reason  and  conscience.  He  was  pinned  to  no  Nicene 
Creed,  nor  was  he  in  receipt  of  any  retaining  fee  he  was  not 
prepared  to  sacrifice.  Another  rare  gift  was  his  wonderful 
sincerity,  and  (due,  I  think,  to  that  sincerity)  an  amazing 
power  of  looking  at  the  phenomena  of  our  complex  and  arti- 
ficial life  with  the  eyes  of  a  child;  going  straight  to  the  real, 
obvious  facts  of  the  case  and  brushing  aside  the  sophistries, 

1  Boyhood,  Childhood  and  Youth  were  published  in  1851-7.  Sevastopol  1855-6. 
Family  Happiness  1859.  The  Cossacks  and  Polikushka  in  1863.  War  and  Peace 
1864-9,  and  Anna  Karenina  1875-7. 


98  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

conventionalities,  and  "authorities"  by  which  they  are  ob- 
scured. 

He  commenced  the  task  when  he  was  about  fifty  years  of 
age,  and  during  the  following  twenty  years  produced  a  dozen 
philosophical  works  of  first-rate  importance,  besides  many 
stories  and  short  articles. 

And  all  this  time  the  problems  of  Art — What  is  Art? 
What  importance  should  we  attach  to  it?  How  is  it  related 
to  the  rest  of  life? — were  working  in  his  mind.  He  was  a 
great  artist,  often  upbraided  for  having  abandoned  his  art. 
He,  of  all  men,  was  bound  to  clear  his  thoughts  on  this  per- 
plexing subject  and  to  express  them.  His  whole  philosophy 
of  life — the  "religious  perception"  to  which,  with  such  tremen- 
dous labour  and  effort,  he  had  attained — forbade  him  to 
detach  art  from  life,  and  place  it  in  a  water-tight  compart- 
ment where  it  should  not  act  on  life  or  be  re-acted  upon  by 
life. 

Life  to  him  is  rational.  It  has  a  clear  aim  and  purpose, 
discernible  by  the  aid  of  reason  and  conscience.  And  no 
human  activity  can  be  fully  understood  or  rightly  appreciated 
until  the  central  purpose  of  life  is  perceived. 

You  cannot  piece  together  a  puzzle-map  as  long  as  you 
keep  one  bit  in  a  wrong  place,  but  when  the  pieces  ajl  fit 
together  you  have  a  demonstration  that  they  are  all  in  their 
right  places.  Tolstoy  used  that  simile  years  ago  when  ex- 
plaining how  the  comprehension  of  the  text,  "resist  not  him 
that  is  evil,"  enabled  him  to  perceive  the  coherence  of  Christ's 
teaching,  which  had  long  baffled  him.  So  it  is  with  the 
problem  of  Art.  Wrongly  understood,  it  tends  to  confuse 
and  perplex  one's  whole  comprehension  of  life.  But  the 
clue  supplied  by  true  "religious  perception"  enables  us  to 
place  art  so  that  it  fits  in  with  a  right  understanding  of  poli- 
tics, economics,  sex-relationships,  science,  and  all  other 
phases  of  human  activity. 


INTRODUCTION  99 

The  basis  on  which  the  work  rests  is  a  perception  of  the 
meaning  of  human  life.  This  was  lost  sight  of  by  some 
reviewers,  who  when  the  book  first  appeared  misrepresented 
what  Tolstoy  said  and  then  demonstrated  how  stupid  he 
would  have  been  had  he  said  what  they  attributed  to  him. 
Leaving  his  premises  and  arguments  untouched,  they  dis- 
sented from  various  conclusions — as  though  it  were  all  a 
question  of  taste.  But  such  criticism  can  lead  to  nothing. 
Discussions  as  to  why  one  man  likes  pears  and  another  pre- 
fers meat  do  not  help  towards  finding  a  definition  of  what  is 
essential  in  nourishment;  and,  just  so,  "the  solution  of  ques- 
tions of  taste  in  art  does  not  help  to  make  clear  what  this 
particular  human  activity  which  we  call  art  really  consists  in." 

The  object  of  the  following  summary  of  a  few  main  points 
is  to  help  the  reader  to  avoid  pitfalls  into  which  many  re- 
viewers fell.  It  aims  at  being  no  more  than  a  bare  statement 
of  the  positions — for  more  than  that  the  reader  must  turn  to 
the  book  itself. 

Let  it  be  granted  at  the  outset  that  Tolstoy  writes  for  those 
who  have  ears  to  hear.  He  seldom  pauses  to  safeguard  him- 
self against  the  captious  critic,  and  cares  little  for  minute 
verbal  accuracy.  For  instance,  on  page  266,  he  mentions 
"Paris,"  where  an  English  writer  (even  one  who  knew  to  what 
an  extent  Paris  is  the  art  centre  of  France,  and  how  many 
artists  flock  thither  from  Russia,  America,  and  all  ends  of  the 
earth)  would  have  been  almost  sure  to  say  "France,"  for  fear 
of  being  thought  to  exaggerate.  One  needs  some  alertness 
of  mind  to  follow  Tolstoy  in  his  task  of  compressing  so  large 
a  subject  into  so  small  a  space.  Moreover,  he  is  an  emphatic 
writer,  who  says  what  he  means  and  even  sometimes  over- 
emphasises it.  With  this  much  warning  let  us  proceed  to  a 
brief  summary  of  Tolstoy's  view  of  art. 

"Art  is  a  human  activity,"  and  consequently  does  not  exist 
for  its  own  sake,  but  is  valuable  or  objectionable  in  propor- 


100  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

tion  as  it  is  serviceable  or  harmful  to  mankind.  The  object 
of  this  activity  is  to  transmit  to  others  feelings  the  artist  has 
experienced.  Such  feelings — intentionally  re-evoked  and 
successfully  transmitted  to  others — are  the  subject-matter  of 
all  art.  By  certain  external  signs — movements,  lines,  colours, 
sounds,  or  arrangements  of  words — an  artist  infects  other 
people  so  that  they  share  his  feelings.  Thus  "art  is  a 
means  of  union  among  men,  joining  them  together  in  the 
same  emotions." 

In  Chapters  II  to  V  of  What  is  Art?  we  have  an  examina- 
tion of  various  theories  which  have  taken  art  to  be  something 
other  than  this,  and  step  by  step  we  are  brought  to  the  con- 
clusion that  art  is  precisely  what  this  definition  indicates. 

Having  got  our  definition  of  art,  we  first  consider  art  inde- 
pendently of  its  subject-matter,  that  is  without  asking  whether 
the  feelings  transmitted  are  good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  With- 
out adequate  expression  there  is  no  art,  for  there  is  no  "infec- 
tion," no  transference  to  others  of  the  author's  feeling.  The 
test  of  art  is  infection.  If  an  author  has  moved  you  so  that 
you  feel  as  he  felt,  if  you  are  so  united  to  him  in  feeling  that 
it  seems  to  you  that  he  has  expressed  just  what  you  have  long 
wished  to  express,  the  work  that  has  so  infected  you  is  a 
work  of  art. 

In  this  sense  it  is  true  that  art  has  nothing  to  do  with 
morality;  for  the  test  lies  in  the  infection  and  not  in  any 
consideration  of  the  goodness  or  badness  of  the  emotions  con- 
veyed. Thus  the  test  of  art  is  an  internal  one.  The  activity 
of  art  is  based  on  the  fact  that  a  man,  receiving  through  his 
sense  of  hearing  or  sight  another  man's  expression  of  feeling, 
is  capable  of  experiencing  the  emotion  that  moved  the  man 
who  expressed  it.  We  all  share  the  same  common  human 
nature,  and  in  this  sense  at  least  are  sons  of  one  Father. 
To  take  the  simplest  example:  a  man  laughs,  and  another, 
who  hears,  becomes  merry;  or  a  man  weeps,  and  another, 


INTRODUCTION  101 

who  hears,  feels  sorrow.  But  note  in  passing  that  it  does  not 
amount  to  art  "if  a  man  infects  others  directly,  immediately, 
at  the  very  time  he  experiences  the  feeling:  if  he  causes  an- 
other man  to  yawn  when  he  himself  cannot  help  yawning,  and 
so  forth."  Art  begins  when  someone,  with  the  object  of  mak- 
ing others  share  his  feeling,  expresses  that  feeling  by  certain 
external  indications. 

This  faculty  of  being  infected  by  the  expression  of  another 
man's  emotions  is  possessed  by  all  normal  human  beings. 
For  a  plain  man  of  unperverted  taste,  living  in  contact  with 
nature,  with  animals,  and  with  his  fellow-men,  say,  for  "a 
country  peasant  of  unperverted  taste,  this  is  as  easy  as  it  is 
for  an  animal  of  unspoilt  scent  to  follow  the  trace  he  needs." 
And  he  will  know  indubitably  whether  a  work  presented  to 
him  does,  or  does  not,  unite  him  in  feeling  with  the  author. 
But  very  many  people  "of  our  circle"  (upper  and  middle- 
class  society)  live  such  unnatural  lives,  in  such  conventional 
relations  to  the  people  around  them,  and  in  such  artificial 
surroundings*  that  they  have  lost  "that  simple  feeling  .  .  . 
that  sense  of  infection  with  another's  feeling — compelling  us 
to  joy  in  another's  gladness,  to  sorrow  in  another's  grief,  and 
to  mingle  souls  with  another — which  is  the  essence  of  art." 
Such  people,  therefore,  have  no  inner  test  by  which  to  recog- 
nize a  work  of  art;  and  they  will  always  be  mistaking  other 
things  for  art,  and  seeking  for  external  guides,  such  as  the 
opinions  of  "recognized  authorities."  Or  they  will  mistake 
for  art  something  that  produces  a  merely  physiological  effect : 
lulling  or  exciting  them;  or  some  intellectual  puzzle  that  gives 
them  something  to  think  about. 

But  if  most  people  of  the  "cultured  crowd"  are  impervious 
to  true  art,  is  it  really  possible  that  a  common  country  peasant, 
for  instance,  whose  working-days  are  filled  with  labour,  and 
whose  brief  leisure  is  largely  taken  up  by  his  family  life  and 
by  his  participation  in  the  affairs  of  his  village — is  it  pos- 


102  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

sible  that  he  can  recognize  and  be  touched  by  works  of  art? 
Certainly  it  is !  Just  as  in  ancient  Greece  crowds  assembled 
to  hear  the  poems  of  Homer,  so  to-day  in  many  countries, 
as  has  been  the  case  in  many  ages,  the  Gospel  parables,  and 
much  else  of  the  highest  art,  are  gladly  heard  by  the  common 
people.  And  this  does  not  refer  to  any  religious  use  of  the 
Bible,  but  to  its  use  as  literature. 

Not  only  do  normal  labouring  country  people  possess  the 
capacity  to  be  infected  by  good  art — "the  epic  of  Genesis, 
folk-legends,  fairy-tales,  folk-songs,  etc.," — but  they  them- 
selves produce  songs,  stories,  dances,  decorations,  and  so  forth, 
which  are  works  of  true  art.  Take  as  examples  the  works  of 
Burns  or  Bunyan,  and  the  peasant  women's  song  mentioned 
in  Chapter  XIV  of  What  is  Art? ;  or  some  of  those  melodies 
produced  by  the  negro  slaves  on  the  southern  plantations, 
which  have  touched,  and  still  touch,  many  of  us  with  the 
emotions  felt  by  their  unknown  and  unpaid  composers. 

The  one  great  quality  which  makes  a  work  of  art  truly 
contagious  is  its  sincerity.  If  an  artist  is  really  actuated  by  a 
feeling,  and  is  strongly  impelled  to  communicate  that  feeling 
to  other  people — not  for  money  or  fame  or  anything  else,  but 
because  he  feels  he  must  impart  it — then  he  will  not  be  satis- 
fied till  he  has  found  a  clear  way  of  expressing  it.  And  the 
man  who  is  not  borrowing  his  feelings,  but  has  drawn  what 
he  expresses  from  the  depths  of  his  nature,  is  sure  to  be 
original,  for  in  the  same  way  that  no  two  people  have  exactly 
similar  faces  or  forms,  no  two  people  have  exactly  similar 
minds  or  souls. 

That,  in  brief  outline,  is  what  Tolstoy  says  about  art  con- 
sidered apart  from  its  subject-matter.  And  this  is  how 
certain  critics  have  met  it.  They  say  that  when  Tolstoy  says 
the  test  of  art  is  internal,  he  must  mean  that  it  is  external. 
When  he  says  that  country  peasants  have  in  the  past  appre- 


INTRODUCTION  103 

ciated,  and  do  still  appreciate,  great  works  of  art,  he  means 
that  the  way  to  detect  a  work  of  art  is  to  see  what  is  appar- 
ently most  popular  among  the  masses.  Go  into  the  streets 
or  music-halls  of  the  cities  in  any  particular  country  and 
year,  and  observe  what  is  most  frequently  sung,  shouted, 
or  played  on  the  barrel-organs.     It  may  happen  to  be 

"Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay , ' ' 
or, 

"We  don't  want  to  fight, 
But,  by  Jingo,  if  we  do!" 

But  whatever  it  is,  you  may  at  once  declare  these  songs  to 
be  the  highest  musical  art,  without  pausing  to  ask  to  what 
they  owe  their  vogue:  what  actress,  or  singer,  or  politician, 
or  wave  of  patriotic  passion  has  conduced  to  their  popularity ! 
Nor  need  you  consider  whether  that  popularity  is  merely 
temporary  and  local.  Tolstoy  has  said  that  works  of  the 
highest  art  are  understood  by  unperverted  country  peasants, 
and  here  are  things  which  are  popular  with  a  town  mob — 
ergo,  these  things  must  be  the  highest  art.  The  critics  then 
proceed  to  say  that  such  a  test  is  utterly  absurd.  And  on 
this  point  we  may  agree  with  the  critics. 

Some  pf  these  writers  commence  their  articles  by  saying 
that  Tolstoy  is  a  most  profound  thinker,  a  great  prophet, 
an  intellectual  force,  etc.  Yet  when  Tolstoy,  in  his  em- 
phatic way,  makes  the  sweeping  remark  that  "good  art  always 
pleases  everyone,"  the  critics  do  not  read  on  to  find  out 
what  he  means,  but  reply:  "No!  good  art  does  not  please 
everyone;  some  people  are  colour-blind,  and  some  are  deaf, 
or  have  no  ear  for  music." 

It  is  as  though  a  man  strenuously  arguing  a  point  were  to 
say,  "Everyone  knows  that  two  and  two  make  four,"  and 
a  boy  who  did  not  at  all  see  what  the  speaker  was  driving 


104  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

at  were  to  reply:  "No,  our  new-born  baby  doesn't  know  it! " 
It  would  be  true  enough,  and  would  distract  attention  from 
the  subject  in  hand,  but  it  would  not  elucidate  matters. 

There  is,  of  course,  a  verbal  contradiction  between  the 
statements  that  "good  art  always  pleases  everyone"  (p.  224), 
and  the  remark  concerning  "people  of  our  circle,"  artists  and 
public  and  critics  who,  "with  very  few  exceptions  .  .  .  can- 
not distinguish  true  works  of  art  from  counterfeits,  but  contin- 
ually mistake  for  real  art  the  worst  and  most  artificial" 
(p.  273).  But  I  venture  to  think  that  no  unprejudiced  and 
intelligent  person,  reading  the  book  carefully,  should  fail  to 
reach  the  author's  meaning. 

A  point  to  be  well  noted  is  the  distinction  between  science 
and  art.  "Science  investigates  and  brings  to  human  per- 
ception such  truths  and  such  knowledge  as  the  people  of  a 
given  time  and  society  consider  most  important.  Art  trans- 
mits these  truths  from  the  region  of  perception  to  the  region 
of  emotion."  Science  is  an  "activity  of  the  understanding 
which  demands  preparation  and  a  certain  sequence  of  knowl- 
edge, so  that  one  cannot  learn  trigonometry  before  knowing 
geometry."  "This  business  of  art",  on  the  other  hand, 
"lies  just  in  this:  to  make  that  understood  and  felt  which 
in  the  form  of  an  argument  might  be  incomprehensible  and 
inaccessible"  (p.  225).  It  "infects  any  man,  whatever  his 
plane  of  development,"  and  "(as  is  said  in  the  Gospel)  the 
hindrance  to  understanding  the  best  and  highest  feelings  does 
not  at  all  lie  in  deficiency  of  development  or  learning,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  in  false  development  and  false  learning" 
(p.  226).  Science  and  art  are  frequently  blended  in  one 
work,  e.  g.,  in  the  Gospel  elucidation  of  Christ's  comprehen- 
sion of  life,  or,  to  take  a  modern  instance,  in  Henry  George's 
elucidation  of  the  land  question  in  Social  Problems. 

The  class  distinction  to  which  Tolstoy  repeatedly  alludes 
needs  some  explanation.     The  position  of  the  lower  classes 


INTRODUCTION  105 

in  England  and  in  Russia  is  different.  In  Russia  a  much 
larger  number  of  people  live  on  the  verge  of  starvation,  the 
condition  of  the  factory-hands  is  much  worse  than  in  Eng- 
land, and  there  are  many  glaring  cases  of  brutal  cruelty  in- 
flicted on  the  peasants  by  the  officials,  the  police,  or  the  mili- 
tary; but  in  Russia  a  far  greater  proportion  of  the  popula- 
tion live  in  the  country,  and  a  peasant  usually  has  his  own 
house  and  tills  his  share  of  the  communal  lands.  Though 
Tolstoy  puts  forward  no  claim  that  the  Russian  peasants 
are  more  susceptible  to  art  than  men  of  other  nationalities,  yet 
he  had  them  before  his  eyes  and  in  speaking  of  an  "un- 
perverted  country  peasant"  he  was  no  doubt  thinking  of  a 
man  who  perhaps  suffered  grievous  want  when  there  was  a  bad 
harvest  in  his  province  but  who  was  accustomed  to  the  ex- 
periences of  a  natural  life,  to  the  management  of  his  own  af- 
fairs, and  to  a  real  voice  in  all  the  arrangements  of  the  village 
commune.  The  Government  interfered  from  time  to  time  to 
collect  its  taxes  by  force,  to  take  the  young  men  for  soldiers, 
or  to  maintain  the  "rights"  of  the  upper  classes;  but  otherwise 
the  peasant  was  free  to  do  what  he  saw  to  be  necessary  and 
reasonable.  On  the  other  hand,  English  labourers  are,  for 
the  most  part,  not  so  poor,  they  have  more  legal  rights  and 
they  have  votes ;  but  a  far  larger  number  of  them  live  in  towns 
and  are  engaged  in  unnatural  occupations,  while  even  those 
that  do  live  in  touch  with  nature  are  usually  mere  wage- 
earners  tilling  other  men's  land,  and  living  often  in  abject  sub- 
mission to  the  farmer,  the  parson,  or  the  lady-bountiful. 
They  are  dependent  on  an  employer  for  daily  bread,  and  the 
condition  of  a  wage-labourer  is  as  unnatural  as  that  of  a 
landlord. 

The  tyranny  of  the  Petersburg  bureaucracy  was  more  dra- 
matic but  less  omnipresent,  and  probably  far  less  fatal  to  the 
capacity  to  enjoy  art,  than  the  tyranny  of  our  respectable, 
self-satisfied,  and  property-loving  middle-class.     I  am,  there- 


106  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

fore,  afraid  that  we  have  no  great  number  of  "unperverted" 
country  labourers  to  compare  with  those  of  whom  Tolstoy 
spoke,  some  of  whom  I  have  known  personally.  But  the 
truth  Tolstoy  elucidates  lies  too  deep  in  human  nature  to 
•  be  infringed  by  such  differences  of  local  circumstance. 
Whatever  those  circumstances  may  be,  the  fact  remains  that 
in  proportion  as  a  man  approaches  towards  the  condition  not 
only  of  "earning  his  subsistence  by  some  kind  of  labour," 
but  of  "living  on  all  its  sides  the  life  natural  and  proper 
to  mankind,"  his  capacity  to  appreciate  true  art  tends  to  in- 
crease. On  the  other  hand,  when  a  class  settles  down  into 
an  artificial  way  of  life — loses  touch  with  nature,  becomes 
confused  in  its  perceptions  of  what  is  good  and  what  is  bad, 
and  prefers  the  condition  of  a  parasite  to  that  of  a  producer — 
its  capacity  to  appreciate  true  art  must  diminish.  Losing  all 
clear  perception  of  the  meaning  of  life,  such  people  are  neces- 
sarily left  without  any  criterion  which  will  enable  them  to 
distinguish  good  from  bad  art,  and  they  are  sure  to  follow 
eagerly  after  beauty,  that  is  to  say  after  "that  which  pleases 
them." 

The  artists  of  our  society  can  usually  only  reach  people  of 
the  upper  and  middle  classes.  But  is  the  great  artist  he 
who  delights  a  select  audience  of  his  own  day  and  class,  or 
he  whose  works  link  generation  to  generation  and  race  to 
race  in  a  common  bond  of  feeling?  Surely  art  should  fulfil 
its  purpose  as  completely  as  possible.  A  work  of  art  that 
united  every  one  with  the  author  and  with  one  another  would 
be  perfect  art.  Tolstoy,  in  his  emphatic  way,  speaks  of  works 
of  "universal"  art,  and  (though  the  profound  critics  hasten 
to  inform  us  that  no  work  of  art  ever  reached  everybody) 
certainly  the  more  nearly  a  work  of  art  approaches  to  such 
expression  of  feeling  that  every  one  may  be  infected  by  it, 
the  nearer  (apart  from  all  question  of  subject-matter)  it 
approaches  perfection. 


INTRODUCTION  107 

tut  now  as  to  subject-matter.  The  subject-matter  of  art 
consists  of  feelings  which  can  be  spread  from  man  to  man, 
feelings  which  are  "contagious"  or  "infectious."  Is  it  of  no 
importance  what  feelings  increase  and  multiply  among  men? 

One  man  feels  that  submission  to  the  authority  of  his 
Church,  and  belief  in  all  that  it  teaches  him,  is  good;  another 
is  imbued  by  a  sense  of  each  man's  duty  to  think  with  his 
own  head :  to  use  for  his  guidance  in  life  the  reason  and  con- 
science given  him.  One  man  feels  that  his  nation  ought  to 
wipe  out  in  blood  the  shame  of  a  defeat  inflicted  on  her;  an- 
other feels  that  we  are  brothers,  sons  of  one  spirit,  and  that 
the  slaughter  of  man  by  man  is  always  wrong.  One  man 
feels  that  the  most  desirable  thing  in  life  is  the  satisfaction 
obtainable  by  the  love  of  women ;  another  man  feels  that  sex- 
love  is  an  entanglement  and  a  snare,  hindering  his  real  work 
in  life.  And  each  of  these,  if  he  possess  an  artist's  gift  of 
expression  and  if  the  feeling  be  really  his  own  and  sincere, 
may  infect  other  men.  But  some  of  these  feelings  will  benefit 
and  some  will  harm  mankind,  and  the  more  widely  they  are 
spread  the  greater  will  be  their  effect. 

Art  unites  men.  Surely  it  is  desirable  that  the  feelings  in 
which  it  unites  them  should  be  "the  best  and  highest  to  which 
men  have  risen,"  or  at  least  should  not  run  contrary  to  our 
perception  of  what  makes  for  the  well-being  of  ourselves  and 
of  others.  And  our  perception  of  what  makes  for  the  well- 
being  of  ourselves  and  of  others  is  what  Tolstoy  calls  our 
"religious  perception." 

Therefore  the  subject-matter  of  what  we  in  our  day  can  es- 
teem as  being  the  best  art,  can  be  of  two  kinds  only: — 

1)  Feelings  flowing  from  the  highest  perception  now  at- 
tainable by  man  of  our  right  relation  to  our  neighbour  and 
to  the  Source  from  which  we  come.  Of  such  art,  Dickens's 
Christmas  Carol,  uniting  us  in  a  more  vivid  sense  of  compas- 
sion and  love,  is  a  ready  example. 


108  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

2)  The  simple  feelings  of  common  life,  accessible  to  every 
one,  provided  that  they  are  such  as  do  not  hinder  progress 
towards  well-being.  Art  of  this  kind  makes  us  realize  to  how 
great  an  extent  we  already  are  members  one  of  another,  shar- 
ing the  feelings  of  one  common  human  nature. 

The  success  of  a  very  primitive  novel,  the  story  of  Joseph, 
which  made  its  way  into  the  sacred  books  of  the  Jews,  spread 
from  land  to  land  and  from  age  to  age,  and  continues  to  be 
read  to-day  among  people  quite  free  from  bibliolatry — shows 
how  nearly  "universal"  may  be  the  appeal  of  this  kind  of 
art.  This  branch  includes  all  harmless  jokes,  folk-stories, 
nursery  rhymes,  and  even  dolls,  if  only  the  author  or  designer 
has  expressed  a  feeling  (tenderness,  pleasure,  humour,  or 
what  not)  so  as  to  infect  others. 

But  how  are  we  to  know  what  are  the  "best"  feelings? 
What  is  good?  and  what  is  evil?  This  is  decided  by 
religious  perception.  Some  such  perception  exists  in  every 
human  being;  there  is  always  something  he  approves  of, 
and  something  he  disapproves  of.  Reason  and  conscience 
are  always  present,  active  or  latent,  as  long  as  man  lives. 
Lady  Lugard  tells  us  that  the  most  degraded  cannibal  she 
ever  met  drew  the  line  at  eating  his  own  mother:  nothing 
would  induce  him  to  entertain  the  idea,  his  moral  sense  was 
revolted  by  the  suggestion.  In  more  advanced  societies  the 
religious  perception  they  have  reached — the  foremost  stage 
which  has  been  discerned  in  mankind's  long  march  towards 
perfection — has  been  clearly  expressed  by  someone,  and  more 
or  less  consciously  accepted  as  an  ideal  by  the  many.  But 
there  are  transition  periods  in  history  when  the  worn-out  for- 
mularies of  a  past  age  have  ceased  to  satisfy  men,  or  have  be- 
come so  incrusted  with  superstitions  that  their  original  bright- 
ness is  lost.  The  religious  perception  that  is  dawning  may 
not  yet  have  found  such  expression  as  to  be  generally  under- 
stood, but  for  all  that  it  exists,  and  shows  itself  by  compelling 


INTRODUCTION  109 

men  to  repudiate  beliefs  that  satisfied  their  forefathers,  the 
outward  and  visible  signs  of  which  are  still  endowed  and 
dominant  long  after  their  spirit  has  taken  refuge  in  temples 
not  made  with  hands. 

At  such  times  it  is  difficult  for  men  to  understand  each 
other,  for  the  very  words  needed  to  express  the  deepest  ex- 
periences of  men's  consciousness  mean  different  things  to 
different  men.  So,  among  us  to-day,  to  many  minds  "faith" 
means  "credulity,"  and  "God"  suggests  a  person  of  the  male 
sex,  father  of  one  only-begotten  son,  and  creator  of  the 
universe. 

This  is  wThy  Tolstoy's  rational  religious  perception,  ex- 
pressed in  the  books  he  wrote  during  the  last  thirty  years  of 
his  life,  is  frequently  spoken  of  by  people  who  have  not 
grasped  it,  as  "mysticism."  1 

The  narrow  materialist  is  shocked  to  find  that  Tolstoy  will 
not  confine  himself  to  the  "objective"  view  of  life.  En- 
countering in  himself  that  "inward  voice"  which  compels  us 
all  to  choose  between  good  and  evil,  Tolstoy  refuses  to  be 
diverted  from  a  matter  of  immediate  and  vital  importance 
to  him  by  discussions  as  to  the  derivation  of  the  external 
manifestations  of  conscience  which  biologists  are  able  to  detect 
in  remote  forms  of  life.  The  mystic,  on  the  other  hand, 
shrinks  from  Tolstoy's  desire  to  try  all  things  by  the  light  of 
reason,  to  depend  on  nothing  vague,  and  to  accept  nothing  on 
authority.  The  man  who  does  not  trust  his  own  reason, 
fears  that  life  thus  squarely  faced  will  prove  less  worth  hav- 
ing than  it  is  when  clothed  in  mist. 

In  this  work,  however,  Tolstoy  does  not  recapitulate  at 
length  what  he  has  said  before.     He  does  not  pause  to  re- 

1  As  the  term  "mystic"  is  used  in  more  than  one  sense  in  English,  I  must  ex- 
plain that  I  use  it  to  denote  one  who  believes  in  a  wisdom  "sacredly  obscure  or 
secret"  (Chambers's  Dictionary),  or  "not  discriminated  or  tested  by  the  reason" 
(Century  Dictionary) .  This  is  the  sense  in  which  it  would  generally  be  used  in 
Russian,  and  in  which  Tolstoy  uses  the  word. 


110  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

explain  why  he  condemns  patriotism,  that  is,  each  man's  pref- 
erence for  the  predominance  of  his  own  country,  which  leads 
to  the  slaughter  of  man  by  man  in  war;  or  Churches,  which 
are  sectarian,  that  is,  which  (striving  to  assert  that  your  doxy 
is  heterodoxy,  but  our  doxy  is  orthodoxy)  make  external  au- 
thorities (Popes,  Bibles,  Councils)  supreme,  and  cling  to 
superstitions  (their  own  miracles,  legends,  and  myths),  thus 
separating  themselves  from  communion  with  the  rest  of  man- 
kind. He  merely  summarizes  it  all  in  a  few  sentences,  de- 
fining the  "religious  perception"  of  to-day,  which  alone  can 
decide  for  us  "the  degree  of  importance  both  of  the  feelings 
transmitted  by  art  and  of  the  information  transmitted  by 
science." 

"The  religious  perception  of  our  time,  in  its  widest  and 
most  practical  application,  is  the  consciousness  that  our  well- 
being,  both  material  and  spiritual,  individual  and  collective, 
temporal  and  eternal,  lies  in  the  growth  of  brotherhood 
among  men — in  their  loving  harmony  With  one  another" 
(p.  281). 

And  again: — 

"However  differently  in  form  people  belonging  to  our 
Christian  world  may  define  the  destiny  of  man :  whether  they 
see  it  in  human  progress  in  whatever  sense  of  the  words,  in 
the  union  of  all  men  in  a  socialist  realm,  or  in  the  establish- 
ment of  a  commune;  whether  they  look  forward  to  the 
union  of  mankind  under  the  guidance  of  one  universal 
Church,  or  to  a  federation  of  the  world — however  various 
in  form  their  definitions  of  the  destination  of  human  life  may 
be,  all  men  in  our  times  already  admit  that  the  highest  well- 
being  attainable  by  men  is  to  be  reached  by  their  union  with 
one  another"  (p.  309). 

This  is  the  foundation  on  which  the  whole  work  is  based. 
It  follows  necessarily  from  this  perception  that  we  should 
consider  as  most  important  in  science  "investigations  into  the 


INTRODUCTION  111 

results  of  good  and  bad  actions,  considerations  of  the  reason- 
ableness or  unreasonableness  of  human  institutions  and  be- 
liefs, considerations  of  how  human  life  should  be  lived  in 
order  to  obtain  the  greatest  well-being  for  each;  as  to  what 
one  may  and  should,  and  what  one  cannot  and  should  not 
believe;  how  to  subdue  one's  passions,  and  how  to  acquire 
the  habit  of  virtue."  This  is  the  science  that  occupied  the 
greatest  sages  of  the  ancient  world,  and  it  is  precisely  to 
this  kind  of  scientific  investigation  that  Tolstoy  devoted  most 
of  the  last  thirty  years  of  his  life,  and  for  the  sake  of  which 
the  author  of  Resurrection  was  often  said  to  have  "abandoned 
art." 

Since  science,  like  art,  is  "a  human  activity,"  that  science 
best  deserves  our  esteem,  best  deserves  to  be  "chosen,  tolerated, 
approved,  and  diffused,"  which  treats  of  what  is  supremely 
important  to  man;  which  deals  with  urgent,  vital,  inevitable 
problems  of  actual  life.  Such  science  as  this  brings  "to  the 
consciousness  of  men  the  truths  that  flow  from  the  religious 
perception  of  our  times,"  and  "indicates  the  various  methods 
of  applying  this  consciousness  to  life."  "Art  should  trans- 
form this  perception  into  feeling." 

Experimental  science  studies  questions  of  pure  curiosity, 
or  things  harmful  to  mankind  (such  as  quick-firing  cannon), 
or  technical  improvements  which  in  a  better  state  of  society 
would  lighten  the  workers'  burden.  But,  even  at  its  best, 
such  science  "cannot  serve  as  a  basis  for  art,"  for  it  is 
occupied  with  subjects  unrelated  to  human  conduct. 

Naturally  enough,  the  last  chapter  of  the  book  deals  with 
the  relation  between  science  and  art.  And  the  conclusion 
is,  that: 

"The  destiny  of  art  in  our  time  is  to  transmit  from  the  realm 
of  reason  to  the  realm  of  feeling,  the  truth  that  well-being 
for  men  consists  in  being  united  together,  and  to  set  up,  in 
place  of  the  existing  reign  of  force,  that  kingdom  of  God — 


112  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

that  is,  of  love — which  we  all  recognize  to  be  the  highest  aim 
of  human  life"  (p.  333). 

And  this  art  of  the  future  will,  in  subject-matter,  not  be 
poorer,  but  far  richer,  than  the  art  of  to-day.  From  the 
lullaby — that  will  delight  millions  of  people,  generation  after 
generation — to  the  highest  religious  art,  dealing  with  strong, 
rich,  and  varied  emotions  flowing  from  a  fresh  outlook  upon 
life  and  all  its  problems,  the  field  open  for  good  art  is  enor- 
mous. With  so  much  to  say  that  is  urgently  important  to 
all,  the  art  of  the  future  will,  in  matter  of  form,  also,  be  far 
superior  to  our  art  in  "clearness,  beauty,  simplicity,  and  com- 
pression" (p.  315). 

For  beauty  (which  is  "that  which  pleases") — though  it  de- 
pends on  taste,  and  can  furnish  no  criterion  for  art — will  be  a 
natural  characteristic  of  work  done,  not  for  hire  nor  even 
for  fame,  but  because  men,  living  a  natural  and  healthy  life, 
wish  to  share  the  "highest  spiritual  strength  which  passes 
through  them"  with  the  greatest  possible  number  of  others. 
The  feelings  such  an  artist  wishes  to  share  he  will  transmit 
in  a  way  that  will  please  him  and  will  therefore  please  other 
men  who  share  his  nature. 

In  the  subject-matter  of  art  that  really  lives,  morality  is  as 
unavoidable  as  in  life  itself.  It  is  in  the  nature  of  things  and 
we  cannot  escape  it. 

In  a  society  where  each  man  sets  himself  to  obtain  wealth, 
the  difficulty  of  obtaining  an  honest  living  tends  to  become 
greater  and  greater.  The  more  keenly  a  society  pants  to 
obtain  "that  which  pleases,"  and  puts  this  forward  as  the  first 
and  great  consideration,  the  more  puerile  and  worthless  will 
its  art  become.  But  in  a  society  which  seeks  primarily  for 
right  relations  between  its  members,  an  abundance  will  be  ob- 
tainable for  all;  and  when  "religious  perception"  guides  a 
peopled  art  beauty  inevitably  results,  as  has  always  been 


INTRODUCTION  113 

the  case  when  men  have  seized  a  fresh  perception  of  life  and 
of  its  purpose. 

Tried  by  such  tests  the  enormous  majority  of  the  things 
we  have  been  taught  to  consider  great  works  of  art  are  found 
wanting.  Either  they  fail  to  infect  (and  attract  merely  by 
being  interesting,  realistic,  dramatic,  or  by  borrowing  from 
others)  and  are  therefore  not  works  of  art  at  all;  or  they  are 
works  of  "exclusive  art,"  poor  in  form  and  capable  of  infect- 
ing only  a  select  audience  trained  and  habituated  to  such 
inferior  art;  or  they  are  bad  in  subject-matter,  transmitting 
feelings  harmful  to  mankind. 

But  strive  as  we  may  to  be  clear  and  explicit,  our  approval 
and  disapproval  is  a  matter  of  degree.  The  thought  which 
underlay  the  remark:  "Why  callest  thou  me  good?  none  is 
good,  save  one,  even  God,"  applies,  not  to  man  only  but  to 
all  things  human. 

Tolstoy  does  not  shrink  from  condemning  his  own  artistic 
productions;  with  the  exception  of  two  short  stories,1  he 
tells  us,  they  are  works  of  bad  art.  Take,  for  instance,  the 
novel  Resurrection,  of  which  he  has  somewhere  spoken  dis- 
paragingly, as  being  "written  in  my  former  style."  What 
does  this  mean?  The  book  is  a  masterpiece  in  its  own  line; 
it  undoubtedly  infects  many  people,  and  the  feelings  trans- 
mitted are  in  the  main  such  as  Tolstoy  approves  of:  in  fact, 
they  are  the  feelings  to  which  his  religious  perception  has 
brought  him.  If  for  a  moment  lust  is  shown,  the  reaction 
follows  as  inevitably  as  in  real  life  and  is  transmitted  with 
great  artistic  power.  Tolstoy  approved  of  treating  all  the 
problems  of  life,  including  the  sex-question,  quite  plainly  and 
explicitly.  To  guide  us  in  life  we  need,  not  ignorance  nor 
evasion  of  facts,  but  soundness  of  religious  perception,  clear- 

1  Both  of  which  were  written  in  the  interval  between  War  and  Peace  and  Anna 
Karenina   (1869-1872)   and  are  included  in  the  volume  of  Twenty-three   Tales. 


114  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

ness  of  thought,  and  a  right  direction  and  development  of  feel- 
ing. In  subject-matter  then  Resurrection  is  as  clearly  a 
work  of  religious  art  as  any  novel  mentioned  by  Tolstoy  in 
What  is  Art?  And  with  regard  to  the  manner  in  which  the 
matter  is  presented,  I  think  it  may  safely  be  said  that  in 
"clearness,"  as  well  as  in  "simplicity  and  compression,' '  it 
stands  easily  first  among  Tolstoy's  novels.  Of  its  "individu- 
ality and  sincerity,"  to  say  that  it  equals  his  former  works  is  to 
say  that  it  is  unsurpassed  in  those  qualities  by  any  novel  we 
possess.  Why  the  work  did  not  satisfy  Tolstoy  is,  I  think, 
because  it  is  a  work  of  "exclusive  art,"  laden  with  details  of 
time  and  place.  "Simplicity  and  compression"  it  possesses, 
but  not  in  the  degree  required  in  works  of  "universal"  art.  It 
is  a  novel  appealing  mainly  to  the  class  that  has  leisure  for 
novel-reading  because  it  neglects  to  produce  its  own  food, 
make  its  own  clothes,  or  build  its  own  houses.  But  if  these 
considerations  apply  to  Resurrection,  they  apply  with  at  least 
equal  force  to  all  the  best  novels  extant.  If  Tolstoy  is  some- 
times severe  on  others,  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  is  at  least 
as  severe  on  himself,  and  to  enable  us  to  discern  the  com- 
parative merits  of  different  works  of  art  we  may  use  his  prin- 
ciples without  applying  them  as  exactingly  as  he  does  himself. 
There  is  one  defect  in  Tolstoy's  writings  in  general  which 
needs  to  be  noted.  It  is  observable  in  his  novels,  but  it  is 
more  serious  in  his  essays  and  in  his  philosophical  works. 
He  does  not  write  in  a  style  always  easy  to  read.  He  expects 
more  strenuous  co-operation  from  his  readers  than  can  safely 
be  looked  for  from  the  ordinary  man.  His  sentences  are  often 
long,  sometimes  extremely  involved,  and  occasionally  even 
faulty  in  structure.  The  strenuous  labour  he  puts  into  his 
work  all  goes  to  elucidate  his  perception  of  the  matter,  and  the 
sequence  of  the  ideas.  For  the  mere  phraseology  he  trusted 
to  his  great  power  of  expression,  and  he  had  as  little  inclina- 
tion to  polish  it  on  a  final  revision  as  when  writing  the  first 


INTRODUCTION  115 

rough  draft.  He  would  re-shape  an  article  again  and  again 
if  the  thoughts  expressed  did  not  satisfy  him.  But  he  would 
sometimes  leave  uncorrected  a  careless  sentence  which 
might  baffle  many  an  unwary  reader.  This  characteristic  was 
not  noticeable  in  his  earlier  works,  when  the  matter  he  wrote 
about  was  less  absorbingly  important.1  He  certainly  in  his 
later  years  cared  nothing  at  all  for  the  elegant  phraseology 
so  highly  prized  by  writers  who  having  nothing  particular  to 
express  attach  supreme  importance  to  their  power  of  expres- 
sion. But  his  readers  have  occasionally  to  pay  for  his  in- 
difference. 

What  is  Art?  itself  is  a  philosophical  work,  though  many 
passages,  and  even  some  whole  chapters,  appeal  to  us  as 
works  of  art,  and  we  feel  the  contagion  of  the  author's  hope, 
his  anxiety  to  serve  the  cause  of  truth  and  love,  his  indigna- 
tion (sometimes  rather  sharply  expressed)  at  whatever  blocks 
the  path  of  progress,  and  his  contempt  for  much  that  the 
"cultured  crowd"  in  our  erudite,  perverted  society  have  per- 
suaded themselves,  and  would  fain  persuade  others,  is  the 
highest  art. 

One  result  which  follows  inevitably  from  Tolstoy's  view 
(and  which  illustrates  how  widely  his  views  differ  from  the 
fashionable  esthetic  mysticism),  is  that  art  is  not  stationary 
but  progressive.  It  is  true  that  our  highest  religious  percep- 
tion found  expression  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  and  then 
served  as  the  basis  of  a  literary  art  which  is  still  unmatched, 
and  that  similar  cases  can  be  instanced  from  the  farther 
East.  But  allowing  for  such  great  exceptions — to  which,  not 
inaptly,  the  term  "inspiration"  has  been  specially  applied — 
the  subject-matter  of  art  improves,  though  long  periods  of 
time  may  have  to  be  viewed  to  make  this  obvious.     Our 

1  Indeed,  in  the  earlier  period  of  his  literary  activity  he  devoted  much  attention 
to  style,  and  spent  great  pains  upon  it.  About  the  period  at  which  he  wrote 
Three  Deaths  (1859),  it  is  said,  the  style  of  his  great  artistic  contemporary, 
Turgenev,  exercised  much  influence  on  his  own. 


116  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

power  of  verbal  expression  may  be  no  better  now  than  it  was 
in  the  days  of  David,  but  we  must  no  longer  esteem  as  good 
in  subject-matter  poems  which  appeal  to  the  Eternal  to  destroy 
a  man's  private  or  national  foes;  for  we  have  reached  a 
religious  perception  which  bids  us  have  no  foes,  and  the  ulti- 
mate source  (undefinable  by  us)  from  which  this  conscious- 
ness has  come,  is  what  we  mean  when  we  speak  of  God. 


PART  XII 
WHAT  IS  ART? 

Tolstoy's  Preface  to  the  First  English  Edition,  translated 
by  Aylmer  Maude  from  the  Original  Mss. 

This  book  of  mine,  "What  is  Art?"  appears  now  for  the 
first  time  in  its  true  form.  More  than  one  edition  has  already 
been  issued  in  Russia,  but  in  each  case  it  has  been  so  muti- 
lated by  the  Censor  that  I  request  all  who  are  interested  in 
my  views  on  art  only  to  judge  of  them  by  the  work  in  its 
present  shape.  The  causes  which  led  to  the  publication  of 
the  book — with  my  name  attached  to  it — in  a  mutilated  form, 
were  the  following:  In  accordance  with  a  decision  I  arrived 
at  long  ago, — not  to  submit  my  writings  to  the  Censorship 
(which  I  consider  to  be  an  immoral  and  irrational  institu- 
tion), but  to  print  them  only  in  the  shape  in  which  they  were 
written, — I  intended  not  to  attempt  to  print  this  work  in  Rus- 
sia. However,  my  good  acquaintance  Professor  Grote,  editor 
of  a  Moscow  psychological  magazine,  having  heard  of  the 
contents  of  my  work  asked  me  to  print  it  in  his  magazine,  and 
promised  me  that  he  would  get  the  book  through  the  Censor's 
office  unmutilated  if  I  would  but  agree  to  a  few  very  unim- 
portant alterations,  merely  toning  down  certain  expressions. 
I  was  weak  enough  to  agree  to  this,  and  it  has  resulted  in  a 
book  appearing  under  my  name,  from  which  not  only  have 
some  essential  thoughts  been  excluded,  but  into  which  the 
thoughts  of  other  men — even  thoughts  utterly  opposed  to  my 
own  convictions — have  been  introduced. 

The  thing  occurred  in  this  way.     First  Grote  softened  my 

117 


118  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

expressions  and  in  some  cases  weakened  them.  For  instance, 
he  replaced  the  words:  always  by  sometimes,  all  by  some, 
Church  religion  by  Roman  Catholic  religion,  "Mother  of 
God"  by  Madonna,  patriotism  by  pseudo- patriotism,  palaces 
by  palatii,1  etc.,  and  I  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  protest. 
But  when  the  book  was  already  in  type,  the  Censor  required 
that  whole  sentences  should  be  altered,  and  that  instead  of 
what  I  said  about  the  evil  of  landed  property,  a  remark 
should  be  substituted  on  the  evils  of  a  landless  proletariat.1 
I  agreed  to  this  also  and  to  some  further  alterations.  It 
seemed  not  worth  while  to  upset  the  whole  affair  for  the  sake 
of  one  sentence,  and  when  one  alteration  had  been  agreed  to 
it  seemed  not  worth  while  to  protest  against  a  second  and 
a  third.  Thus  little  by  little  expressions  crept  into  the  book 
which  altered  the  sense  and  attributed  things  to  me  that  I 
could  not  have  wished  to  say.  So  that  by  the  time  the  book 
was  printed  it  had  been  deprived  of  some  part  of  its  integrity 
and  sincerity.  But  there  was  consolation  in  the  thought  that 
the  book,  even  in  this  form,  if  it  contains  something  good, 
would  be  of  use  to  Russian  readers  whom  it  would  otherwise 
not  have  reached.  Things  however  turned  out  otherwise. 
Nous  comptions  sans  notre  hote.  After  the  legal  term  of 
four  days  had  already  elapsed,  the  book  was  seized  and,  on 
instructions  received  from  Petersburg,  it  was  handed  over  to 
the  Spiritual  Censor.     Then  Grote  declined  all  further  par- 

1  Tolstoy's  remarks  on  Church  religion  were  re-worded  so  as  to  seem  to  re- 
late only  to  the  Western  Church,  and  his  disapproval  of  luxurious  life  was  made 
to  apply  not,  say,  to  Queen  Victoria  or  Nicholas  II,  but  to  the  Caesars  or  the 
Pharaohs. 

2  The  Russian  peasant  was  usually  a  member  of  a  village  commune,  and  had 
therefore  a  right  to  share  in  the  land  belonging  to  the  village.  Tolstoy  disap- 
proved of  the  order  of  society  which  allows  less  land  for  the  support  of  a  whole 
village  full  of  people  than  was  sometimes  owned  by  a  single  landed  proprietor. 
The  Censor  did  not  allow  disapproval  of  this  state  of  things  to  be  expressed,  but 
was  prepared  to  admit  that  the  laws  and  customs,  say,  of  England — where  a  yet 
more  extreme  form  of  landed  property  existed  and  the  men  who  actually  labour 
on  the  land  usually  possessed  none  of  it — deserved  criticism. — A.  M. 


PREFACE  TO  "WHAT  IS  ART?"        119 


ticipation  in  the  affair,  and  the  Spiritual  Censor  proceeded 
to  do  what  he  liked  with  the  book.  The  Spiritual  Censor- 
ship is  one  of  the  most  ignorant,  venal,  stupid,  and  despotic 
institutions  in  Russia.  Books  which  disagree  in  any  way 
with  the  recognised  State  religion  of  Russia,  if  once  it  gets 
hold  of  them,  are  almost  always  totally  suppressed  and  burnt ; 
which  is  what  happened  to  all  my  religious  works  when  at- 
tempts were  made  to  print  them  in  Russia.  Probably  a 
similar  fate  would  have  overtaken  this  work  also,  had  not 
the  editors  of  the  magazine  employed  all  means  to  save  it. 
The  result  of  their  efforts  was  that  the  Spiritual  Censor,  a 
priest  who  probably  understands  art  and  is  interested  in  art 
as  much  as  I  understand  or  am  interested  in  church  services, 
but  who  gets  a  good  salary  for  destroying  whatever  is  likely 
to  displease  his  superiors,  struck  out  all  that  seemed  to  him 
to  endanger  his  position,  and  substituted  his  thoughts  for 
mine  wherever  he  considered  it  necessary  to  do  so.  For  in- 
stance,  where  I  speak  of  Christ  going  to  the  Cross  for  the 
sake  of  the  truth  he  professed,  the  Censor  substituted  a  state- 
ment that  Christ  died  for  mankind,  that  is,  he  attributed  to 
me  an  assertion  of  the  dogma  of  the  Redemption,  which  I 
consider  to  be  one  of  the  most  untruthful  and  harmful  of 
Church  dogmas.  After  correcting  the  book  in  this  way,  the 
Spiritual  Censor  allowed  it  to  be  printed. 

To  protest  in  Russia  is  impossible;  no  newspaper  would 
publish  such  a  protest,  and  to  withdraw  my  book  from  the 
magazine  and  place  the  editor  in  an  awkward  position  with 
the  public  was  also  impossible. 

So  the  matter  has  remained.  A  book  has  appeared  under 
my  name  containing  thoughts  attributed  to  me  which  are  not 
mine. 

I  was  persuaded  to  give  my  article  to  a  Russian  magazine 
in  order  that  my  thoughts,  which  may  be  useful,  should  be- 
come the  possession  of  Russian  readers;  and  the  result  has 


120  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

been  that  my  name  is  affixed  to  a  work  from  which  it  might 
be  assumed  that  I  quite  arbitrarily  assert  things  contrary  to 
the  general  opinion,  without  adducing  my  reasons;  that  I 
only  consider  false  patriotism  bad,  but  patriotism  in  general 
a  very  good  feeling ;  that  I  merely  deny  the  absurdities  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church  and  disbelieve  in  the  Madonna, 
but  that  I  believe  in  the  Orthodox  Eastern  faith  and  in  the 
"Mother  of  God";  tnat  I  consider  all  the  writings  collected 
in  the  Bible  to  be  holy  books,  and  see  the  chief  importance 
of  Christ's  life  in  the  Redemption  of  mankind  by  his  death. 

I  have  narrated  all  this  in  such  detail  because  it  strikingly 
illustrates  the  indubitable  truth,  that  all  compromise  with  in- 
stitutions of  which  your  conscience  disapproves, — com- 
promises which  are  usually  made  for  the  sake  of  the  general 
good, — instead  of  producing  the  good  you  expect,  inevitably 
lead  you  not  only  to  acknowledge  the  institution  you  dis- 
approve of,  but  also  to  participate  in  the  evil  that  institution 
produces. 

I  am  glad  to  be  able  by  this  statement  at  least  to  do  some- 
thing to  correct  the  error  into  which  I  was  led  by  my  com- 
promise. 

I  have  also  to  mention  that  besides  reinstating  the  parts 
excluded  by  the  Censor  from  the  Russian  editions,  other  cor- 
rections and  additions  of  importance  have  been  made  in  this 
edition. 

Leo  Tolstoy. 

29th  March  1898. 

NOTE: 

When  a  subscription  edition  of  Tolstoy's  works  edited  by  Professor  Leo 
Wiener,  was  published  in  1904,  by  Dana  Estes  in  U.  S.  A.  and  G.  M.  Dent  & 
Co.  in  London,  this  request  of  Tolstoy's  to  "all  who  are  interested  in  my  views 
on  art  only  to  judge  of  them  by  the  work  in  its  present  shape,"  was  disregarded, 
another  version  was  substituted,  and  incidentally  this  preface  was  omitted  from 
that  "complete   edition"   of  his  works. 


PART  XIII 

WHAT  IS  ART? 

CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

Time  and  labour  spent  on  art — Lives  stunted  in  its  service — Morality  sacrificed  to, 
and  anger  justified  by,  art — The  rehearsal  of  an  opera  described. 

CHAPTER  II 

Does  art  compensate  for  so  much  evil? — What  is  art? — Confusion  of  opinions — 
Is  it  "that  which  produces  beauty"? — The  word  "beauty"  in  Russian — Chaos 
in  esthetics. 

CHAPTER  III 

Summary  of  various  esthetic  theories  and  definitions,  from  Baumgarten  to  the 
present  day. 

CHAPTER  IV 

Definitions  of  art  founded  on  beauty — Taste  not  definable — A  clear  definition 
needed  to  enable  us  to  recognise  works  of  art. 

CHAPTER  V 

Definitions  not  founded  on  beauty — Tolstoy's  definition — The  extent  and  neces- 
sity of  art — How  people  in  the  past  distinguished  good  from  bad  in  art. 

CHAPTER  VI  \ 

How  art  for  pleasure  came  into  esteem — Religions  indicate  what  is  considered 
good  and  bad — Church  Christianity — The  Renaissance — Scepticism  of  the 
upper  classes — They  confound  beauty  with  goodness. 

CHAPTER  VII 

An  esthetic  theory  framed  to  suit  the  view  of  life  of  the  ruling  classes. 

CHAPTER  VIII 

Who  have  adopted  it? — Real  art  needful  for  all  men — Our  art  too  expensive,  too 
unintelligible,  and  too  harmful,  for  the  masses — "The  elect"  in  art. 

121 


/ 


122  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

CHAPTER  IX 

Perversion  of  our  art — It  has  lost  its  natural  subject-matter — Has  no  flow  of  fresh 
feeling — Transmits  chiefly  three  base  emotions. 

CHAPTER  X 

Loss  of  comprehensibility — Decadent  art — Recent  French  art — Have  we  a  right 
to  say  it  is  bad,  and  that  what  we  like  is  good  art? — The  highest  art  has  al- 
ways been  comprehensible  to  normal  people — What  fails  to  infect  normal  peo- 
ple is  not  art. 

CHAPTER  XI 

Counterfeits  of  art  produced  by:  Borrowing;  Imitating;  Arranging  effects; 
Creating  interest — Qualifications  needful  for  the  production  of  real  works  of 
art,  and  those  sufficient  for  production  of  counterfeits. 

CHAPTER  XII 

Causes  of  production  of  counterfeits — Professionalism — Criticism — Schools  of  art. 

CHAPTER  XIII 

Wagner's  "Ring  of  the  Nibelung"  a  type  of  counterfeit  art — Its  success,  and  the 
reasons  thereof. 

CHAPTER  XIV 

Truths  fatal  to  preconceived  views  are  not  readily  recognised — Proportion  of 
works  of  art  to  counterfeits — Perversion  of  taste  and  incapacity  to  recognise 
art — Examples. 

CHAPTER  XV 

The  quality  of  art,  considered  apart  from  its  subject-matter — The  sign  of 
art:  infectiousness — Incomprehensible  to  those  whose  taste  is  perverted — 
Conditions   of   infection :     Individuality ;    Clearness ;    Sincerity. 

CHAPTER  XVI 

The  quality  of  art,  considered  according  to  its  subject-matter — The  better 
the  feeling  the  better  the  art — The  cultured  crowd — The  religious  perception 
of  our  age — New  ideals  put  fresh  demands  to  art — Art  unites — Religious 
art — Universal  art — Both  co-operate  to  one  result — The  new  appraisement  of 
art — Bad  art — Examples  of  art — How  to  test  a  work  claiming  to  be  art. 

CHAPTER  XVII 

Results  of  absence  of  true  art — Results  of  perversion  of  art:  Labour  and  lives 
spent  on  what  is  useless  and  harmful — The  abnormal  life  of  the  rich — Per- 
plexity of  children  and  plain  folk — Confusion  of  right  and  wrong — Nietzsche 
and  Redbeard — Superstition,  Patriotism,  and  Sensuality. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  123 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  purpose  of  human  life  is  the  brotherly  union  of  man — Art  must  be  guided  by 
this  perception. 

CHAPTER  XIX 

The  art  of  the  future  not  the  possession  of  a  select  minority,  but  a  means  toward 
perfection  and  unity. 

CHAPTER  XX 

The  connection  between  science  and  art — The  mendacious  sciences;  the  trivial 
sciences — Science  should  deal  with  the  great  problems  of  human  life  and 
serve  as  a  basis  for  art. 

APPENDICES 

Appendix     I.     Translations  of  French  poems  and  prose  quoted  in  Chap.  X  of 

What  is  Art? 
Appendix    II.     Translation  from  Mallarme. 

Appendix  III.     Poems  by  Henri  de  Regnier,  Viele-Griffin,  Verhaeren,  Moreas,  and 

Montesquiou,   with  translations. 
Appendix  IV.     The  contents  of  Wagner's  Nibelung  en  Ring. 

(This  Table  of  Contents  is  compiled  by  the  translator.) 


CHAPTER  I 

Time  and  labour  spent  on  art.    Lives  stunted  in  its  service.    Morality  sacrificed 
to,  and  anger  justified  by,  art.     The  rehearsal  of  the  opera  described. 

Take  up  any  one  of  our  ordinary  newspapers  and  you  will 
find  a  part  devoted  to  the  theatre  and  music.  In  almost 
every  number  you  will  find  a  description  of  some  art- 
exhibition  or  of  some  particular  picture,  and  you  will  always 
find  reviews  of  new  works  of  art  that  have  appeared:  of 
volumes  of  poems,  of  short  stories,  or  of  novels. 

Promptly  and  in  detail  as  soon  as  it  has  occurred,  an  ac- 
count is  published  of  how  such  and  such  an  actress  or  actor 
played  this  or  that  role  in  such  and  such  a  drama,  comedy, 
or  opera,  and  of  the  merits  of  the  performance;  as  well  as 
of  the  contents  of  the  new  drama,  comedy,  or  opera,  with 
its  defects  and  merits.  With  as  much  care  and  detail  or 
even  more,  we  are  told  how  such  and  such  an  artist  has  sung 
a  certain  piece,  or  has  played  it  on  the  piano  or  violin,  and 
what  were  the  merits  and  defects  of  the  piece  and  of  the  per- 
formance. In  every  large  town  there  is  sure  to  be  at  least 
one,  if  not  more  than  one,  exhibition  of  new  pictures,  the 
merits  and  defects  of  which  are  discussed  in  the  utmost  de- 
tail by  critics  and  connoisseurs. 

New  novels  and  poems,  in  separate  volumes  or  in  the 
magazines,  appear  almost  every  day,  and  the  newspapers  con- 
sider it  their  duty  to  give  their  readers  detailed  accounts  of 
these  artistic  productions. 

For  the  support  of  art  in  Russia  (where  for  the  education 
of  the  people  only  a  hundredth  part  is  spent  of  what  would 
be  required  to  give  everyone  an  opportunity  of  instruction) 

124 


WHAT  IS  ART?  125 

the  Government  grants  millions  of  roubles  in  subsidies  to 
academies,  conservatoires,  and  theatres.  In  France  twenty 
million  francs  are  assigned  for  art,  and  similar  grants  are 
made  in  Germany  and  elsewhere. 

In  every  large  town  enormous  buildings  are  erected  for 
museums,  academies,  conservatoires,  dramatic  schools,  and 
for  performances  and  concerts.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of 
workmen, — carpenters,  masons,  painters,  joiners,  paper- 
hangers,  tailors,  hairdressers,  jewellers,  moulders,  type- 
setters,— spend  their  whole  lives  in  hard  labour  to  satisfy  the 
demands  of  art;  so  that  hardly  any  other  department  of  hu- 
man activity,  the  military  excepted,  consumes  so  much  energy 
as  this. 

Not  only  is  enormous  labour  spent  on  this  activity,  but  in 
it  as  in  war  the  very  lives  of  men  are  sacrificed.  Hundreds 
of  thousands  of  people  devote  their  lives  from  childhood  to 
learning  to  twirl  their  legs  rapidly  (dancers),  or  to  touch 
notes  and  strings  very  rapidly  (musicians),  or  to  draw  with 
paint  and  represent  what  they  see  (artists),  or  to  turn  every 
phrase  inside  out  and  find  a  rhyme  to  every  word.  And  I 
these  people,  often  very  kind  and  clever  and  capable  of  all  I 
sorts  of  useful  labour,  grow  savage  over  their  specialised  and 
stupefying  occupations  and  become  one-sided  and  self- 
complacent  specialists,  dull  to  all  the  serious  phenomena  of 
life  and  skilful  only  at  rapidly  twisting  their  legs,  their 
tongues,  or  their  fingers. 

But  even  this  stunting  of  human  life  is  not  the  worst.  I 
remember  being  once  at  the  rehearsal  of  one  of  the  most  ordi- 
nary of  the  new  operas  which  are  produced  at  all  the  opera 
houses  of  Europe  and  America. 

I  arrived  when  the  first  act  had  already  commenced.  To 
reach  the  auditorium  I  had  to  pass  through  the  stage- 
entrance.  By  dark  entrances  and  passages,  past  immense 
machines  for  changing  the  scenery  and  for  lighting  the  stage 


126  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

and  the  theatre,  I  was  led  through  the  vaults  of  an  enormous 
building;  and  there  in  the  gloom  and  dust  I  saw  workmen 
busily  engaged.  One  of  these  men — pale,  haggard,  in  a 
dirty  blouse,  with  dirty,  work-worn  hands  and  cramped 
fingers,  evidently  tired  and  out  of  humour — went  past  me, 
angrily  scolding  another  man.  Ascending  by  a  dark  stair, 
I  came  out  on  the  boards  behind  the  scenes.  Amid  various 
poles  and  rings  and  scattered  scenery  decorations  and  cur- 
tains, stood  and  moved  dozens,  if  not  hundreds,  of  painted 
and  dressed-up  men  in  costumes  fitting  tight  to  their  thighs 
and  calves,  and  also  women,  who  were  as  usual,  as  nearly 
nude  as  might  be.  These  were  all  singers,  or  members  of  the 
chorus,  or  ballet-dancers,  awaiting  their  turns.  My  guide 
led  me  across  the  stage  and,  by  means  of  a  bridge  of  boards, 
across  the  orchestra  (in  which  perhaps  a  hundred  musicians 
of  all  kinds,  from  kettle-drum  to  flute  and  harp,  were  seated), 
to  the  dark  pit-stalls. 

On  an  elevation  between  two  lamps  with  reflectors  and  in 
an  arm-chair  placed  before  a  music-stand,  sat  the  director  of 
the  musical  part,  baton  in  hand,  managing  the  orchestra  and 
singers  and  in  general  the  production  of  the  whole  opera. 

The  performance  had  already  commenced,  and  on  the 
stage  was  being  represented  a  procession  of  Indians  who  had 
brought  home  a  bride.  Besides  men  and  women  in  costume, 
two  other  men  in  ordinary  clothes  bustled  and  ran  about  on 
the  stage:  one  was  the  director  of  the  dramatic  part,  and  the 
other,  who  stepped  about  in  soft  shoes  and  ran  from  place  to 
place  with  unusual  agility,  was  the  dancing-master,  whose 
salary  per  month  exceeded  what  ten  labourers  earn  in  a  year. 

These  three  directors  arranged  the  singing,  the  orchestra, 
and  the  procession.  The  procession,  as  usual,  was  enacted 
by  men  and  women  in  couples  with  tinfoil  halberds  on  their 
shoulders.  They  all  came  from  one  place  and  walked  round 
and  round  again  and  then  stopped.     The  procession  took  a 


WHAT  IS  ART?  127 

long  time  to  arrange :  first  the  Indians  with  halberds  came  on 
too  late,  then  too  soon;  then  at  the  right  time,  but  crowded  to- 
gether at  the  exit;  then  they  did  not  crowd,  but  arranged  them- 
selves badly  at  the  sides  of  the  stage, — and  each  time  the 
whole  performance  was  stopped  and  recommenced  from  the 
beginning.  The  procession  is  preceded  by  a  recitative,  de- 
livered by  a  man  dressed  up  like  some  variety  of  Turk,  who, 
opening  his  mouth  in  a  curious  way,  sings,  "Home  I  bring 
the  bri-i-ide."  He  sings,  and  waves  his  arm  (which  is  of 
course  bare)  from  under  his  mantle.  The  procession  com- 
mences. But  here  the  French  horn,  in  the  accompaniment  of 
the  recitative,  does  something  wrong ;  and  the  director,  with  a 
shudder  as  if  some  catastrophe  had  occurred,  raps  with  his 
stick  on  the  stand.  All  is  stopped,  and  the  director,  turning 
to  the  orchestra,  attacks  the  French  horn,  scolding  him  in  the 
rudest  terms,  as  cabmen  abuse  one  another,  for  taking  the 
wrong  note.  And  again  the  whole  thing  recommences.  The 
Indians  with  their  halberds  again  come  on,  treading  softly  in 
their  extraordinary  boots;  again  the  singer  sings,  "Home  I 
bring  the  bri-i-ide."  But  here  the  pairs  get  too  close  to- 
gether. More  raps  with  the  stick,  more  scolding,  and  a  re- 
commencement. Again  "Home  I  bring  the  bri-i-ide,"  again 
the  same  gesticulation  with  the  bare  arm  from  under 
the  mantle,  and  again  the  couples,  treading  softly  with  hal- 
berds on  their  shoulders,  some  with  sad  and  serious  faces, 
some  talking  and  smiling,  arrange  themselves  in  a  circle  and 
begin  to  sing.  All  seems  to  be  going  well,  but  again  the  stick 
raps  and  the  director,  in  a  distressed  and  angry  voice,  begins 
to  scold  the  men  and  women  of  the  chorus.  It  appears  that 
when  singing  they  had  omitted  to  raise  their  hands  from  time 
to  time  in  sign  of  animation.  "Are  you  all  dead,  or  what? 
Cows  that  you  are!  Are  you  corpses,  that  you  can't  move?" 
Again  they  re-commence,  "Home  I  bring  the  bri-i-ide,"  and 
again,  with  sorrowful  faces,  the  chorus  women  sing,  first  one 


128  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

and  then  another  of  them  raising  their  hands.  But  two 
chorus-girls  speak  to  each  other, — again  a  more  vehement  rap- 
ping with  the  stick.  "Have  you  come  here  to  talk?  Can't 
you  gossip  at  home?  You  there  in  red  breeches,  come  nearer. 
Look  at  me!  Begin  again!"  Again  "Home  I  bring  the 
bri-i-ide."  And  so  it  goes  on  for  one,  two,  three  hours.  The 
whole  of  such  a  rehearsal  lasts  six  hours  on  end.  Raps  with 
the  stick,  repetitions,  placings,  corrections  of  the  singers,  of 
the  orchestra,  of  the  procession,  of  the  dancers, — all  seasoned 
with  angry  scolding.  I  heard  the  words,  "asses,"  "fools," 
"idiots,"  "swine,"  addressed  to  the  musicians  and  singers  at 
least  forty  times  in  the  course  of  one  hour.  And  the  unhappy 
individual  to  whom  the  abuse  is  addressed — flautist,  horn- 
blower,  or  singer, — physically  and  mentally  demoralised,  does 
not  reply  and  does  what  is  demanded  of  him.  Twenty  times 
is  repeated  the  one  phrase,  "Home  I  bring  the  bri-i-ide," 
and  twenty  times  the  striding  about  in  yellow  shoes  with  a 
halberd  over  the  shoulder.  The  conductor  knows  that  these 
people  are  so  demoralised  that  they  are  no  longer  fit  for  any- 
thing but  to  blow  trumpets  and  walk  about  with  halberds  and 
in  yellow  shoes,  and  that  they  are  also  accustomed  to  dainty 
easy  living,  so  that  they  will  put  up  with  anything  rather  than 
lose  their  luxurious  life.  He  therefore  gives  free  vent  to  his 
churlishness,  especially  as  he  has  seen  the  same  thing  done  in 
Paris  and  Vienna,  and  knows  that  this  is  the  way  the  best 
conductors  behave,  and  that  it  is  a  musical  tradition  of  great 
artists  to  be  so  carried  away  by  the  great  business  of  their  art 
that  they  cannot  pause  to  consider  the  feelings  of  other  artists. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  more  repulsive  sight.  I 
have  seen  one  workman  abuse  another  for  not  supporting  the 
weight  piled  upon  him  when  goods  were  being  unloaded,  or, 
at  hay-stacking,  the  village  Elder  scold  a  peasant  for  not  mak- 
ing the  rick  right,  and  the  man  submitted  in  silence.  And 
however  unpleasant  it  was  to  witness  the  scene,  the  unpleasant- 


WHAT  IS  ART?  129 

ness  was  lessened  by  the  consciousness  that  the  business  in 
hand  was  necessary  and  important  and  that  the  fault  for 
which  the  Elder  scolded  the  labourer  was  one  which  might 
spoil  a  needful  undertaking. 

But  what  was  being  done  here  ?  For  what,  and  for  whom  ? 
Very  likely  the  conductor  was  tired  out,  like  the  workman  I 
passed  in  the  vaults ;  it  was  even  evident  that  he  was ;  but  who 
made  him  tire  himself?  And  why  was  he  tiring  himself? 
The  opera  he  was  rehearsing  was  one  of  the  most  ordinary  of 
operas  for  people  who  are  accustomed  to  them,  but  also  one  of 
the  most  gigantic  absurdities  that  could  possibly  be  devised. 
An  Indian  king  wants  to  marry;  they  bring  him  a  bride;  he 
disguises  himself  as  a  minstrel;  the  bride  falls  in  love  with 
the  minstrel  and  is  in  despair,  but  afterwards  discovers  that 
the  minstrel  is  the  king,  and  everyone  is  highly  delighted. 

That  there  never  were,  or  could  be,  such  Indians,  and  that 
they  were  not  only  unlike  Indians,  but  that  what  they  were 
doing  was  unlike  anything  on  earth  except  other  operas,  was 
beyond  all  manner  of  doubt;  that  people  do  not  converse  in 
such  a  way  as  recitative,  and  do  not  place  themselves  at  fixed 
distances,  in  a  quartet,  waving  their  arms  to  express  their 
emotions;  that  nowhere,  except  in  theatres,  do  people  walk 
about  in  such  a  manner,  in  pairs,  with  tinfoil  halberds  and  in 
slippers;  that  no  one  ever  gets  angry  in  such  a  way,  or  is 
affected  in  such  a  way,  or  laughs  in  such  a  way,  or  cries  in 
such  a  way;  and  that  no  one  on  earth  can  be  moved  by  such 
performances, — all  this  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt. 

Instinctively  the  question  presents  itself :  For  whom  is  this 
being  done?  Whom  can  it  please ?  If  there  are  occasionally 
good  melodies  in  the  opera  to  which  it  is  pleasant  to  listen, 
they  could  have  been  sung  simply,  without  these  stupid  cos- 
tumes and  all  the  processions  and  recitatives  and  hand- 
wavings. 

The  ballet,  in  which  half-naked  women  make  voluptuous 


130  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

movements,  twisting  themselves  into  various  sensual  wreath- 
ings,  is  simply  a  lewd  performance. 

So  one  is  quite  at  a  loss  as  to  whom  these  things  are  done 
for.  The  man  of  culture  is  heartily  sick  of  them,  while  to 
a  real  working  man  they  are  utterly  incomprehensible.  If 
anyone  can  be  pleased  by  these  things  (which  is  doubtful), 
it  can  only  be  some  young  footman  or  depraved  artisan,  who 
has  contracted  the  spirit  of  the  upper  classes  but  is  not  yet 
satiated  with  their  amusements  and  wishes  to  show  his 
breeding. 

And  all  this  nasty  folly  is  prepared,  not  simply,  nor  with 
kindly  merriment,  but  with  anger  and  brutal  cruelty. 

It  is  said  that  it  is  all  done  for  the  sake  of  art,  and  that 
art  is  a  very  important  thing.  But  is  it  true  that  art  is  so 
\  important  that  such  sacrifices  should  be  made  for  its  sake? 
This  question  is  especially  urgent,  because  art,  for  the  sake 
of  which  the  labour  of  millions,  the  lives  of  men  and,  above 
all,  love  between  man  and  man,  are  all  being  sacrificed, — this 
very  art  is  becoming  something  more  and  more  vague  and 
uncertain  to  human  perception. 

Criticism,  in  which  the  lovers  of  art  used  to  find  support 
for  their  opinions,  has  latterly  become  so  self-contradictory 
that  if  we  exclude  from  the  domain  of  art  all  to  which  the 
critics  of  various  schools  themselves  deny  the  title,  there  is 
scarcely  any  art  left. 

The  artists  of  various  sects,  like  the  theologians  of  various 
sects,  mutually  exclude  and  destroy  one  another.  Listen  to 
the  artists  of  the  schools  of  our  times,  and  in  all  branches  you 
will  find  each  set  of  artists  disowning  others.  In  poetry  the 
old  romanticists  deny  the  parnassians  and  the  decadents;  the 
parnassians  disown  the  romanticists  and  the  decadents;  the 
decadents  disown  all  their  predecessors  and  the  symbolists;  the 
symbolists  disown  all  their  predecessors  and  les  mages;  and 
les  mages  disown  all,  all  their  predecessors.     Among  novelists 


WHAT  IS  ART?  131 

we  have  naturalists,  psychologists,  and  "nature-ists,"  all  re- 
jecting each  other.  And  it  is  the  same  in  dramatic  art,  in 
painting,  and  in  music.  So  that  art,  which  demands  such 
tremendous  labour-sacrifices  from  the  people,  which  stunts 
human  lives  and  transgresses  against  human  love,  is  not  only 
not  a  thing  clearly  and  firmly  defined,  but  is  understood  in 
such  contradictory  ways  by  its  own  devotees  that  it  is  difficult 
to  say  what  is  meant  by  art,  and  especially  what  is  good,  use- 
ful art, — art  for  the  sake  of  which  we  might  condone  such 
sacrifices  as  are  being  offered  at  its  shrine. 


CHAPTER  II 

Does  art  compensate  for  so  much  evil?  What  is  art?  Confusion  of  opinions. 
Is  it  "that  which  produces  beauty"?  The  word  "beauty"  in  Russian.  Chaos  in 
esthetics. 

For  the  production  of  every  ballet,  circus,  opera,  operetta, 
exhibition,  picture,  concert,  or  printed  book,  the  intense  and 
unwilling  labour  of  thousands  and  thousands  of  people  is 
needed  at  what  is  often  harmful  and  humiliating  work.  It 
were  well  if  artists  made  all  they  require  for  themselves,  but 
as  it  is  they  all  need  the  help  of  workmen,  not  only  to  produce 
art,  but  also  for  their  own  usually  luxurious  maintenance. 
And  one  way  or  other  they  get  it,  either  through  payments 
from  rich  people,  or  through  subsidies  given  by  Government 
(in  Russia,  for  instance,  in  grants  of  millions  of  roubles  to 
theatres,  conservatoires  and  academies).  This  money  is  col- 
lected from  the  people,  some  of  whom  have  to  sell  their  only 
cow  to  pay  the  tax,  and  who  never  get  those  esthetic  pleasures 
which  art  gives. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  a  Greek  or  Roman  artist,  or  even 
for  a  Russian  artist  of  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century 
(when  there  still  were  slaves  and  it  was  considered  right  that 
there  should  be),  with  a  quiet  mind  to  make  people  serve  him 
and  his  art ;  but  in  our  day,  when  in  all  men  there  is  at  least 
some  dim  perception  of  the  equal  rights  of  all,  it  is  impossible 
to  constrain  people  to  labour  unwillingly  for  art,  without  first 
deciding  the  question  whether  it  is  true  that  art  is  so  good  and 
so  important  an  affair  as  to  redeem  this  evil. 

If  not,  we  have  the  terrible  probability  to  consider,  that 
while  fearful  sacrifices  of  the  labour  and  lives  of  men  and 

132 


WHAT  IS  ART?  133 

of  morality  itself  are  being  made  to  art,  that  same  art  may 
be  not  only  useless  but  even  harmful. 

And  therefore  it  is  necessary  for  a  society  in  which  works 
of  art  arise  and  are  supported,  to  find  out  whether  all  that 
professes  to  be  art  is  really  art;  whether  (as  is  presupposed 
in  our  society)  all  that  is  art  is  good,  and  whether  it  is  im- 
portant, and  worth  those  sacrifices  which  it  necessitates.  It 
is  still  more  necessary  for  every  conscientious  artist  to  know 
this,  in  order  that  he  may  be  sure  that  all  he  does  has  a  valid 
meaning, — that  it  is  not  merely  an  infatuation  of  the  small 
circle  of  people  among  whom  he  lives  which  excites  in  him  the 
false  assurance  that  he  is  doing  a  good  work — and  that  what 
he  takes  from  others  for  the  support  of  his  often  very  luxurious 
life  will  be  compensated  for  by  those  productions  at  which  he 
works.  And  that  is  why  answers  to  the  above  questions  are 
especially  important  in  our  time. 

What  is  this  art,  which  is  considered  so  important  and 
necessary  for  humanity  that  for  its  sake  these  sacrifices  of 
labour,  of  human  life,  and  even  of  goodness,  may  be  made? 

"What  is  art?  What  a  question!  Art  is  architecture, 
sculpture,  painting,  music,  and  poetry  in  all  its  forms,"  usu- 
ally replies  the  ordinary  man,  the  art  amateur,  or  even  the 
artist  himself,  imagining  the  matter  about  which  he  is  talking 
to  be  perfectly  clear,  and  uniformly  understood  by  everybody. 
But  in  architecture,  one  inquires  further,  are  there  not  simple 
buildings  which  are  not  objects  of  art,  and  buildings  with 
artistic  pretensions  which  are  unsuccessful  and  ugly  and 
therefore  not  to  be  considered  as  works  of  art? — wherein  lies 
the  characteristic  sign  of  a  work  of  art? 

It  is  the  same  in  sculpture,  in  music,  and  in  poetry.  Art, 
in  all  its  forms,  is  bounded  on  one  side  by  the  practically 
useful  and  on  the  other  by  unsuccessful  attempts  at  art. 
How  is  art  to  be  marked  off  from  each  of  these?  The  ordi- 
nary educated  man  of  our  circle,  and  even  the  artist  who 


134  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

has  not  occupied  himself  specially  with  esthetics,  will  not 
hesitate  at  this  question  either.  He  thinks  the  solution  has 
been  found  long  ago,  and  is  well  known  to  everyone. 

"Art  is  such  activity  as  produces  beauty,"  says  such  a  man. 

If  art  consists  in  that, — then  is  a  ballet  or  an  operetta  art? 
you  inquire. 

"Yes,"  says  the  ordinary  man,  though  with  some  hesitation, 
"a  good  ballet  or  a  graceful  operetta  is  also  art,  in  so  far  as 
it  manifests  beauty." 

But  without  even  asking  the  ordinary  man  what  differen- 
tiates the  "good"  ballet  and  the  "graceful"  operetta  from  their 
opposites  (a  question  he  would  have  much  difficulty  in  an- 
swering), if  you  ask  him  whether  the  activity  of  costumers 
and  hairdressers,  who  ornament  the  figures  and  faces  of  the 
women  for  the  ballet  and  the  operetta,  is  art;  or  the  activity 
of  Worth,  the  dressmaker;  of  scent-makers  and  men-cooks, 
then  he  will  in  most  cases  deny  that  their  activity  belongs  to 
the  domain  of  art.  But  in  this  the  ordinary  man  makes  a 
mistake,  just  because  he  is  an  ordinary  man  and  not  a  spe- 
cialist, and  because  he  has  not  occupied  hirrfself  with  esthetic 
questions.  Had  he  looked  into  these  matters,  he  would  have 
seen  in  the  great  Renan's  book,  Marc  Aurele,  a  dissertation 
showing  that  the  dressmaker's  work  is  art,  and  that  those  who 
do  not  see  in  the  adornment  of  woman  an  affair  of  the  highest 
art  are  very  small-minded  and  dull.  "C'est  le  grand  art," 
says  Renan.  Moreover,  he  would  have  known  that  in  many 
esthetic  systems — for  instance,  in  the  esthetics  of  the  learned 
Professor  Kralik,  Weltschonheit,  Versuch  einer  allgemeinen 
JEsthetik,  von  Richard  Kralik,  and  in  Les  problemes  de 
VEsthetique  Contemporaine,  by  Guyau — the  arts  of  costume, 
of  taste,  and  of  touch  are  included. 

"Es  Folgt  nun  ein  Funfblatt  von  Kunsten,  die  der  subjec- 
tiven  Sinnlichkeit  entkeimen"  (There  results  then  a  penta- 
foliate  of  arts,  growing  out  of  the  subjective  perceptions),  says 


WHAT  IS  ART?  135 

Kralik  (p.  175).  "Sie  sind  die  dsthetische  Behandlung  der 
fiinf  Sinne."  (They  are  the  esthetic  treatment  of  the  five 
senses.) 

These  five  arts  are  the  following: — 

Die  Kunst  des  Geschmacksinns — The  art  of  the  sense 
of  taste  (p.  175). 

Die  Kunst  des  Geruchsinns — The  art  of  the  sense  of  smell 
(p.  177). 

Die  Kunst  des  Tastsinns — The  art  of  the  sense  of  touch 
(p.  180). 

Die  Kunst  des  Gehbrsinns — The  art  of  the  sense  of  hear- 
ing (p.  182). 

Die  Kunst  des  Gesichtsinns — The  art  of  the  sense  of  sight 
(p.  184). 

Of  the  first  of  these — die  Kunst  des  Geschmacksinns — he 
says:  Man  halt  zwar  gewohnlich  nur  zwei  oder  hochstens 
drei  Sinne  fur  wiirdig  den  Stoff  kiinstlerischer  Behandlung 
abzugeben,  aber  ich  glaube  nur  mit  bedingtem  Recht.  Ich 
will  kein  allzugroses  Gewicht  darauf  legen,  dass  der  gemeine 
Sprachgebrauch  manch  andere  Kiinste,  wie  zum  Beispiel  die 
Kochkunst  kennt.1 

And  further:  Und  es  ist  doch  gewiss  eine  dsthetische 
Leistung,  wenn  es  der  Kochkunst  gelingt  aus  einem  thierischen 
Kadaver  einen  Gegenstand  des  Geschmacks  in  jedem  Sinne  zu 
machen.  Der  Grundsatz  der  Kunst  des  Geschmacksinns  (die 
wetter  ist  als  die  sogenannte  Kochkunst)  ist  also  dieser:  Es 
soil  alles  Geniessbare  als  Sinnbild  einer  Idee  behandelt  wer- 
den  und  in  jedesmaligem  Einklang  zur  auszudruckendem  (A**-) 
Idee.2  '  °dU 

1  Only  two,  or  at  most  three,  senses  are  generally  held  worthy  to  supply  matter 
for  artistic  treatment,  but  I  think  this  opinion  is  only  conditionally  correct.  I  will 
not  lay  too  much  stress  on  the  fact  that  our  common  speech  recognises  many  other 
arts,   as,   for   instance,   the  art  of  cookery. 

2  And  yet  it  is  certainly  an  esthetic  achievement  when  the  art  of  cooking  suc- 
ceeds in  making  of  an  animal's  corpse  an  object  in  all  respects  tasteful.     The 


136  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

This  author,  like  Renan,  acknowledges  a  Kostiimkunst 
(Art  of  Costume)  (p.  200),  etc. 

Such  is  also  the  opinion  of  the  French  writer,  Guyau,  who 
is  highly  esteemed  by  some  authors  of  our  day.  In  his  book, 
Les  Problemes  de  V esthetique  contemporaine,  he  speaks  seri- 
ously of  touch,  taste,  and  smell  as  giving,  or  being  capable 
of  giving,  esthetic  impressions:  Si  la  couleur  manque  au 
toucher,  il  nous  fournit  en  revanche  une  notion  que  Vozil  seul 
ne  peut  nous  donner,  et  qui  a  une  valeur  esthetique  con- 
siderable, celle  du  doux,  du  soyeux,  du  poli.  Ce  qui  carac- 
terise  la  beaute  du  velour  c'est  sa  douceur  au  toucher  non 
moins  que  son  brillant.  Dans  Videe  que  nous  nous  faisons  de 
la  beaute  d'une  fetnme,  le  veloute  de  sa  peau  entre  comme 
element  essentiel. 

Chacun  de  nous  probablement  avec  un  peu  d 'attention  se 
rappellera  des  jouissances  du  gout,  qui  ont  ete  de  veritables 
jouissances  esthetiques.1  And  he  recounts  how  a  glass  of 
milk  drunk  by  him  in  the  mountains  gave  him  esthetic 
enjoyment. 

So  it  turns  out  that  the  conception  of  art  as  consisting  in 
making  beauty  manifest  is  not  at  all  so  simple  as  it  seemed, 
especially  now,  when  in  this  conception  of  beauty  are  included 
our  sensations  of  touch  and  taste  and  smell,  as  they  are  by  the 
latest  esthetic  writers. 

But  the  ordinary  man  either  does  not  know,  or  does  not 
wish  to  know,  all  this,  and  is  firmly  convinced  that  all  ques- 

principle  of  the  Art  of  Taste  (which  goes  beyond  the  so-called  Art  of  Cookery) 
is  therefore  this :  All  that  is  eatable  should  be  treated  as  the  symbol  of  some  Idea, 
and  always  in  harmony  with  the  Idea  to  be  expressed. 

1  If  the  sense  of  touch  lacks  colour,  it  gives  us,  on  the  other  hand,  a  notion 
which  the  eye  alone  cannot  afford,  and  one  of  considerable  esthetic  value,  namely, 
that  of  softness,  silkiness,  polish.  The  beauty  of  velvet  is  characterised  not  less 
by  its  softness  to  the  touch  than  by  its  lustre.  In  the  idea  we  form  of  a  woman's 
beauty,  the  softness  of  her  skin  enters  as  an  essential  element. 

Each  of  us  probably,  with  a  little  attention,  can  recall  pleasures  of  taste  which 
have  been  real  esthetic  pleasures. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  137 

tions  about  art  may  be  simply  and  clearly  solved  by  acknowl- 
edging beauty  to  be  the  content  of  art.  To  him  it  seems  clear 
and  comprehensible  that  art  consists  in  manifesting  beauty, 
and  that  a  reference  to  beauty  will  serve  to  explain  all  ques- 
tions about  art. 

But  what  is  this  beauty  which  forms  the  content  of  art? 
How  is  it  denned?     What  is  it? 

As  is  always  the  case,  the  more  cloudy  and  confused  the 
conception  conveyed  by  a  word,  with  the  more  aplomb  and 
self-assurance  do  people  use  that  word,  pretending  that  what 
is  understood  by  it  is  so  simple  and  clear  that  it  is  not  worth 
while  even  to  discuss  what  it  actually  means. 

This  is  how  matters  of  orthodox  religion  are  usually  dealt 
with,  and  this  is  how  people  now  deal  with  the  conception  of 
beauty.  It  is  taken  for  granted  that  what  is  meant  by  the 
word  beauty  is  known  and  understood  by  everyone.  And  yet 
not  only  is  this  not  known,  but  after  whole  mountains  of  books 
have  been  written  on  the  subject  by  the  most  learned  and  pro- 
found thinkers  during  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  (ever 
since  Baumgarten  founded  esthetics  in  the  year  1750),  the 
question,  What  is  beauty?  remains  to  this  day  quite  unsolved, 
and  in  each  new  work  on  esthetics  it  is  answered  in  a  new 
way.  One  of  the  last  books  I  read  on  esthetics  is  a  not  ill- 
written  booklet  by  Julius  Mithalter,  called  Rats  el  des  Schonen 
(The  Enigma  of  the  Beautiful).  And  that  title  precisely  ex- 
presses the  position  of  the  question,  What  is  beauty?  After 
thousands  of  learned  men  have  discussed  it  during  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years,  the  meaning  of  the  word  beauty  remains 
an  enigma  still.  The  Germans  answer  the  question  in  their 
manner,  though  in  a  hundred  different  ways;  the  physiologi- 
cal estheticians,  especially  the  Englishmen:  Herbert  Spencer, 
Grant  Allen,  and  his  school,  answer  it  each  in  his  own  way; 
the  French  eclectics,  and  the  followers  of  Guyau  and  Taine, 
also  each  in  his  own  way;  and  all  these  people  know  all  the 


138  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

preceding  solutions  given  by  Baumgarten,  and  Kant,  and 
Schelling,  and  Schiller,  and  Fichte,  and  Winckelmann,  and 
Lessing,  and  Hegel,  and  Schopenhauer,  and  Hartmann,  and 
Schasler,  and  Cousin,  and  Leveque  and  others. 

What  is  this  strange  conception  of  "beauty,"  which  seems  so 
simple  to  those  who  talk  without  thinking,  but  in  denning 
which  all  the  philosophers  of  various  tendencies  and  different 
nationalities  can  come  to  no  agreement  during  a  century  and 
a  half?  What  is  this  conception  of  beauty,  on  which  the 
dominant  doctrine  of  art  rests  ? 

In  Russian,  by  the  word  krasota  (beauty)  we  mean  only 
that  which  pleases  the  sight.  And  though  latterly  people  have 
begun  to  speak  of  "an  ugly  deed,"  or  of  "beautiful  music," 
it  is  not  good  Russian. 

A  Russian  of  the  common  folk,  not  knowing  foreign  lan- 
guages, will  not  understand  you  if  you  tell  him  that  a  man 
who  has  given  his  last  coat  to  another,  or  done  anything 
similar,  has  acted  "beautifully,"  that  a  man  who  has  cheated 
another  has  done  an  "ugly"  action,  or  that  a  song  is 
"beautiful." 

In  Russian  a  deed  may  be  kind  and  good,  or  unkind  and 
bad.  Music  may  be  pleasant  and  good,  or  unpleasant  and 
bad;  but  there  can  be  no  such  thing  as  "beautiful"  or  "ugly" 
music. 

Beautiful  may  relate  to  a  man,  a  horse,  a  house,  a  view,  or 
a  movement.  Of  actions  thoughts  character  or  music,  if 
they  please  us,  we  may  say  that  they  are  good,  or,  if  they  do 
not  please  us,  that  they  are  bad.  But  beautiful  can  be  used 
only  concerning  that  which  pleases  the  sight.  So  that  the 
word  and  conception  "good"  includes  the  conception  of 
"beautiful";  but  the  reverse  is  not  true;  the  conception 
"beauty"  does  not  include  the  conception  "good."  If  we  say 
"good"  of  an  article  which  we  value  for  its  appearance,  we 


WHAT  IS  ART?  139 

thereby  say  that  the  article  is  beautiful;  but  if  we  say  it  is 
"beautiful,'"  it  does  not  at  all  mean  that  the  article  is  a  good 
one. 

Such  is  the  meaning  ascribed  by  the  Russian  language,  and 
therefore  by  the  sense  of  the  people,  to  the  words  and  concep- 
tions "good"  and  "beautiful." 

In  all  the  European  languages,  that  is,  in  the  languages  of 
those  nations  among  whom  the  doctrine  has  spread  that  beauty 
is  the  essential  thing  in  art,  the  words  "beau"  "schon" 
"beautiful,"  "hello"  etc.,  while  keeping  their  meaning  of 
beautiful  in  form,  have  come  also  to  express  "goodness," 
"kindness,"  that  is  to  say,  have  come  to  act  as  substitutes  for 
the  word  "good." 

So  that  it  has  become  quite  natural  in  those  languages  to 
use  such  expressions  as  "belle  ame,"  "schone  Gedanken"  or 
"beautiful  deed."  Those  languages  no  longer  have  a  suitable 
word  wherewith  expressly  to  indicate  beauty  of  form,  and 
have  to  use  a  combination  of  words  such  as  "beau  par  la 
forme"  "beautiful  to  look  at"  and  so  forth,  to  convey  that 
idea. 

Observation  of  the  divergent  meanings  which  the  words 
"beauty"  and  "beautiful"  have  in  Russian  on  the  one  hand, 
and  in  those  European  languages  now  permeated  by  this  es- 
thetic theory  on  the  other  hand,  shows  us  that  the  word 
"beauty"  has  among  the  latter  acquired  a  special  meaning, 
namely,  that  of  "good." 

What  is  remarkable,  moreover,  is  that  since  we  Russians 
have  begun  more  and  more  to  adopt  the  European  view  of 
art,  the  same  evolution  has  begun  to  show  itself  in  our  lan- 
guage also,  and  some  people  speak  and  write  quite  confidently, 
and  without  causing  surprise,  of  beautiful  music  and  ugly 
actions,  and  even  of  beautiful  or  ugly  thoughts;  whereas 
forty  years  ago,  when  I  was  young,  the  expressions  "beautiful 


140  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

music"  and  "ugly  actions"  were  not  only  unusual  but  incom- 
prehensible. Evidently  this  new  meaning  given  to  beauty  by 
European  thought  begins  to  be  assimilated  by  Russian  society. 

And  what  really  is  this  meaning?  What  is  this  "beauty" 
as  understood  by  the  European  peoples? 

In  order  to  answer  this  question,  I  must  here  quote  at  least 
a  small  selection  of  those  definitions  of  beauty  most  generally 
adopted  in  existing  esthetic  systems.  I  particularly  beg  the 
reader  not  to  be  overcome  by  dulness,  but  to  read  these  ex- 
tracts through,  or  still  better  to  read  some  one  of  the  erudite 
esthetic  authors.  Not  to  mention  the  voluminous  German 
estheticians,  a  very  good  book  for  this  purpose  would  be 
either  the  German  book  by  Kralik,  the  English  work  by 
Knight,  or  the  French  one  by  Leveque.  It  is  necessary  to 
read  at  least  one  of  the  learned  esthetic  writers  in  order  to 
form  at  first-hand  a  conception  of  the  variety  of  opinion  and 
the  frightful  obscurity  which  reigns  in  this  region  of  specula- 
tion; not  in  this  important  matter  trusting  to  another's 
report. 

This  for  instance  is  what  the  German  esthetician  Schasler 
says  in  the  preface  to  his  famous,  voluminous,  and  detailed 
work  on  esthetics : — 

"In  hardly  any  sphere  of  philosophic  science  can  we  find 
such  divergent  methods  of  investigation  and  exposition, 
amounting  even  to  self-contradiction,  as  in  the  sphere  of  es- 
thetics. »  On  the  one  hand  we  have  elegant  phraseology  with- 
out any  substance,  characterised  in  great  part  by  most  one- 
sided superficiality ;  'and  on  the  other  hand,  accompanying 
undeniable  profundity  of  investigation  and  richness  of 
subject-matter,  we  get  a  revolting  awkwardness  of  philosophic 
terminology  clothing  the  simplest  thoughts  in  an  apparel  of 
abstract  science  as  though  to  render  them  worthy  to  enter  the 
consecrated  palace  of  the  system  ;v  and  finally,  between  these 


I 


WHAT  IS  ART?  141 

two  methods  of  investigation  and  exposition,  there  is  a  third, 
forming  as  it  were  the  transition  from  one  to  the  other,  an 
eclectic  method, — now  flaunting  an  elegant  phraseology  and 
now  a  pedantic  erudition.  ...  A  style  of  exposition  that  falls 
into  none  of  these  three  defects  but  is  truly  concrete,  and  hav- 
ing important  matter  expresses  it  in  clear  and  popular  phil- 
osophic language,  can  nowhere  be  found  less  frequently  than 
in  the  domain  of  esthetics."  ' 

It  is  only  necessary,  as  an  example,  to  read  Schasler's  own 
book  to  convince  oneself  of  the  justice  of  this  observation 
of  his. 

On  the  same  subject  the  French  writer,  Veron,  in  the  pref- 
ace to  his  very  good  work  on  esthetics,  says,  "II  n'y  a  pas  de 
science,  qui  ait  ete  plus  que  Vesthetique  livree  aux  reveries 
des  metaphysiciens.  Depuis  Plat  on  jus  qu' aux  doctrines  of- 
ficielles  de  nos  jours,  on  a  fait  de  Vart  je  ne  sais  quel  amal- 
game  de  fantaisies  quint es sendees,  et  de  mysteres  transcend- 
antaux  qui  trouvent  leur  expression  supreme  dans  la  concep- 
tion absolue  du  Beau  ideal,  prototype  immuable  et  divin  des 
choses  reelles"  (L'esthetique,  1878,  p.  5).2 

If  the  reader  will  only  be  at  the  pains  to  peruse  the  follow- 
ing extracts  defining  beauty,  taken  from  the  chief  writers  on 
esthetics,  he  may  convince  himself  that  this  censure  is  thor- 
oughly deserved. 

I  shall  not  quote  the  definitions  of  beauty  attributed  to  the 
ancients, — Socrates,  Plato,  Aristotle,  and  others,  down  to 
Plotinus, — because,  in  reality,  the  ancients  had  not  that  con- 
ception of  beauty  separated  from  goodness  which  forms  the 

1 M.  Schasler,  Kritische  Geschichte  der  Aesthetik,   1872,  Vol.  I,  p.  13. 

2  There  is  no  science  which  more  entirely  than  esthetics  has  been  handed  over 
to  the  dreams  of  the  metaphysicians.  From  Plato  down  to  the  received  doctrines 
of  our  day,  people  have  made  of  art  a  strange  amalgam  of  quintessential  fancies 
and  transcendental  mysteries,  which  find  their  supreme  expression  in  the  con- 
ception of  an  absolute  ideal  Beauty,  immutable  and  divine  prototype  of  actual 
things. 


142  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

basis  and  aim  of  esthetics  in  our  time.  By  referring  the  judg- 
ments of  the  ancients  on  beauty  to  our  conception  of  it,  as  is 
usually  done  in  esthetics,  we  give  the  words  of  the  ancients  a 
meaning  which  is  not  theirs.1 

1  See   on    this   matter    Bernard's   admirable    book,    L'esthetique   d'Aristote,   also 
Walter's  Geschichte  der  Aesthetik  im  Altertum. 


CHAPTER  III 

Summary  of  various  esthetic  theories  and  definitions,  from  Baumgarten  to  the 
present  day. 

I  begin  with  the  founder  of  esthetics,  Baumgarten  (1714— 
1762). 

According  to  Baumgarten,1  the  object  of  logical  knowledge 
is  Truth,  the  object  of  esthetic  (i.  e.,  sensuous)  knowledge  is 
Beauty.  Beauty  is  the  Perfect  (the  Absolute),  recognised 
through  the  senses;  Truth  is  the  Perfect  perceived  through 
reason;  Goodness  is  the  Perfect  reached  by  moral  will. 

Beauty  is  denned  by  Baumgarten  as  a  correspondence,  that 
is,  an  order  of  the  parts  in  their  mutual  relations  to  each  other 
and  in  their  relation  to  the  whole.  The  aim  of  beauty  itself  is 
to  please  and  excite  a  desire," Wohlfge  fallen  und  Erregung 
eines  Verlangens."  (A  position  precisely  the  opposite  to 
Kant's  definition  of  the  nature  and  sign  of  beauty.) 

With  reference  to  the  manifestations  of  beauty,  Baumgarten 
considers  that  the  highest  embodiment  of  beauty  is  visible  to 
us  in  nature,  and  he  therefore  thinks  that  the  highest  aim  of 
art  is  to  copy  nature.  (This  position  also  is  directly  contra- 
dicted by  the  conclusions  of  the  latest  estheticians.) 

Passing  over  the  unimportant  followers  of  Baumgarten, — 
Maier,  Eschenburg,  and  Eberhard, — who  only  slightly  mod- 
ified the  doctrine  of  their  teacher  by  dividing  the  pleasant 
from  the  beautiful,  I  will  quote  the  definitions  given  by  writers 
who  came  immediately  after  Baumgarten  and  defined  beauty 
in  quite  another  way.  These  writers  were  Sulzer,  Mendels- 
sohn, and  Moritz.     They,  in  contradiction  to  Baumgarten's 

iSchasler  p.  361. 

143 


144  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

main  position,  recognise  as  the  aim  of  art  not  beauty,  but 
goodness.  Thus  Sulzer  (1720-1777)  says,  only  that  can 
be  considered  beautiful  which  contains  goodness.  According 
to  his  theory,  the  aim  of  the  whole  life  of  humanity  is  welfare 
in  social  life.  This  is  attained  by  the  education  of  the  moral 
feelings,  to  which  end  art  should  be  subservient.  Beauty  is 
that  which  evokes  and  educates  this  feeling. 

Beauty  is  understood  almost  in  the  same  way  by  Mendels- 
sohn ( 1729-1 786) .  According  to  him,  art  is  the  development 
of  the  beautiful,  obscurely  recognised  by  feeling,  till  it  be- 
comes the  true  and  good.     The  aim  of  art  is  moral  perfection.1 

For  the  estheticians  of  this  school  the  ideal  of  beauty  is  a 
beautiful  soul  in  a  beautiful  body.  So  that  these  estheticians 
completely  wipe  out  Baumgarten's  division  of  the  Perfect  (the 
Absolute),  into  the  three  forms  of  Truth,  Goodness,  and 
Beauty;  and  Beauty  again  merges  into  the  Good  and  the  True. 

But  this  conception  is  not  only  not  maintained  by  the  later 
estheticians,  but  the  esthetic  doctrine  of  Winckelmann  arises, 
again  in  complete  opposition.  This  divides  the  mission  of 
art  from  the  aim  of  goodness  in  the  sharpest  and  most  positive 
manner,  makes  external  beauty  the  aim  of  art,  and  even  limits 
it  to  visible  beauty. 

According  to  the  celebrated  work  of  Winckelmann  (1717- 
1767),  the  law  and  aim  of  all  art  is  beauty  only,  beauty 
quite  separated  from  and  independent  of  goodness.  There 
are  three  kinds  of  beauty: — (1)  beauty  of  form,  (2)  beauty 
of  idea,  expressing  itself  in  the  position  of  the  figure  (in 
plastic  art),  (3)  beauty  of  expression,  attainable  only  when 
the  two  first  conditions  are  present.  This  beauty  of  expres- 
sion is  the  highest  aim  of  art,  and  is  attained  in  antique  art; 
modern  art  should  therefore  aim  at  imitating  ancient  art.2 

Art  is  similarly  understood  by  Lessing,  Herder,  and  after- 

iSchasler,  p.  369. 
2Schasler,  pp.  388-390. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  145 

wards  by  Goethe  and  by  all  the  distinguished  estheticians  of 
Germany  till  Kant,  from  whose  day,  again,  a  different  con- 
ception of  art  commences. 

Native  esthetic  theories  arose  during  this  period  in  Eng- 
land, France,  Italy,  and  Holland,  and  they,  though  not  taken 
from  the  German,  were  equally  cloudy  and  contradictory. 
And  all  these  writers,  just  like  the  German  estheticians, 
founded  their  theories  on  a  conception  of  the  Beautiful;  un- 
derstanding beauty  in  the  sense  of  a  something  existing  abso- 
lutely and  more  or  less  intermingled  with  Goodness,  or  hav- 
ing one  and  the  same  root.  In  England  almost  simultane- 
ously with  Baumgarten,  even  a  little  earlier,  Shaftesbury, 
Hutcheson,  Home,  Burke,  Hogarth,  and  others,  wrote  on  art. 

According  to  Shaftesbury  (1670-1713),  "That  which  is 
beautiful  is  harmonious  and  proportionable,  what  is  harmoni- 
ous and  proportionable  is  true,  and  what  is  at  once  both  beauti- 
ful and  true  is  of  consequence  agreeable  and  good." * 
Beauty,  he  taught,  is  recognised  by  the  mind  only.  God  is 
fundamental  beauty;  beauty  and  goodness  proceed  from  the 
same  fount. 

So  that,  although  Shaftesbury  regards  beauty  as  being 
something  separate  from  goodness,  they  again  merge  into 
something  inseparable. 

According  to  Hutcheson  (1694-1747 — Inquiry  into  the 
Original  of  our  Ideas  of  Beauty  and  Virtue),  the  aim  of  art 
is  beauty,  the  essence  of  which  consists  in  evoking  in  us  the 
perception  of  uniformity  and  variety.  In  the  recognition  of 
what  is  art  we  are  guided  by  "an  internal  sense."  This  in- 
ternal sense  may  be  in  contradiction  to  the  ethical  one.  So 
that  according  to  Hutcheson  beauty  does  not  always  cor- 
respond with  goodness,  but  separates  from  it  and  is  sometimes 
contrary  to  it.2 

1  Knight,  Philosophy  of  the  Beautiful,  Vol.  I,  pp.  165,  166. 
2Schasler,  p.   289.     Knight,  pp.   168,   169, 


146  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

According  to  Home,  Lord  Kames,  (1696-1782),  beauty  is 
that  which  is  pleasant.  Therefore  beauty  is  denned  by  taste 
alone.  The  standard  of  true  taste  is  that  the  maximum  of 
richness,  fulness,  strength,  and  variety  of  impression,  should 
be  contained  within  the  narrowest  limits.  That  is  the  ideal 
of  a  perfect  work  of  art. 

According  to  Burke  (1729-1797 — Philosophical  Inquiry 
into  the  Origin  of  our  Ideas  of  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful) , 
the  sublime  and  beautiful,  which  are  the  aim  of  art,  have  their 
origin  in  the  promptings  of  self-preservation  and  of  society. 
These  feelings,  examined  at  their  source,  are  means  for  the 
maintenance  of  the  race  through  the  individual.  The  first 
(self-preservation)  is  attained  by  nourishment,  defence,  and 
war;  the  second  (society)  by  intercourse  and  propagation. 
Therefore  self-defence  and  war,  which  is  bound  up  with  it, 
is  the  source  of  the  sublime;  sociability  and  the  sex-instinct, 
which  is  bound  up  with  it,  is  the  source  of  beauty.1 

Such  were  the  chief  English  definitions  of  art  and  beauty 
in  the  eighteenth  century. 

During  the  same  period,  the  writers  on  art  in  France,  were 
Pere  Andre  and  Batteux,  with  Diderot,  D'Alembert,  and  to 
some  extent  Voltaire,  following  later. 

According  to  Pere  Andre  (Essai  sur  le  Beau,  1741),  there 
are  three  kinds  of  beauty — divine  beauty,  natural  beauty, 
and  artificial  beauty.2 

According  to  Batteux  (1713-1780),  art  consists  in  imi- 
tating the  beauty  of  nature,  its  aim  being  enjoyment.3  Such 
also  is  Diderot's  definition  of  art. 

The  French  writers,  like  the  English,  hold  that  it  is  taste 
that  decides  what  is  beautiful.  And  the  laws  of  taste  are  not 
only  not  laid  down,  but  it  is  granted  that  they  cannot  be 

!R.  Kralik,    Wcltschonheit,  Versuch  einer  allgemeinen  Aesthetik,  pp.  304-306. 
2  Knight,  p.   101. 
sSchasler,  p.  316. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  147 

settled.  The  same  view  was  held  by  D'Alembert  and 
Voltaire.1 

According  to  Pagano,  the  Italian  esthetician  of  that  period, 
art  consists  in  uniting  the  beauties  dispersed  in  nature. 
The  capacity  to  perceive  these  beauties  is  taste,  the  capacity 
to  bring  them  into  one  whole  is  artistic  genius.  Beauty 
commingles  with  goodness,  so  that  beauty  is  goodness  made 
visible,  and  goodness  is  inner  beauty.2 

According  to  the  opinion  of  other  Italians:  Muratori 
(1672-1750), — Riflessioni  sopra  il  buon  gusto  intorno 
le  science  e  le  arti, — and  especially  Spaletti,3 — Saggio 
sopra  la  bellezza  (1765), — art  amounts  to  an  egotistical 
sensation,  founded  (as  with  Burke)  on  the  desire  for  self- 
preservation  and  society. 

Among  Dutch  writers,  Hemsterhuis  (1720-1790),  who 
had  an  influence  on  the  German  estheticians  and  on  Goethe, 
is  remarkable.  According  to  him,  beauty  is  that  which  gives 
most  pleasure,  and  that  gives  most  pleasure  which  gives  us 
the  greatest  number  of  perceptions  in  the  shortest  time.  En- 
joyment of  the  beautiful,  because  it  gives  the  greatest  quantity 
of  perceptions  in  the  shortest  time,  is  the  highest  cognition  to 
which  man  can  attain.4 

Such  were  the  esthetic  theories  outside  Germany  during  the 
last  century.  In  Germany,  after  Wincklemann,  there  again 
arose  a  completely  new  esthetic  theory,  that  of  Kant  (1724- 
1804),  which  more  than  all  others  clears  up  what  this  con- 
ception of  beauty,  and  consequently  of  art,  really  amounts  to. 

The  esthetic  teaching  of  Kant  is  founded  as  follows: — 
Man  has  a  knowledge  of  nature  outside  him  and  of  himself 
in  nature.  In  nature  outside  himself  he  seeks  for  truth; 
in  himself  he  seeks  for  goodness.  The  first  is  an  affair  of 
pure    reason,    the    other    of    practical    reason    (free-will). 

i  Knight,  pp.  102-104.  3  Schasler,  p.  328. 

2R.  Kralik,  p.  124,  *  Schasler,  pp.  331-333. 


148  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Besides  these  two  means  of  perception,  there  is  also  the 
judging  capacity  (Urteilskraft),  which  forms  judgments  with- 
out reasoning  and  produces  pleasure  without  desire  (Urtheil 
ohne  Be  griff  und  Vergnugen  ohne  Begehren).  This  capacity 
is  the  basis  of  esthetic  feeling.  Beauty,  according  to  Kant, 
in  its  subjective  meaning  is  that  which  in  general  and  nec- 
essarily, without  reasoning  and  without  practical  advantage, 
pleases;  and  in  its  objective  meaning  it  is  the  form  of  an 
object  suitable  for  its  purpose  in  so  far  as  that  object  is  per- 
ceived without  any  conception  of  its  utility.1 

Beauty  is  denned  in  the  same  way  by  the  followers  of  Kant, 
among  whom  was  Schiller  (1759-1805).  According  to 
Schiller,  who  wrote  much  on  esthetics,  the  aim  of  art  is,  as 
with  Kant,  beauty,  the  source  of  which  is  pleasure  without 
practical  advantage.  So  that  art  may  be  called  a  game,  not 
in  the  sense  of  an  unimportant  occupation,  but  in  the  sense 
of  a  manifestation  of  the  beauties  of  life  itself  without  other 
aim  than  that  of  beauty.2 

Besides  Schiller,  the  most  remarkable  of  Kant's  followers 
in  the  sphere  of  esthetics  was  Wilhelm  Humboldt,  who, 
though  he  added  nothing  to  the  definition  of  beauty,  explained 
various  forms  of  it, — the  drama,  music,  humour,  etc.3 

After  Kant,  besides  the  second-rate  philosophers,  the 
writers  on  esthetics  were  Fichte,  Schelling,  Hegel,  and  their 
followers. 

Fichte  (1762-1814)  says  that  perception  of  the  beautiful 
proceeds  from  this :  the  world — that  is,  nature — has  two  sides : 
it  is  the  sum  of  our  limitations,  and  it  is  the  sum  of  our  free 
idealistic  activity.  In  the  first  aspect  the  world  is  limited, 
in  the  second  aspect  it  is  free.  In  the  first  aspect  every  object 
is  limited,  distorted,  compressed,  confined — and  we  see  de- 
formity; in  the  second  we  perceive  its  inner  completeness, 

1  Schasler,  pp.  525-528.  s  Schasler,  pp.  740-743. 

2  Knight,  pp.  61-63, 


WHAT  IS  ART?  149 

vitality,  regeneration — and  we  see  beauty.  So  that  the  de- 
formity or  beauty  of  an  object,  according  to  Fichte,  depends 
on  the  point  of  view  of  the  observer.  Beauty  therefore  exists, 
not  in  the  world  but  in  the  beautiful  soul  (schoner  Geist). 
Art  is  the  manifestation  of  this  beautiful  soul,  and  its  aim  is 
the  education,  not  of  the  mind  only — that  is  the  business  of 
the  savant;  not  of  the  heart  only — that  is  the  affair  of  the 
moral  preacher;  but  of  the  whole  man.  And  so  the  charac- 
teristic of  beauty  lies  not  in  anything  external,  but  in  the 
presence  of  a  beautiful  soul  in  the  artist.1 

Following  Fichte,  and  in  the  same  direction,  Friedrich 
Schlegel  and  Adam  Muller  also  denned  beauty.  According 
to  Schlegel  (1772-1829),  beauty  in  art  is  understood  too 
incompletely,  one-sidedly,  and  disconnectedly.  Beauty  exists 
not  only  in  art  but  also  in  nature  and  in  love;  so  that  the 
truly  beautiful  is  expressed  by  the  union  of  art,  nature,  and 
love.  Therefore,  as  inseparably  one  with  esthetic  art, 
Schlegel  acknowledges  moral  and  philosophic  art.2 

According  to  Adam  Muller  (1779-1829),  there  are  two 
kinds  of  beauty:  the  one,  general  beauty,  which  attracts 
people  as  the  sun  attracts  the  planet — this  is  found  chiefly  in 
antique  art — and  the  other,  individual  beauty,  which  results 
from  the  observer  himself  becoming  a  sun  attracting  beauty, 
— this  is  the  beauty  of  modern  art.  A  world  in  which  all 
contradictions  are  harmonised  is  the  highest  beauty.  Every 
work  of  art  is  a  reproduction  of  this  universal  harmony.3 
The  highest  art  is  the  art  of  life.4 

Next  after  Fichte  and  his  followers  came  a  contemporary 
of  his,  the  philosopher  Schelling  (1775-1845),  who  has  had 
a  great  influence  on  the  esthetic  conceptions  of  our  times. 
According  to  Schelling's  philosophy,  art  is  the  production 
or  result  of  that  conception  of  things  by  which  the  subject 

iSchasler,  pp.  769-771.  3  Kralik,  p.  148. 

2Schasler,  pp.  786,  787.  4  Kralik,  p.  820. 


150  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

becomes  its  own  object,  or  the  object  its  own  subject. 
Beauty  is  the  perception  of  the  infinite  in  the  finite.  And 
the  chief  characteristic  of  works  of  art  is  unconscious  infinity. 
Art  is  the  uniting  of  the  subjective  with  the  objective,  of 
nature  with  reason,  of  the  unconscious  with  the  conscious, 
and  therefore  art  is  the  highest  means  of  knowledge. 
Beauty  is  the  contemplation  of  things  in  themselves  as  they 
exist  in  the  prototype  (in  den  Urbildern).  It  is  not  the 
artist  who  by  his  knowledge  of  skill  produces  the  beautiful 
but  the  idea  of  beauty  in  him  itself  produces  it.1 

Of  Schelling's  followers  the  most  noticeable  was  Solger 
(1780-1819 — Vorlesungen  iiber  Aesthetik).  According  to 
him,  the  idea  of  beauty  is  the  fundamental  idea  of  everything. 
In  the  world  we  see  only  distortions  of  the  fundamental 
idea,  but  art,  by  imagination,  may  lift  itself  to  the  height  of 
this  idea.     Art  is  therefore  akin  to  creation.2 

According  to  another  follower  of  Schelling,  Krause 
(1781-1832),  true,  positive  beauty  is  the  manifestation  of  the 
Idea  in  an  individual  form;  art  is  the  actualization  of  the 
beauty  existing  in  the  sphere  of  man's  free  spirit.  The 
highest  stage  of  art  is  the  art  of  life,  which  directs  its  activity 
towards  the  adornment  of  life  so  that  it  may  be  a  beautiful 
abode  for  a  beautiful  man.8 

After  Schelling  and  his  followers  came  the  new  esthetic 
doctrine  of  Hegel,  which  is  held  to  this  day,  consciously  by 
many  but  by  the  majority  unconsciously.  This  teaching  is 
not  only  no  clearer  or  better  defined  than  the  preceding 
ones,  but  is  if  possible  even  more  cloudy  and  mystical. 

According  to  Hegel  (1770-1831),  God  manifests  himself 
in  nature  and  in  art  in  the  form  of  beauty.  God  expresses 
himself  in  two  ways:  in  the  object  and  in  the  subject — in 
nature  and  in  spirit.     Beauty  is  the  shining  of  the   Idea 

iSchasler,  pp.  828,  829,  834-841.  »  Schasler,  p.  917. 

2Schasler,  p.  891. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  151 

through  matter.  Only  the  soul  and  what  pertains  to  it 
is  truly  beautiful,  and  therefore  the  beauty  of  nature  is 
only  the  reflection  of  the  natural  beauty  of  the  spirit — the 
beautiful  has  only  a  spiritual  content.  But  the  spiritual 
must  appear  in  sensuous  form.  The  sensuous  manifestation 
of  spirit  is  only  appearance  (schein),  and  this  appearance 
is  the  only  reality  of  the  beautiful.  Art  is  thus  the  production 
of  this  appearance  of  the  Idea,  and  is  a  means,  together  with 
religion  and  philosophy,  of  bringing  to  consciousness,  and 
of  expressing,  the  deepest  problems  of  humanity  and  the 
highest  truths  of  the  spirit. 

Truth  and  beauty  according  to  Hegel  are  one  and  the 
same  thing;  the  difference  being  only  that  truth  is  the  Idea 
itself  as  it  exists  in  itself  and  is  thinkable.  The  Idea,  mani- 
TesTed  externally,  becomes  to  the  apprehension  not  only  true 
but  beautiful.  The  beautiful  is  the  manifestation  of  the 
Idea.1 

Following  Hegel  came  his  many  adherents :  Weisse,  Arnold 
Ruge,  Rosenkrantz,  Theodor  Vischer  and  others. 

According  to  Weisse  (1801-1867),  art  is  the  introduction 
(Einbildung)  of  the  absolute  spiritual  reality  of  beauty  into 
external,  dead,  indifferent  matter,  the  perception  of  which 
latter  apart  from  the  beauty  brought  into  it  presents  the  ne- 
gation of  all  existence  in  itself  (Negation  alles  Fiirsichseins) . 

In  the  idea  of  truth,  Weisse  explains,  lies  a  contradiction 
between  the  subjective  and  the  objective  sides  of  knowledge, 
in  that  an  individual  ego  discerns  the  Universal.  This 
contradiction  can  be  removed  by  a  conception  that  should 
unite  into  one  the  universal  and  the  individual,  which  fall 
asunder  in  our  conceptions  of  truth.  Such  a  conception 
would  be  reconciled  (aufgehoben)  truth.  Beauty  is  such  a 
reconciled  truth.2 

According   to   Ruge    (1802-1880),    a    strict   follower   of 

1  Schasler,  pp.  946,  1085,  984,  985,  990.  2  Schasler,  pp.  966,  655,  956. 


152  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Hegel,  beauty  is  the  Idea  expressing  itself.  The  spirit, 
contemplating  itself,  either  finds  itself  expressed  completely, 
and  then  that  full  expression  of  itself  is  beauty;  or  incom- 
pletely, and  then  it  feels  the  need  to  alter  this  imperfect  ex- 
pression of  itself,  and  becomes  creative  art.1 

According  to  Vischer  (1807-1887),  beauty  is  the  Idea  in 
the  form  of  a  finite  phenomenon.  The  Idea  itself  is  not 
indivisible,  but  forms  a  system  of  ideas  which  may  be  repre- 
sented by  ascending  and  descending  lines.  The  higher 
the  idea  the  more  beauty  it  contains;  but  even  the  lowest 
contains  beauty,  because  it  forms  an  essential  link  of  the 
system.  The  highest  form  of  the  Idea  is  personality,  and 
therefore  the  highest  art  is  that  which  has  for  its  subject- 
matter  the  highest  personality.2 

Such  were  the  theories  of  the  German  estheticians  in  the 
Hegelian  direction,  but  they  did  not  monopolise  esthetic  dis- 
sertations. In  Germany,  side  by  side  and  simultaneously 
with  the  Hegelian  theories,  there  appeared  theories  of  beauty 
not  only  independent  of  Hegel's  position  (that  beauty  is 
the  manifestation  of  the  Idea),  but  directly  contrary  to  this 
view,  denying  and  ridiculing  it.  Such  was  the  line  taken 
by  Herbart  and  more  particularly  by   Schopenhauer. 

According  to  Herbart  (1776-1841),  there  is  not  and  can- 
not be  any  such  thing  as  beauty  existing  in  itself.  What 
does  exist  is  only  our  opinion,  and  it  is  necessary  to  find 
the  base  of  this  opinion  (Asthetisches  Element arurtheil) . 
Such  bases  are  connected  with  our  impressions.  There  are 
certain  relations  which  we  term  beautiful;  and  art  consists 
in  finding  these  relations,  which  are  simultaneous  in  painting, 
the  plastic  art,  and  architecture;  successive  and  simultaneous 
in  music;  and  purely  successive  in  poetry.  In  contradiction 
to  the  former  estheticians,  Herbart  holds  that  objects  are 
often  beautiful  which  express  nothing  at  all,  as,  for  instance, 

iSchasler,  p.  1017.  2  Schasler,  pp.  1065,  1066. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  153 

the  rainbow,  which  is  beautiful  for  its  lines  and  colours,  and 
not  for  its  mythological  connection  with  Iris  or  Noah's 
rainbow.1 

Another  opponent  of  Hegel  was  Schopenhauer,  who  denied 
Hegel's  whole  system,  his  esthetics  included. 

According  to  Schopenhauer  (1788-1860),  Will  objectiv- 
izes  itself  in  the  world  on  various  planes;  and  although  the 
higher  the  plane  on  which  it  is  objectivized  the  more  beau- 
tiful it  is,  yet  each  plane  has  its  own  beauty.  Renunciation 
of  one's  individuality  and  contemplation  of  one  of  these 
planes  of  manifestation  of  Will  gives  us  a  perception  of 
beauty.  All  men,  says  Schopenhauer,  possess  the  capacity 
to  objectivize  the  Idea  on  different  planes.  The  genius  of 
the  artist  has  this  capacity  in  a  higher  degree,  and  therefore 
makes  a  higher  beauty  manifest.2 

After  these  more  eminent  writers  there  followed,  in 
Germany,  less  original  and  less  influential  ones,  such  as 
Hartmann,  Kirchmann,  Schnaase,  and,  to  some  extent,  Helm- 
holtz  (as  an  esthetician),  Bergmann,  Jungmann,  and  an 
innumerable  host  of  others. 

According  to  Hartmann  (1842),  beauty  lies,  not  in  the 
external  world,  nor  in  "the  thing  in  itself,"  neither  does  it 
reside  in  the  soul  of  man,  but  it  lies  in  the  "seeming"  (Schein) 
produced  by  the  artist.  The  thing  in  itself  is  not  beautiful, 
but  it  is  transformed  into  beauty  by  the  artist.3 

According  to  Schnaase  (1798-1875),  there  is  no  perfect 
beauty  in  the  world.  In  nature  there  is  only  an  approach 
towards  it.  Art  gives  what  nature  cannot  give.  In  the 
energy  of  the  free  ego,  conscious  of  harmony  not  found  in 
nature,  beauty  is  disclosed.4 

Kirchmann  (1802-1884)  wrote  on  experimental  esthetics. 
All  aspects  of  history  in  his  system  are  joined  by  pure  chance. 

iSchasler,  pp.  1097-1100.  3  Knight,  pp.  81,  82. 

2Schasler,  pp.  1124,  1107.  *  Knight,  p.  83. 


154  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Thus  according  to  him  there  are  six  realms  of  history: — 
the  realm  of  Knowledge,  of  Wealth,  of  Morality,  of  Faith, 
of  Politics,  and  of  Beauty;  and  activity  in  the  last-named 
realm  is  art.1 

According  to  Helmholtz  (1821-1894),  who  wrote  on 
beauty  as  it  relates  to  music,  beauty  in  musical  productions  is 
attained  only  by  following  unalterable  laws.  These  laws  are 
not  known  to  the  artist;  so  that  beauty  is  manifested  by  the 
artist  unconsciously,  and  cannot  be  subjected  to  analysis.2 

According  to  Bergmann  (b.  1840)  (Ueber  das  Schone, 
1887),  to  define  beauty  objectively  is  impossible.  Beauty  is 
only  perceived  subjectively,  and  therefore  the  problem  of 
esthetics  is  to  define  what  pleases  whom.3 

According  to  Jungmann  (d.  1885),  firstly,  beauty  is  a 
suprasensible  quality  of  things;  secondly,  beauty  produces 
in  us  pleasure  by  merely  being  contemplated;  and  thirdly, 
beauty  is  the  foundation  of  love.4 

The  esthetic  theories  of  the  chief  representatives  of  France, 
England,  and  other  nations,  in  recent  times  have  been  the 
following: — 

In  France  during  this  period  the  prominent  writers  on 
esthetics  were  Cousin,  Jouffroy,  Pictet,  Ravaisson,  Leveque. 

Cousin  (1792-1867)  was  an  eclectic  and  a  follower  of  the 
German  idealists.  According  to  his  theory,  beauty  always 
has  a  moral  foundation.  He  disputes  the  doctrine  that  art 
is  imitation  and  that  the  beautiful  is  what  pleases.  He  af- 
firms that  beauty  may  be  defined  objectively  and  that  it  es- 
sentially consists  in  variety  in  unity.5 

After  Cousin  came  Jouffroy  (1796-1842),  who  was  a  pupil 
of  Cousin's  and  also  a  follower  of  the  German  estheticians. 
According  to  his  definition,  beauty  is  the  expression  of  the 

iSchasler,  p.  1121.  *  Knight,  p.  88. 

2  Knight,  pp.  85,  86.  5  Knight,  p.  112. 

3  Knight,  p.  88. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  155 

invisible  by  those  natural  signs  which  manifest  it.  The 
visible  world  is  the  garment  by  means  of  which  we  see  beauty.1 

The  Swiss  writer  Pictet  repeated  Hegel  and  Plato, 
supposing  beauty  to  exist  in  the  direct  and  free  manifesta- 
tion of  the  divine  Idea  revealing  itself  in  sense  forms.2 

Leveque  was  a  follower  of  Schelling  and  Hegel.  He  holds 
that  beauty  is  something  invisible  behind  nature — a  force 
or  spirit  revealing  itself  in  ordered  energy.3 

Similar  vague  opinions  about  the  nature  of  beauty  were 
expressed  by  the  French  metaphysician  Ravaisson,  who 
considered  beauty  to  be  the  ultimate  aim  and  purpose  of  the 
world.  "La  beaute  la  plus  divine  et  principalement  la  plus 
parfaite  contient  le  secret  du  monde."  4  And  again: — "Le 
monde  entier  est  Vceuvre  d'une  beaute  absolue,  qui  n'est  la 
cause  des  choses  que  par  V amour  qu'elle  met  en  elles."  5 

I  purposely  quote  these  metaphysical  expressions  in  the 
original,  because,  however  cloudy  the  Germans  may  be,  the 
French,  once  they  absorb  the  theories  of  the  Germans  and 
take  to  imitating  them,  far  surpass  them  in  uniting  heteroge- 
neous conceptions  into  one  expression  and  putting  forward 
one  meaning  or  another  indiscriminately.  For  instance,  the 
French  philosopher  Lachelier,  when  discussing  beauty,  says: 
— Ne  craignons  pas  de  dire,  qu'une  verite,  qui  ne  serait; 
pas  belle,  ne  serait  qu'un  jeu  logique  de  notre  esprit  et  que 
la  seule  verite  solide  et  digne  de  ce  nom  c'est  la  beaute.6 

Besides  the  esthetic  idealists  who  wrote  and  still  write 

1  Knight,  p.  116. 

2  Knight,  pp.  118,  119. 
3Knight,  pp.  123,  124. 

4  "The  most  divine  and  especially  the  most  perfect  beauty  contains  the  secret 
of  the  world,"  La  philosophic  en  France,  p.  232. 

5  "The  whole  world  is  the  work  of  an  absolute  beauty,  which  is  only  the  cause 
of  things  by  the  love  it  puts  into  them." 

6  "Let  us  not  fear  to  say  that  a  truth  which  is  not  beautiful,  is  but  a  logical 
play  of  our  intelligence,  and  that  the  only  truth  that  is  solid  and  worthy  of  the 
name  is  beauty."     Du  fondemont  de  I' induction. 


156  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

under  the  influence  of  German  philosophy,  the  following 
recent  writers  have  also  influenced  the  comprehension  of  art 
and  beauty  in  France:  Taine,  Guyau,  Cherbuliez,  Coster, 
and  Veron. 

According  to  Taine  (1828-1893),  beauty  is  the  manifesta- 
tion of  the  essential  characteristic  of  any  important  idea 
more  completely  than  it  is  expressed  in  reality.1 

Guyau  (1854-1888)  taught  that  beauty  is  not  something 
exterior  to  the  object  itself, — is  not,  as  it  were,  a  parasitic 
growth  on  it, — but  is  itself  the  actual  blossoming  forth  of  that 
on  which  it  appears.  Art  is  the  expression  of  reasonable  and 
conscious  life,  evoking  in  us  both  the  deepest  consciousness 
of  existence  and  the  highest  feelings  and  loftiest  thoughts. 
Art  lifts  man  from  his  personal  life  into  the  universal  life, 
not  only  by  participation  in  the  same  ideas  and  beliefs,  but 
also  by  similarity  in  feeling.2 

According  to  Cherbuliez,  art  is  an  activity,  (1)  satisfying 
our  innate  love  of  forms  (apparences) ,  (2)  endowing  these 
forms  with  ideas,  (3)  affording  pleasure  alike  to  our  senses, 
heart,  and  reason.  Beauty  is  not  inherent  in  objects,  but  is 
an  act  of  our  souls.  Beauty  is  an  illusion;  there  is  no 
absolute  beauty.  But  what  we  consider  characteristic  and 
harmonious  appears  beautiful  to  us. 

Coster  held  that  the  ideas  of  the  beautiful,  the  good,  and 
the  true,  are  innate.  These  ideas  illumine  our  minds  and 
are  identical  with  God,  who  is  Goodness,  Truth,  and  Beauty. 
The  idea  of  Beauty  includes  unity  of  essence,  variety  of 
constitutive  elements,  and  order,  which  brings  unity  into  the 
various  manifestations  of  life.3 

For  the  sake  of  completeness,  I  will  further  cite  some  of 
the  very  latest  writings  upon  art. 

La   Psychologie   du   beau    et   de   Vart,   par   Mario   Pilo 

i  Philosophic  de  Vart,  Vol.  I,  1893,  p.  47.  3  Knight,  pp.  134. 

2  Knight,  p.  139-141. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  157 

(1895),  says  that  beauty  is  a  product  of  our  physical  feelings. 
The  aim  of  art  is  pleasure,  but  this  pleasure  (for  some 
reason)  he  considers  to  be  necessarily  highly  moral. 

The  Essai  sur  Vart  contemporain,  par  Fierens  Gevaert 
(1897),  says  that  art  rests  on  its  connection  with  the  past 
and  on  the  religious  ideal  of  the  present  which  the  artist 
holds  when  giving  to  his  work  the  form  of  his  individuality. 

Then  again,  Sar  Peladan's  L'art  idealiste  et  mystique 
(1894)  says  that  beauty  is  one  of  the  manifestations  of  God. 
II  n'y  a  pas  d' autre  Realite  que  Dieu,  il  n'y  a  pas  d' autre 
Verite  que  Dieu,  il  n'y  a  pas  d'autre  Beaute,  que  Dieu 
(p.  33). *  This  book  is  very  fantastic  and  very  illiterate, 
but  is  characteristic  in  the  positions  it  takes  up,  and  notice- 
able on  account  of  a  certain  success  it  is  having  with  the 
younger  generation  in  France. 

All  the  esthetics  diffused  in  France  up  to  the  present  time 
are  similar  in  kind,  but  among  them  Veron's  L'esthetique 
(1878)  forms  an  exception,  being  reasonable  and  clear. 
That  work,  though  it  does  not  give  an  exact  definition  of  art, 
at  least  rids  esthetics  of  the  cloudy  conception  of  an  absolute 
beauty. 

According  to  Veron  (1825-1889),  art  is  the  manifestation 
of  emotion  transmitted  externally  by  a  combination  of  lines, 
forms,  colours,  or  by  a  succession  of  movements,  sounds,  or 
words  subjected  to  certain  rhythms.2 

In  England  during  this  period,  writers  on  esthetics  define 
beauty  more  and  more  frequently  not  by  its  own  qualities 
but  by  taste,  and  the  discussion  of  beauty  is  superseded  by 
a  discussion  of  taste. 

After  Reid  (1704-1796),  who  acknowledged  beauty  as 
being  entirely  dependent  on  the  spectator,   Alison,   in  his 

1  There  is  no  other  Reality  than  God,  there  is  no  other  Truth  than  God,  there 
is  no  other  beauty  than  God. 

2  L'esthetique,  p.  106. 


158  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Essay  on  the  Nature  and  Principles  of  Taste  (1790),  proved 
the  same  thing.  From  another  side  this  was  also  asserted 
by  Erasmus  Darwin  (1731-1802),  the  grandfather  of  the 
celebrated  Charles  Darwin. 

He  says  that  we  consider  beautiful  that  which  is  connected 
in  our  conception  with  what  we  love.  Richard  Knight's 
work,  An  Analytical  Inquiry  into  the  Principles  of  Taste, 
also  tends  in  the  same  direction. 

Most  of  the  English  theories  of  esthetics  are  on  the  same 
lines.  The  prominent  writers  on  esthetics  in  England  during 
the  nineteenth  century  were  Charles  Darwin  (to  some  extent), 
Herbert  Spencer,  Grant  Allen,  Ker,  and  Knight. 

According  to  Charles  Darwin  (1809-1882 — Descent  of 
Man,  1871),  beauty  is  a  feeling  natural  not  only  to  man 
but  also  to  animals,  and  consequently  to  the  ancestors  of 
man.  Birds  adorn  their  nests  and  esteem  beauty  in  their 
mates.  Beauty  has  an  influence  on  marriages.  Beauty  in- 
cludes a  variety  of  diverse  conceptions.  The  origin  of  the 
art  of  music  is  the  call  of  the  males  to  the  females.1 

According  to  Herbert  Spencer  (b.  1820),  the  origin  of 
art  is  play,  a  thought  previously  expressed  by  Schiller.  In 
the  lower  animals  all  the  energy  of  life  is  expended  in  life- 
maintenance  and  race-maintenance;  in  man  however  there 
remains,  after  these  needs  are  satisfied,  some  superfluous 
strength.  This  excess  is  used  in  play,  which  passes  over 
into  art.  Play  is  an  imitation  of  real  activity,  so  is  art. 
The  sources  of  esthetic  pleasure  are  threefold: — (1)  That 
"■which  exercises  the  faculties  affected  in  the  most  complete 
way,  with  the  fewest  drawbacks  from  excess  of  exercise," 
(2)  "the  difference  of  a  stimulus  in  large  amount,  which 
awakens  a  glow  of  agreeable  feeling,"  (3)  the  partial  revival 
of  the  same,  with  special  combinations.2 

In  Todhunter's  Theory  of  the  Beautiful  (1872),  beauty  is 

i  Knight,  p.  238.  2  Knight,  pp.  239,  240. 


rWHAT  IS  ART?  159 

infinite  loveliness,  which  we  apprehend  both  by  reason  and 
by  the  enthusiasm  of  love.  The  recognition  of  beauty  as  be- 
ing such,  depends  on  taste;  there  can  be  no  criterion  for  it. 
The  only  approach  to  a  definition  is  found  in  culture.  (What 
culture  is,  is  not  defined.)  Intrinsically,  art — that  which  af- 
fects us  through  lines,  colours,  sounds,  or  words — is  not  the 
product  of  blind  forces  but  of  reasonable  ones,  working  with 
mutual  helpfulness  towards  a  reasonable  aim.  Beauty  is 
the  reconciliation  of  contradictions.1 

Grant  Allen  is  a  follower  of  Spencer,  and  in  his  Physiolog- 
ical Aesthetics  (1877)  he  says  that  beauty  has  a  physical 
origin.  Esthetic  pleasures  come  from  the  contemplation  of 
the  beautiful,  but  the  conception  of  beauty  is  obtained  by  a 
physiological  process.  The  origin  of  art  is  play:  when  there 
is  a  superfluity  of  physical  strength  man  gives  himself  to 
play;  when  there  is  a  superfluity  of  receptive  power  man 
gives  himself  to  art.  The  beautiful  is  that  which  affords 
the  maximum  of  stimulation  with  the  minimum  of  waste. 
Differences  in  the  estimation  of  beauty  proceed  from  taste. 
Taste  can  be  educated.  We  must  have  faith  in  the  judg- 
ments "of  the  finest-nurtured  and  most  discriminative"  men. 
These  people  form  the  taste  of  the  next  generation.2 

According  to  Ker's  Essay  on  the  Philosophy  of  Art 
(1883),  beauty  enables  us  to  make  part  of  the  objective  world 
intelligible  to  ourselves  without  being  troubled  by  reference 
to  other  parts  of  it,  as  is  inevitable  in  science.  So  that  art 
destroys  the  opposition  between  the  one  and  the  many,  be- 
tween the  law  and  its  manifestation,  between  the  subject  and 
its  object,  by  uniting  them.  Art  is  the  revelation  and  vindi- 
cation of  freedom,  because  it  is  free  from  the  darkness  and 
incomprehensibility  of  finite  things.3 

According    to    Knight's    Philosophy    of    the    Beautiful, 

i  Knight,  pp.  240-243.  3  Knight,  pp.  258,  259. 

2  Knight,  pp.  250-252. 


160  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Part  II  (1893),  beauty  is  (as  with  Schelling)  the  union  of 
object  and  subject,  the  drawing  forth  from  nature  of  that 
which  is  cognate  to  man,  and  the  recognition  in  oneself  of 
what  is  common  to  all  nature. 

The  opinions  on  beauty  and  on  art  here  mentioned  are  far 
from  exhausting  what  has  been  written  on  the  subject.  And 
every  day  fresh  writers  on  esthetics  arise,  in  whose  disquisi- 
tions appear  the  same  enchanted  confusion  and  contradictori- 
ness  in  denning  beauty.  Some  by  inertia  continue  the 
mystical  esthetics  of  Baumgarten  and  Hegel,  with  sundry 
variations;  others  transfer  the  question  to  the  region  of 
subjectivity,  and  seek  for  the  foundation  of  the  beautiful  in 
questions  of  taste;  others — the  estheticians  of  the  very  latest 
formation — seek  the  origin  of  beauty  in  the  laws  of  physi- 
ology; and  finally,  others  again  investigate  the  question 
quite  independently  of  the  conception  of  beauty.  Thus, 
Sully  in  his  Sensation  and  Intuition:  Studies  in  Psychology 
and  Esthetics  (1874)  dismisses  the  conception  of  beauty 
altogether;  art,  by  his  definition,  being  the  production  of 
some  permanent  object  or  passing  action  fitted  to  supply 
active  enjoyment  to  the  producer  and  a  pleasurable  impres- 
sion to  a  number  of  spectators  or  listeners,  quite  apart  from 
any  personal  advantage  derived  from  it.1 

i  Knight,   p.  243. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Definitions  of  art  founded  on  beauty.  Taste  not  definable.  A  clear  defini- 
tion needed  to  enable  us  to  recognise  works  of  art. 

To  what  do  these  definitions  of  beauty  amount?  Not 
reckoning  the  thoroughly  inaccurate  definitions  of  beauty 
which  fail  to  cover  the  conception  of  art  and  suppose  beauty 
to  consist  either  in  utility,  or  in  adjustment  to  a  purpose,  or 
in  symmetry,  or  in  order,  or  in  proportion,  or  in  smoothness, 
or  in  harmony  of  the  parts,  or  in  unity  amid  variety,  or  in 
various  combinations  of  these, — not  reckoning  these  unsatis- 
factory attempts  at  objective  definition,  all  the  esthetic  def- 
initions of  beauty  lead  to  two  fundamental  conceptions. 
The  first  is  that  beauty  is  something  having  an  independent 
existence  (existing  in  itself),  that  it  is  one  of  the  manifesta- 
tions of  the  absolutely  Perfect,  of  the  Idea,  of  the  Spirit,  of 
Will,  or  of  God ;  the  other  is  that  beauty  is  a  kind  of  pleasure 
received  by  us,  not  having  personal  advantage  for  its  object. 

The  first  of  these  definitions  was  accepted  by  Fichte, 
Schelling,  Hegel,  Schopenhauer,  and  the  philosophising 
Frenchmen:  Cousin,  Jouffroy,  Ravaisson,  and  others,  not  to 
enumerate  the  second-rate  esthetic  philosophers.  And  this 
same  objective-mystical  definition  of  beauty  is  held  by  a  ma- 
jority of  the  educated  people  of  our  day.  It  is  a  conception 
very  widely  spread  especially  among  the  elder  generation. 

The  second  view,  that  beauty  is  a  certain  kind  of  pleasure 
received  by  us,  not  having  personal  advantage  for  its  aim, 
finds  favour  chiefly  among  the  English  esthetic  writers,  and 
is  shared  by  the  other  part  of  our  society,  principally  by  the 
younger  generation. 

161 


162  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

So  there  are  (and  it  could  not  be  otherwise)  only  two 
definitions  of  beauty:  the  one  objective,  mystical,  merging 
this  conception  into  that  of  the  highest  perfection,  God — a 
fantastic  definition,  founded  on  nothing;  the  other  on  the 
contrary  a  very  simple,  and  intelligible,  subjective  one,  which 
considers  beauty  to  be  that  which  pleases  (I  do  not  add  to 
the  word  "pleases"  the  words  "without  the  aim  of  advantage," 
because  "pleases"  naturally  presupposes  the  absence  of  the 
idea  of  profit). 

On  the  one  hand  beauty  is  viewed  as  something  mystical 
and  very  elevated,  but  unfortunately  at  the  same  time  very 
indefinite,  and  consequently  embracing  philosophy,  religion, 
and  life  itself  (as  in  the  theories  of  Schelling  and  Hegel 
and  their  German  and  French  followers) ;  or  on  the  other 
hand  (as  necessarily  follows  from  the  definition  of  Kant  and 
his  adherents),  beauty  is  simply  a  certain  kind  of  disinterested 
pleasure  received  by  us.  And  this  conception  of  beauty,  al- 
though it  seems  very  clear,  is  unfortunately  again  inexact; 
for  it  widens  out  on  the  other  side,  that  is,  it  includes  the 
pleasure  derived  from  drink,  from  food,  from  touching  a 
delicate  skin,  and  so  forth,  as  is  acknowledged  by  Guyau, 
Kralik,  and  others. 

It  is  true  that,  following  the  development  of  the  esthetic 
doctrines  on  beauty,  we  may  notice  that  though  at  first  (in 
the  times  when  the  foundations  of  the  science  of  esthetics 
were  being  laid)  the  metaphysical  definition  of  beauty  pre- 
vailed, yet  the  nearer  we  get  to  our  own  times  the  more  does 
an  experimental  definition  (recently  assuming  a  physiological 
form)  come  to  the  front,  so  that  at  last  we  even  meet  with 
estheticians  such  as  Veron  and  Sully,  who  try  to  escape  en- 
tirely from  the  conception  of  beauty.  But  such  estheticians 
have  very  little  success,  and  with  the  majority  of  the  public 
as  well  as  of  artists  and  the  learned,  a  conception  of  beauty 
is  firmly  held  which  agrees  with  the  definitions  contained 


WHAT  IS  ART?  163 

in  most  of  the  esthetic  treatises,  that  is,  which  regards  beauty 
either  as  something  mystical  or  metaphysical,  or  as  a  special 
kind  of  enjoyment. 

What  then  is  this  conception  of  beauty,  so  stubbornly 
held  to  by  people  of  our  circle  and  day  as  furnishing  a  def- 
inition of  art? 

In  its  subjective  aspect,  we  call  beauty  that  which  supplies 
us  with  a  particular  kind  of  pleasure. 

In  its  objective  aspect,  we  call  beauty  something  absolutely 
perfect,  and  we  acknowledge  it  to  be  so  only  because  we 
receive  from  the  manifestation  of  this  absolute  perfection  a 
certain  kind  of  pleasure:  so  that  this  objective  definition  is 
nothing  but  the  subjective  conception  differently  expressed. 
In  reality  both  conceptions  of  beauty  amount  to  one  and  the 
same  thing,  namely,  the  reception  by  us  of  a  certain  kind 
of  pleasure;  that  is  to  say,  we  call  "beauty"  that  which 
pleases  us  without  evoking  in  us  desire. 

Such  being  the  position  of  affairs,  it  would  seem  only 
natural  that  the  science  of  art  should  decline  to  content 
itself  with  a  definition  of  art  based  on  beauty  (that  is,  on  that 
which  pleases),  and  should  seek  a  general  definition  appli- 
cable to  all  artistic  productions,  by  reference  to  which  we 
might  decide  whether  a  certain  article  belonged  to  the 
realm  of  art  or  not.  But  no  such  definition  is  supplied,  as 
the  reader  may  see  from  those  summaries  of  esthetic 
theories  which  I  have  given,  and  as  he  may  discover  even 
more  clearly  from  the  original  esthetic  works  if  he  will  be 
at  the  pains  to  read  them.  All  attempts  to  define  absolute 
beauty  in  itself — whether  as  an  imitation  of  nature,  or  as 
suitability  to  its  object,  or  as  a  correspondence  of  parts,  or  as 
symmetry,  or  as  harmony,  or  as  unity  in  variety,  and  so  forth 
— either  define  nothing  at  all,  or  define  only  some  traits  of 
some  artistic  productions  and  are  far  from  including  all  that 
everybody  has  always  held  and  still  holds  to  be  art, 


164  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

There  is  no  objective  definition  of  beauty.  The  existing 
definitions  (both  the  metaphysical  and  the  experimental) 
amount  only  to  one  and  the  same  subjective  definition  which 
is  (strange  as  it  seems  to  say  so),  that  art  is  that  which  makes 
beauty  manifest,  and  beauty  is  that  which  pleases  (without 
exciting  desire).  Many  estheticians  have  felt  the  insuffi- 
ciency and  instability  of  such  a  definition  and  in  order  to  give 
it  a  firm  basis  have  asked  themselves  why  a  thing  pleases. 
And  they  have  converted  the  discussion  on  beauty  into  a 
question  of  taste,  as  did  Hutcheson,  Voltaire,  Diderot,  and 
others.  But  all  attempts  to  define  what  taste  is  must  lead 
to  nothing,  as  the  reader  may  see  both  from  the  history 
of  esthetics  and  experimentally.  There  is  and  can  be  no 
explanation  of  why  one  thing  pleases  one  man  and  displeases 
another,  or  vice  versa.  So  that  the  whole  existing  science 
of  esthetics  fails  to  do  what  we  might  expect  from  it, 
being  a  mental  activity  calling  itself  a  science,  namely,  it; 
does  not  define  the  qualities  and  laws  of  art,  or  of  the 
beautiful  (if  that  be  the  content  of  art),  or  the  nature  of 
taste  (if  taste  decides  the  question  of  art  and  its  merit),  and 
then  on  the  basis  of  such  definitions  acknowledge  as  art 
those  productions  which  correspond  to  these  laws  and  reject 
those  which  do  not  come  under  them.  But  this  science  of 
esthetics  consists  in  first  acknowledging  a  certain  set  of 
productions  to  be  art  (because  they  please  us),  and  then 
framing  such  a  theory  of  art  that  all  these  productions  which 
please  a  certain  circle  of  people  should  fit  into  it.  There 
exists  an  art-canon  according  to  which  certain  productions 
favoured  by  our  circle  are  acknowledged  as  being  art, — 
the  works  of  Phidias,  Sophocles,  Homer,  Titian,  Raphael, 
Bach,  Beethoven,  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  and  others, — 
and  the  esthetic  laws  must  be  such  as  to  embrace  all  these 
productions.  In  esthetic  literature  you  will  incessantly  meet 
with  opinions  on  the  merit  and  importance  of  art  founded  not 


WHAT  IS  ART?  165 

on  any  certain  laws  by  which  this  or  that  is  held  to  be  good 
or  bad  but  merely  on  the  consideration  whether  this  art  tallies 
with  the  art-canon  we  have  drawn  up. 

The  other  day  I  was  reading  a  far  from  ill-written  book 
by  Folgeldt.  Discussing  the  demand  for  morality  in  works 
of  art,  the  author  plainly  says  that  we  must  not  demand 
morality  in  art.  And  in  proof  of  this  he  advances  the  fact 
that,  if  we  admit  such  a  demand,  Shakespeare's  Romeo  and 
Juliet  and  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meister  would  not  fit  into  the 
definition  of  good  art;  but  since  both  these  books  are 
included  in  our  canon  of  art,  he  concludes  that  the  demand  is 
unjust.  And  therefore  it  is  necessary  to  find  a  definition  of 
art  which  shall  fit  the  works;  and  instead  of  a  demand  for 
morality,  Folgeldt  postulates  as  the  basis  of  art  a  demand 
for  the  important  (Bedeutunsvolles) . 

All  the  existing  esthetic  standards  are  built  on  this  plan. 
Instead  of  giving  a  definition  of  true  art  and  then  deciding 
what  is  and  what  is  not  good  art  by  judging  whether  a  work 
conforms  or  does  not  conform  to  the  definition,  a  certain 
class  of  works,  which  for  some  reason  pleases  a  certain  circle 
of  people,  is  accepted  as  being  art,  and  a  definition  of  art 
is  then  devised  to  cover  all  these  productions.  I  recently 
came  upon  a  remarkable  instance  of  this  method  in  a  very 
good  German  work,  The  History  of  Art  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century,  by  Muther.  Describing  the  pre-Raphaelites,  the 
Decadents,  and  the  Symbolists  (who  are  already  included  in 
the  canon  of  art),  he  not  only  does  not  venture  to  blame 
their  tendency,  but  earnestly  endeavours  to  widen  his  stand- 
ard so  that  it  may  include  them  all,  since  they  appear  to 
him  to  represent  a  legitimate  reaction  from  the  excesses  of 
realism.  No  matter  what  insanities  appear  in  art,  when 
once  they  find  acceptance  among  the  upper  classes  of  our 
society  a  theory  is  quickly  invented  to  explain  and  sanction 
them ;  just  as  if  there  had  never  been  periods  in  history  when 


166  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

certain  special  circles  of  people  recognised  and  approved 
false,  deformed,  and  insensate  art  which  subsequently  left 
no  trace  and  has  been  utterly  forgotten.  And  to  what  lengths 
the  insanity  and  deformity  of  art  may  go,  especially  when 
as  in  our  days  it  knows  that  it  is  considered  infallible,  may 
be  seen  by  what  is  being  done  in  the  art  of  our  circle  to-day. 

So  that  the  theory  of  art  founded  on  beauty,  expounded 
by  esthetics  and  in  dim  outline  professed  by  the  public,  is 
nothing  but  the  setting  up  as  good  of  that  which  has  pleased 
and  pleases  us,  that  is,  pleases  a  certain  class  of  people. 

In  order  to  define  any  human  activity  it  is  necessary  to 
understand  its  sense  and  importance.  And  in  order  to  do 
this,  it  is  primarily  necessary  to  examine  that  activity  in  it- 
self, in  its  dependence  on  its  causes,  and  in  connection  with 
its  effects,  and  not  merely  in  relation  to  the  pleasure  we  can 
get  from  it. 

If  we  say  that  the  aim  of  any  activity  is  merely  our 
pleasure  and  define  it  solely  by  that  pleasure,  our  definition 
will  evidently  be  a  false  one.  But  this  is  precisely  what 
has  occurred  in  the  efforts  to  define  art.  Now  if  we  con- 
sider the  food  question,  it  will  not  occur  to  anyone  to  affirm 
that  the  importance  of  food  consists  in  the  pleasure  we  re- 
ceive when  eating  it.  Everyone  understands  that  the  sat- 
isfaction of  our  taste  cannot  serve  as  a  basis  for  our  definition 
of  the  merits  of  food,  and  that  we  have  therefore  no  right 
to  presuppose  that  the  dinners  with  cayenne  pepper,  Limburg 
cheese,  alcohol,  and  so  on,  to  which  we  are  accustomed  and 
which  please  us,  form  the  very  best  human  food. 

In  the  same  way,  beauty,  or  that  which  pleases  us,  can 
in  no  sense  serve  as  a  basis  for  the  definition  of  art;  nor 
can  a  series  of  objects  which  afford  us  pleasure  serve  as  the 
model  of  what  art  should  be. 

To  see  the  aim  and  purpose  of  art  in  the  pleasure  we  get 
from  it,  is  like  assuming  (as  is  done  by  people  of  the  lowest 


WHAT  IS  ART?  167 

moral  development,  for  instance  by  savages)  that  the  purpose 
and  aim  of  food  is  the  pleasure  derived  when  consuming  it. 

Just  as  people  who  conceive  the  aim  and  purpose  of  food 
to  be  pleasure  cannot  recognise  the  real  meaning  of  eating, 
so  people  who  consider  the  aim  of  art  to  be  pleasure  cannot 
realise  its  true  meaning  and  purpose,  because  they  attribute 
to  an  activity  the  meaning  of  which  lies  in  its  connection 
with  other  phenomena  of  life,  the  false  and  exceptional  aim 
of  pleasure.  People  come  to  understand  that  the  meaning  -\ 
of  eating  lies  in  the  nourishment  of  the  body,  only  when  / 
they  cease  to  consider  that  the  object  of  that  activity  is  ' 
pleasure.  And  it  is  the  same  with  regard  to  art.  People 
will  come  to  understand  the  meaning  of  art  only  when  they 
cease  to  consider  that  the  aim  of  that  activity  is  beauty,  that 
is  to  say,  pleasure.  The  acknowledgment  of  beauty  (that  is, 
of  a  certain  kind  of  pleasure  received  from  art)  as  being  the 
aim  of  art,  not  only  fails  to  assist  us  in  finding  a  definition 
of  what  art  is  but,  on  the  contrary,  by  transferring  the  ques- 
tion into  a  region  quite  foreign  to  art  (into  metaphysical, 
psychological,  physiological,  and  even  historical  discussions 
as  to  why  such  a  production  pleases  one  person  and  such 
another  displeases  or  pleases  someone  else),  it  renders  such 
definition  impossible.  And  since  discussions  as  to  why  one 
man  likes  pears  and  another  prefers  meat  do  not  help  towards 
finding  a  definition  of  what  is  essential  in  nourishment,  so 
the  solution  of  questions  of  taste  in  art  (to  which  the  dis- 
cussions on  art  involuntarily  come)  not  only  does  not  help 
to  make  clear  what  this  particular  human  activity  which  we 
call  art  really  consists  in,  but  renders  such  elucidation  quite 
impossible  until  we  rid  ourselves  of  a  conception  which 
justifies  every  kind  of  art  at  the  cost  of  confusing  the  whole 
matter. 

To  the  question,  What  is  this  art,  to  which  is  offered  up 
the  labour  of  millions,   the  very  lives  of  men,   and  even 


168  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

morality  itself?  we  have  extracted  replies  from  the  existing 
esthetics  which  all  amount  to  this:  that  the  aim  of  art  is 
beauty,  that  beauty  is  recognised  by  the  enjoyment  it  gives, 
and  that  artistic  enjoyment  is  a  good  and  important  thing, 
because  it  is  enjoyment.  In  a  word,  that  enjoyment  is 
good  because  it  is  enjoyment.  Thus  what  is  considered  the 
definition  of  art  is  no  definition  at  all,  but  only  a  shuffle  to 
justify  existing  art.  Therefore,  however  strange  it  may 
seem  to  say  so,  in  spite  of  the  mountains  of  books  written 
about  art  no  exact  definition  of  art  has  been  constructed. 
And  the  reason  of  this  is  that  the  conception  of  art  has  been 
based  on  the  conception  of  beauty. 


CHAPTER  V 


Definitions  of  art  not  founded  on  beauty.     Tolstoy's  definition.     The  extent  and 
necessity  of  art.     How  people  in  the  past   distinguished  good  from   bad  in  art. 

What  is  art  if  we  put  aside  the  conception  of  beauty, 
which  confuses  the  whole  matter?  The  latest  and  most  com- 
prehensible definitions  of  art,  apart  from  the  conception  of 
beauty,  are  the  following: — (1)  a,  Art  is  an  activity  arising 
even  in  the  animal  kingdom,  and  springing  from  sexual 
desire  and  the  propensity  to  play  (Schiller,  Darwin,  Spencer), 
and  by  accompanied  by  a  pleasurable  excitement  of  the 
nervous  system  (Grant  Allen).  This  is  the  physiological- 
evolutionary  definition.  (2)  Art  is  the  external  manifesta- 
tion, by  means  of  lines,  colours,  movements,  sounds,  or  words, 
of  emotions  felt  by  man  (Veron).  This  is  the  experimental 
definition.  According  to  the  very  latest  definition  (Sully), 
(3)  Art  is  "the  production  of  some  permanent  object  or 
passing  action  which  is  fitted  not  only  to  supply  an  active 
enjoyment  to  the  producer,  but  to  convey  a  pleasurable  im- 
pression to  a  number  of  spectators  or  listeners,  quite  apart 
from  any  personal  advantage  to  be  derived  from  it." 

Notwithstanding  the  superiority  of  these  definitions  to  the 
metaphysical  definitions  which  depended  on  the  conception 
of  beauty,  they  are  yet  far  from  exact.  The  first,  the 
physiological-evolutionary  definition  (1)  a,  is  inexact,  be- 
cause instead  of  speaking  about  the  artistic  activity  itself, 
which  is  the  real  matter  in  hand,  it  treats  of  the  derivation  of 
art.  The  modification  of  it,  b,  based  on  the  physiological 
effects  on  the  human  organism,  is  inexact  because  within  the 
limits  of  such  definition  many  other  human  activities  can  be 

169 


v 


170  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

included,  as  has  occurred  in  the  neo-esthetic  theories  which 
reckon  as  art  the  preparation  of  handsome  clothes,  pleasant 
scents,  and  even  of  victuals. 

The  experimental  definition,  (2),  which  makes  art  consist 
in  the  expression  of  emotions,  is  inexact  because  a  man  may 
express  his  emotions  by  means  of  lines,  colours,  sounds,  or 
words,  and  yet  may  not  act  on  others  by  such  expression — 
and  then  the  manifestation  of  his  emotions  is  not  art. 

The  third  definition  (that  of  Sully)  is  inexact  because  in 
the  production  of  objects  or  actions  affording  pleasure  to  the 
producer  and  a  pleasant  emotion  to  the  spectators  or  hearers 
apart  from  personal  advantage,  may  be  included  the  showing 
of  conjuring  tricks  or  gymnastic  exercises,  and  other  activities 
which  are  not  art.  And,  further,  many  things  the  production 
of  which  does  not  afford  pleasure  to  the  producer  and  the 
sensation  received  from  which  is  unpleasant:  such  as  gloomy, 
heart-rending  scenes  in  a  poetic  description  or  a  play,  may 
nevertheless  be  undoubted  works  of  art. 

The  inaccuracy  of  all  these  definitions  arises  from  the  fact 
that  in  them  all  (as  also  in  the  metaphysical  definitions)  the 
object  considered  is  the  pleasure  art  may  give  and  not  the 
purpose  it  may  serve  in  the  life  of  man  and  of  humanity. 

In  order  correctly  to  define  art  it  is  necessary  first  of  all 
to  cease  to  consider  it  as  a  means  to  pleasure,  and  to  consider 
it  as  one  of  the  conditions  of  human  life.  Viewing  it  in 
this  way  we  cannot  fail  to  observe  that  art  is  one  of  the 
means  of  intercourse  between  man  and  man. 

Every  work  of  art  causes  the  receiver  to  enter  into  a 
certain  kind  of  relationship  both  with  him  who  produced 
or  is  producing  the  art,  and  with  all  those  who,  simul- 
taneously, previously,  or  subsequently,  receive  the  same 
artistic  impression. 

Speech,  transmitting  the  thoughts  and  experiences  of  men, 
serves  as  a  means  of  union  among  them,  and  art  serves 


WHAT  IS  ART?  171 

a   similar   purpose.     The  peculiarity   of  this   latter  means 
of  intercourse,  distinguishing  it  from  intercourse  by  means 
of  words,  consists  in  this,  that  whereas  by  words  a  man   s 
transmits    his    thoughts    to    another,    by   means   of    art    he 
transmits  his  feelings. 

The  activity  of  art  is  based  on  the  fact  that  a  man  receiv- 
ing through  his  sense  of  heading  or  sight  another  man's  ex- 
pression of  feeling,  is  capable  of  experiencing  the  emotion 
which  moved  the  man  who  expressed  it.  To  take  the  simplest 
example:  one  man  laughs  and  another,  who  hears,  becomes 
merry;  or  a  man  weeps  and  another,  who  hears,  feels  sorrow. 
A  man  is  excited  or  irritated,  and  another  man,  seeing  him, 
is  brought  to  a  similar  state  of  mind.  By  his  movements  or 
by  the  sounds  of  his  voice  a  man  expresses  courage  and  deter- 
mination or  sadness  and  calmness,  and  this  state  of  mind 
passes  on  to  others.  A  man  suffers,  manifesting  his  suffer- 
ings by  groans  and  spasms,  and  this  suffering  transmits  itself  t 
to  other  people;  a  man  expresses  his  feelings  of  admiration, 
devotion,  fear,  respect,  or  love  to  certain  objects,  persons,  or 
phenomena,  and  others  are  infected  by  the  same  feelings  of 
admiration,  devotion,  fear,  respect,  or  love  to  the  same  objects, 
persons,  or  phenomena. 

And  it  is  on  this  capacity  of  man  to  receive  another  man's 
expression  of  feeling,  and  to  experience  those  feelings  himself, 
that  the  activity  of  art  is  based. 

If  a  man  infects  another  or  others  directly,  immediately,  by 
his  appearance  or  by  the  sounds  he  gives  vent  to  at  the  very 
time  he  experiences  the  feeling;  if  he  causes  another  man 
to  yawn  when  he  himself  cannot  help  yawning,  or  to  laugh 
or  cry  when  he  himself  is  obliged  to  laugh  or  cry,  or  to  suffer 
when  he  himself  is  suffering — that  does  not  amount  to  art. 

Art  begins  when  one  person,  with  the  object  of  joining 
another  or  others  to  himself  in  one  and  the  same  feeling, 
expresses  that  feeling  by  certain  external  indications.     To 


172  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

take  the  simplest  example:  a  boy  having  experienced,  let  us 
say,  fear  on  encountering  a  wolf,  relates  that  encounter;  and 
in  order  to  evoke  in  others  the  feeling  he  has  experienced, 
describes  himself,  his  condition  before  the  encounter,  the 
surroundings,  the  wood,  his  own  lightheartedness,  and  then 
the  wolf's  appearance,  its  movements,  the  distance  between 
himself  and  the  wolf,  and  so  forth.  All  this,  if  only  the 
boy  when  telling  the  story,  again  experiences  the  feelings 
he  had  lived  through,  and  infects  the  hearers  and  compels 
them  to  feel  what  he  had  experienced — is  art.  Even  if  the 
boy  had  not  seen  a  wolf  but  had  frequently  been  afraid  of 
one,  and  if,  wishing  to  evoke  in  others  the  fear  he  had  felt, 
he  invented  an  encounter  with  a  wolf  and  recounted  it  so 
as  to  make  his  hearers  share  the  feelings  he  experienced  when 
he  feared  the  wolf,  that  also  would  be  art.  And  just  in  the 
same  way  it  is  art  if  a  man,  having  experienced  either  the 
fear  of  suffering  or  the  attraction  of  enjoyment  (whether 
in  reality  or  in  imagination),  expresses  these  feelings  on 
canvas  or  in  marble  so  that  others  are  infected  by  them. 
And  it  is  also  art  if  a  man  feels  or  imagines  to  himself 
feelings  of  delight,  gladness,  sorrow,  despair,  courage,  or 
despondency  and  the  transition  from  one  to  another  of  these 
feelings,  and  expresses  them  by  sounds  so  that  the  hearers 
are  infected  by  them  and  experience  them  as  they  were  ex- 
perienced by  the  composer. 

The  feelings  with  which  the  artist  infects  others  may  be 
most  various — very  strong  or  very  weak,  very  important  or 
very  insignificant,  very  bad  or  very  good:  feelings  of  love 
of  one's  country,  self-devotion  and  submission  to  fate  or  to 
God  expressed  in  a  drama,  raptures  of  lovers  described  in 
a  novel,  feelings  of  voluptuousness  expressed  in  a  picture, 
courage  expressed  in  a  triumphal  march,  merriment  evoked 
by  a  dance,  humour  evoked  by  a  funny  story,  the  feeling 


WHAT  IS  ART?  173 

of  quietness  transmitted  by  an  evening  landscape  or  by  a 
lullaby,  or  the  feeling  of  admiration  evoked  by  a  beautiful 
arabesque — it  is  all  art. 

If  only  the  spectators  or  auditors  are  infected  by  the  feel- 
ings which  the  author  has  felt,  it  is  art. 

To  evoke  in  oneself  a  feeling  one  has  once  experienced  and, 
having  evoked  it  in  oneself,  then  by  means  of  movements, 
lines,  colours,  sounds,  or  forms  expressed  in  words,  so  to 
transmit  that  feeling  that  others  experience  the  same  feeling 
— this  is  the  activity  of  art. 

Art  is  a  human  activity  consisting  in  this,  that  one  man 
consciously,  by  means  of  certain  external  signs,  hands  on  to 
others  feelings  he  has  lived  through,  and  that  others  are  in- 
fected by  these  feelings  and  also  experience  them. 

Art  is  not  as  the  metaphysicians  say,  the  manifestation 
of  some  mysterious  Idea  of  beauty  or  God;  it  is  not,  as  the 
esthetical  physiologists  say,  a  game  in  which  man  lets  off  his 
excess  of  stored-up  energy;  it  is  not  the  expression  of  man's 
emotions  by  external  signs;  it  is  not  the  production  of 
pleasing  objects;  and,  above  all,  it  is  not  pleasure;  but  it  is 
a  means  of  union  among  men,  joining  them  together  in  the 
same  feelings  and  indispensable  for  the  life  and  progress 
towards  well-being  of  individuals  and  of  humanity. 

As,  thanks  to  man's  capacity  to  express  thoughts  by  words, 
every  man  may  know  all  that  has  been  done  for  him  in  the 
realms  of  thought  by  all  humanity  before  his  day,  and  can,  in 
the  present,  thanks  to  this  capacity  to  understand  the  thoughts 
of  others,  become  a  sharer  in  their  activity  and  can  also 
himself  hand  on  to  his  contemporaries  and  descendants  the 
thoughts  he  has  assimilated  from  others  as  well  as  those  which 
have  arisen  within  himself;  so,  thanks  to  man's  capacity  to 
be  infected  with  the  feelings  of  others  by  means  of  art,  all  that 
is  being  lived  through  by  his  contemporaries  is  accessible  to 


174  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

him,  as  well  as  the  feelings  experienced  by  men  thousands  of 
years  ago,  and  he  has  also  the  possibility  of  transmitting  his 
own  feelings  to  others. 

If  people  lacked  this  capacity  to  receive  the  thoughts  con- 
ceived by  the  men  who  preceded  them  and  to  pass  on  to 
others  their  own  thoughts,  men  would  be  like  wild  beasts,  or 
like  Kasper  Hauser.1 

And  if  men  lacked  this  other  capacity  of  being  infected  by 
art,  people  might  be  almost  more  savage  still,  and  above  all 
more  separated  from,  and  more  hostile  to,  one  another. 

And  therefore  the  activity  of  art  is  a  most  important  one, 
as  important  as  the  activity  of  speech  itself  and  as  generally 
diffused. 

As  speech  does  not  act  on  us  only  in  sermons,  orations,  or 
books,  but  in  all  those  remarks  by  which  we  interchange 
thoughts  and  experiences  with  one  another,  so  also  art, 
in  the  wide  sense  of  the  word,  permeates  our  whole  life,  but 
it  is  only  to  some  of  its  manifestations  that  we  apply  the 
term  in  the  limited  sense  of  the  word. 

We  are  accustomed  to  understand  art  to  be  only  what  we 
hear  and  see  in  theatres,  concerts,  and  exhibitions;  together 
with  buildings,  statues,  poems,  novels.  .  .  .  But  all  this  is  but 
the  smallest  part  of  the  art  by  which  we  communicate  with 
each  other  in  life.  All  human  life  is  filled  with  works  of 
art  of  every  kind — from  cradle-song,  jest,  mimicry,  the 
ornamentation  of  houses,  dress,  and  utensils,  to  church 
services,  buildings,  monuments,  and  triumphal  processions. 
It  is  all  artistic  activity.  So  that  by  art,  in  the  limited  sense 
of  the  word,  we  do  not  mean  all  human  activity  transmit- 
ting feelings,  but  only  that  part  which  we  for  some  reason 

1  "The  foundling  of  Nuremberg,"  found  in  the  market-place  of  that  town  on 
23rd  May  1828,  apparently  some  sixteen  years  old.  He  spoke  little,  and  was  almost 
totally  ignorant  even  of  common  objects.  He  subsequently  explained  that  he  had 
been  brought  up  in  confinement  underground,  and  visited  by  only  one  man, 
whom  he  saw  but  seldom. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  175 

select  from  it  and  to  which  we  attach  special  importance. 

This  special  importance  has  always  been  given  by  all 
men  to  that  part  of  this  activity  which  transmits  feelings 
flowing  from  their  religious  perception,  and  this  small  part 
they  have  specifically  called  art,  attaching  to  it  the  full  mean- 
ing of  the  word. 

That  was  how  men  of  old — Socrates,  Plato,  and  Aristotle 
— looked  on  art.  Thus  did  the  Hebrew  prophets  and  the 
ancient  Christians  regard  art.  Thus  it  was,  and  still  is, 
understood  by  the  Mohammedans,  and  thus  is  it  still  under- 
stood by  religious  folk  among  our  own  peasantry. 

Some  teachers  of  mankind — as  Plato  in  his  Republic, 
and  people  such  as  the  primitive  Christians,  the  strict 
Mohammedans,  and  the  Buddhists — have  gone  so  far  as  to 
repudiate  all  art. 

People  viewing  art  in  this  way  (in  contradiction  to  the 
prevalent  view  of  to-day  which  regards  any  art  as  good  if 
only  it  affords  pleasure)  held  and  hold  that  art  (as  contrasted 
with  speech,  which  need  not  be  listened  to)  is  so  highly 
dangerous  in  its  power  to  infect  people  against  their  wills, 
that  mankind  will  lose  far  less  by  banishing  all  art  than 
by  tolerating  each  and  every  art. 

Evidently  such  people  were  wrong  in  repudiating  all 
art,  for  they  denied  what  cannot  be  denied — one  of  the  in- 
dispensable means  of  communication,  without  which  mankind 
could  not  exist.  But  not  less  wrong  are  the  people  of  civilised 
European  society  of  our  class  and  day,  in  favouring  any  art 
if  it  but  serves  beauty,  that  is,  gives  people  pleasure. 

Formerly,  people  feared  lest  among  the  works  of  art  there 
might  chance  to  be  some  causing  corruption,  and  they  pro- 
hibited art  altogether.  Now  they  only  fear  lest  they  should 
be  deprived  of  any  enjoyment  art  can  afford,  and  patronise 
any  art.  And  I  think  the  last  error  is  much  grosser  than 
the  first,  and  that  its  consequences  are  far  more  harmful. 


CHAPTER  VI 

•  How  art  for  the  sake  of  pleasure  has  come  into  esteem.  Religions  indicate 
what  is  good  and  bad.  Church  Christianity.  The  Renaissance.  Scepticism  of 
the  upper  classes.     They  confound  beauty  with  goodness. 

But  how  could  it  happen  that  that  very  art  which  in 
ancient  times  was  merely  tolerated  (if  tolerated  at  all),  should 
have  come  in  our  times  to  be  invariably  considered  a  good 
thing  if  only  it  affords  pleasure? 

It  has  resulted  from  the  following  causes.  The  estimation 
of  the  value  of  art  (that  is,  of  the  feelings  it  transmits)  de- 
pends on  men's  perception  of  the  meaning  of  life ;  depends  on 
what  they  hold  to  be  the  good  and  the  evil  of  life.  And 
what  is  good  and  what  is  evil  is  denned  by  what  are  termed 
religions. 

Humanity  unceasingly  moves  forward  from  a  lower,  more 
partial  and  obscure,  understanding  of  life  to  one  more 
general  and  more  lucid.  And  in  this  as  in  every  movement 
there  are  leaders — those  who  have  understood  the  meaning 
of  life  more  clearly  than  others — and  of  these  advanced  men 
there  is  always  one  who  has  in  his  words  and  by  his  life 
expressed  this  meaning  more  clearly,  lucidly,  and  strongly 
than  others.  This  man's  expression  of  the  meaning  of  life, 
together  with  those  superstitions,  traditions,  and  ceremonies 
which  usually  form  round  the  memory  of  such  a  man,  is 
what  is  called  a  religion.  Religions  are  the  exponents  of 
the  highest  comprehension  of  life  accessible  to  the  best  and 
foremost  men  at  a  given  time  in  a  given  society;  a  compre- 
hension towards  which  all  the  rest  of  that  society  must  in- 
evitably and  irresistibly  advance.  And  therefore  religions 
alone  have  always  served,  and  still  serve,  as  bases  for  the 

176 


WHAT  IS  ART?  177 

valuation  of  human  sentiments.  If  feelings  bring  men  nearer 
the  ideal  their  religion  indicates,  if  they  are  in  harmony  with 
it  and  do  not  contradict  it,  they  are  good;  if  they  estrange 
men  from  it  and  oppose  it  they  are  bad. 

If  the  religion  places  the  meaning  of  life  in  worshippi  j 
one  God  and  fulfilling  what  is  regarded  as  His  will,  as  was 
the  case  among  the  Jews,  then  the  feelings  flowing  from 
love  of  that  God  and  of  His  law,  successfully  transmitted 
through  the  art  of  poetry  by  the  prophets,  by  the  psalms,  or 
by  the  epic  of  the  book  of  Genesis,  are  good,  high  art.  All 
opposing  that,  as  for  instance  the  transmission  of  feelings 
of  devotion  to  strange  gods,  or  of  feelings  incompatible  with 
the  law  of  God,  would  be  considered  bad  art.  Or  if,  as 
was  the  case  among  the  Greeks,  the  religion  places  the  mean- 
ing of  life  in  earthly  happiness,  in  beauty  and  in  strength, 
then  art  successfully  transmitting  the  joy  and  energy  of  life 
would  be  considered  good  art,  but  art  transmitting  feelings 
of  effeminacy  or  despondency  would  be  bad  art.  If  the 
meaning  of  life  is  seen  in  the  well-being  of  one's  nation, 
or  in  honouring  one's  ancestors  and  continuing  the  mode  of 
life  led  by  them,  as  was  the  case  among  the  Romans  and  the 
Chinese  respectively,  then  art  transmitting  feelings  of  joy  at 
the  sacrifice  of  one's  personal  well-being  for  the  common 
weal,  or  at  the  exaltation  of  one's  ancestors  and  the  main- 
tenance of  their  traditions,  would  be  considered  good  art; 
but  art  expressing  feelings  contrary  to  these  would  be  regarded 
as  bad.  If  the  meaning  of  life  is  seen  in  freeing  oneself  from 
the  yoke  of  animalism,  as  is  the  case  among  the  Buddhists, 
then  art  successfully  transmitting  feelings  that  elevate  the 
soul  and  humble  the  flesh  will  be  good  art,  and  all  that 
transmits  feelings  strengthening  the  bodily  passions  will  be 
bad  art. 

In  every  age  and  in  every  human  society  there  exists  a 
religious  sense,  common  to  that  whole  society,  of  what  is 


178  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

good  and  what  is  bad,  and  it  is  this  religious  conception 
that  decides  the  value  of  the  feelings  transmitted  by  art. 
And  therefore  among  all  nations  art  which  transmitted 
feelings  considered  to  be  good  by  this  general  religious  sense 
was  recognised  as  being  good  and  was  encouraged,  but  art 
which  transmitted  feelings  considered  to  be  bad  by  this  general 
religious  sense  was  recognised  as  being  bad  and  was  rejected. 
All  the  rest  of  the  immense  field  of  art  by  means  of  which 
people  communicate  one  with  another  was  not  esteemed  at 
all  and  was  only  noticed  when  it  ran  counter  to  the  religious 
conception  of  its  age,  and  then  merely  to  be  repudiated. 
Thus  it  was  among  all  nations, — Greeks,  Jews,  Indians, 
Egyptians,  and  Chinese, — and  so  it  was  when  Christianity 
appeared. 

The  Christianity  of  the  first  centuries  recognised  as  pro- 
ductions of  good  art  only  legends,  lives  of  saints,  sermons, 
prayers  and  hymn-singing,  evoking  love  of  Christ,  emotion 
at  his  life,  desire  to  follow  his  example,  renunciation  of 
worldly  life,  humility,  and  the  love  of  others ;  all  productions 
transmitting  feelings  of  personal  enjoyment  they  considered 
to  be  bad  and  therefore  rejected,  for  instance,  tolerating 
plastic  representations  only  when  they  were  symbolical,  they 
rejected  all  the  pagan  sculptures. 

This  was  so  among  the  Christians  of  the  first  centuries,  who 
accepted  Christ's  teaching  if  not  quite  in  its  true  form  at 
least  not  in  the  perverted,  paganised  form  in  which  it  was 
accepted  subsequently. 

But  besides  this  Christianity,  from  the  time  of  the  whole- 
sale conversion  of  nations  by  order  of  the  authorities,  as  in 
the  days  of  Constantine,  Charlemagne,  and  Vladimir,  there 
appeared  another,  a  Church-Christianity,  which  was  nearer 
to  paganism  than  to  Christ's  teaching.  And  this  Church- 
Christianity,  in  accordance  with  its  own  teaching,  estimated 


WHAT  IS  ART?  179 

quite  otherwise  the  feelings  of  people  and  the  productions 
of  art  which  transmitted  those  feelings. 

This  Church-Christianity  not  only  did  not  acknowledge  the 
fundamental  and  essential  positions  of  true  Christianity, — 
the  immediate  relationship  of  each  man  to  the  Father,  the 
consequent  brotherhood  and  equality  of  all  men,  and  the 
substitution  of  humility  and  love  in  place  of  every  kind  of 
violence, — but  on  the  contrary  having  set  up  a  heavenly 
hierarchy  similar  to  the  pagan  mythology  and  having  intro- 
duced the  worship  of  Christ,  of  the  Virgin,  of  angels,  of 
apostles,  of  saints,  and  of  martyrs,  and  not  only  of  these 
divinities  themselves  but  also  of  their  images,  it  made  blind 
faith  in  the  Church  and  its  ordinances  the  essential  point  of 
its  teaching. 

However  foreign  this  teaching  may  have  been  to  true 
Christianity,  however  degraded  not  only  in  comparison 
with  true  Christianity  but  even  with  the  life-conception  of 
Romans  such  as  Julian  and  others,  it  was  for  all  that,  to 
the  barbarians  who  accepted  it,  a  higher  doctrine  than  their 
former  adoration  of  gods,  heroes,  and  good  and  bad  spirits. 
And  therefore  this  teaching  was  a  religion  to  them,  and  on 
the  basis  of  that  religion  the  art  of  the  time  was  assessed. 
And  art  transmitting  pious  adoration  of  the  Virgin,  Jesus, 
the  saints,  and  the  angels,  a  blind  faith  in  and  submission 
to  the  Church,  fear  of  torments  and  hope  of  blessedness  in  a 
life  beyond  the  grave,  was  considered  good;  while  all  art 
opposed  to  this  was  held  to  be  bad. 

The  teaching  on  the  basis  of  which  this  art  arose  was  a 
perversion  of  Christ's  teaching,  but  the  art  which  sprang  up 
on    this    perverted    teaching    was    nevertheless    a    true    art,  * 
because  it  corresponded  to  the  religious  view  of  life  held  by 
the  people  among  whom  it  arose. 

The  artists  of  the  Middle  Ages,  vitalised  by  the  same 


180  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

source  of  feeling — religion — as  the  mass  of  the  people,  and 
transmitting  in  architecture,  sculpture,  painting,  music, 
poetry,  or  drama,  the  feelings  and  states  of  mind  they  ex- 
perienced, were  true  artists;  and  their  activity,  founded  on 
the  highest  conceptions  accessible  to  their  age  and  common 
to  the  entire  people,  though  for  our  times  a  mean  art.  was 
nevertheless  a  true  one,  shared  by  the  whole  community. 

And  this  was  the  state  of  things  until,  in  the  upper,  rich, 
more  educated  classes  of  European  society,  doubt  arose  as  to 
the  truth  of  that  understanding  of  life  which  was  expressed 
by  Church-Christianity.  When,  after  the  Crusades  and  the 
maximum  development  of  papal  power  and  its  abuses,  people 
of  the  rich  classes  became  acquainted  with  the  wisdom  of 
the  classics,  and  saw  on  the  one  hand  the  reasonable  lucidity 
of  the  teaching  of  the  ancient  sages  and  on  the  other  hand 
the  incompatibility  of  the  Church  doctrine  with  the  teaching 
of  Christ,  they  lost  all  possibility  of  continuing  to  believe 
the  Church  teaching. 

If  in  externals  they  still  kept  to  the  forms  of  Church 
teaching,  they  could  no  longer  believe  in  it,  and  held  to  it 
only  by  inertia  and  for  the  sake  of  influencing  the  masses, 
who  continued  to  believe  blindly  in  Church  doctrine,  and 
whom  the  upper  classes  for  their  own  advantage  considered 
it  necessary  to  encourage  in  those  beliefs. 

So  that  a  time  came  when  Church-Christianity  ceased  to 
be  the  general  religious  doctrine  of  all  Christian  people: 
some — the  masses — continued  blindly  to  believe  in  it,  but 
the  upper  classes — those  in  whose  hands  lay  the  power  and 
wealth  and  therefore  the  leisure  to  produce  art  and  the  means 
to  stimulate  it — ceased  to  believe  that  teaching. 

In  regard  to  religion  the  upper  circles  of  the  Middle  Ages 
found  themselves  in  the  position  the  educated  Romans  were 
in  before  Christianity  arose,  that  is,  they  no  longer  believed 
in  the  religion  of  the  masses,  but  had  no  beliefs  to  put  in 


WHAT  IS  ART?  181 

place  of  the  worn-out  Church  doctrine,  which  for  them  had 
lost  its  meaning. 

There  was  only  this  difference,  that  whereas  for  the  Ro- 
mans who  lost  faith  in  their  emperor-gods  and  household- 
gods  it  was  impossible  to  extract  anything  further  from  all 
the  complex  mythology  they  had  borrowed  from  all  the  con- 
quered nations,  and  it  was  consequently  necessary  to  find 
a  completely  new  conception  of  life,  the  people  of  the  Middle 
Ages  when  they  doubted  the  truth  of  the  Church  teaching 
had  no  need  to  seek  a  fresh  one.  That  Christian  teaching 
which  they  professed  in  a  perverted  form  as  Church  doctrine, 
had  mapped  out  the  path  of  human  progress  so  far  ahead 
that  they  had  only  to  rid  themselves  of  those  perversions 
which  hid  the  teaching  announced  by  Christ,  and  to  adopt 
its  real  meaning — if  not  completely  then  at  least  in  some 
greater  degree  than  that  in  which  the  Church  had  held  it. 
And  this  was  partially  done  not  only  in  the  reformations  of 
Wyclif,  Huss,  Luther,  and  Calvin,  but  by  all  that  current 
of  non-Church  Christianity,  represented  in  earlier  times 
by  the  Paulicians  and  the  Bogomilites,1  and  afterwards  by  the 
Waldenses  and  the  other  non- Church  Christians  who  were 
called  heretics.  But  this  could  be,  and  was,  done  chiefly 
by  poor  people — who  did  not  rule.  A  few  of  the  rich  and 
strong,  as  Francis  of  Assisi  and  others,  accepted  the  Christian 
teaching  in  its  full  significance  even  though  it  undermined 
their  privileged  positions.  But  most  people  of  the  upper 
classes  (though  in  the  depth  of  their  souls  they  had  lost  faith 
in  the  Church  teaching)  could  not  or  would  not  act  thus, 
because  the  essence  of  that  Christian  view  of  life  which  stood 
ready  to  be  adopted  when  once  they  rejected  the  Church 
faith,  was  a  teaching  of  the  brotherhood  (and  therefore  the 
equality)  of  man,  and  this  negatived  those  privileges  on  which 

1  Eastern  sects  well  known  in  early  Church  history,  who  rejected  the  Church's 
rendering  of  Christ's  teaching  and  were  cruelly  persecuted. — A.  M. 


182  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

they  lived,  in  which  they  had  grown  up  and  been  educated, 
and  to  which  they  were  accustomed.  Not  in  the  depth  of 
their  hearts  believing  in  the  Church  teaching, — which  had 
outlived  its  age  and  had  no  longer  any  true  meaning  for  them, 
— and  not  being  strong  enough  to  accept  true  Christianity, 
men  of  these  rich,  governing  classes — popes,  kings,  dukes, 
and  all  the  great  ones  of  the  earth — were  left  without  any 
religion,  with  but  the  external  forms  of  one,  which  they 
supported  as  being  profitable  and  even  necessary  for  them- 
selves, since  these  forms  supported  a  teaching  which  justified 
the  privileges  they  made  use  of.  In  reality  these  people 
believed  in  nothing,  just  as  the  Romans  of  the  first  centuries 
of  our  era  believed  in  nothing.  But  at  the  same  time  these 
were  the  people  who  had  the  power  and  the  wealth,  and  these 
were  the  people  who  rewarded  art  and  directed  it. 

And,  let  it  be  noticed,  it  was  just  among  these  people  that 
there  grew  up  an  art  esteemed,  not  according  to  its  success  in 
expressing  men's  religious  feelings  but  in  proportion  to  its 
beauty, — in  other  words,  according  to  the  enjoyment  it  gave. 

No  longer  able  to  believe  in  the  Church  religion,  whose 
falsehood  they  had  detected,  and  incapable  of  accepting  true 
Christian  teaching  which  denounced  their  whole  manner  of 
life,  these  rich  and  powerful  people,  stranded  without  any 
religious  conception  of  life,  involuntarily  returned  to  that 
pagan  view  of  things  which  places  life's  meaning  in  personal 
enjoyment.  And  then  took  place  among  the  upper  classes 
what  is  called  the  Renaissance  of  science  and  art,  which  was 
really  not  only  a  denial  of  every  religion,  but  also  an  assertion 
that  religion  is  unnecessary. 

The  Church  doctrine  is  so  coherent  a  system  that  it  cannot 
be  altered  or  corrected  without  destroying  it  altogether.  As 
soon  as  doubt  arose  with  regard  to  the  infallibility  of  the 
Pope  (and  this  doubt  was  then  in  the  minds  of  all  educated 
people),  doubt  inevitably  followed  as  to  the  truth  of  tradition. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  183 

But  doubt  as  to  the  truth  of  tradition  is  fatal  not  only  to 
popery  and  Catholicism,  but  also  to  the  whole  Church  creed 
with  all  its  dogmas:  the  divinity  of  Christ,  the  resurrection, 
and  the  Trinity;  and  it  destroys  the  authority  of  the 
Scriptures,  since  they  were  considered  to  be  inspired  only 
because  the  tradition  of  the  Church  decided  it  so. 

So  that  the  majority  of  the  highest  classes  of  that  age, 
even  the  popes  and  the  ecclesiastics,  really  believed  in  nothing 
at  all.  In  the  Church  doctrine  these  people  did  not  believe, 
for  they  saw  its  insolvency;  but  neither  could  they  follow 
Francis  of  Assisi,  Peter  of  Chelczic,1  and  most  of  the  heretics, 
in  acknowledging  the  moral,  social  teaching  of  Christ,  for 
that  teaching  undermined  their  social  position.  So  these 
people  remained  without  any  religious  view  of  life.  And 
having  none  they  could  have  no  standard  wherewith  to  esti- 
mate what  was  good  and  what  was  bad  art,  but  that  of^ 
personal  enjoyment.  And  having  acknowledged  their  cri- 
terion of  what  was  good  to  be  pleasure,  that  is  beauty,  these 
people  of  the  upper  classes  of  European  society  went  back 
in  their  comprehension  of  art  to  the  gross  conception  of  the 
primitive  Greeks,  which  Plato  had  already  condemned.  And 
conformably  to  this  understanding  of  life  a  theory  of  art  was 
formulated. 

1  Peter  of  Chelczic,  a  Bohemian,  was  one  of  the  successors  of  John  Huss.  In 
1457  he  was  leader  of  the  non-resistants  called  the  United  Brethren.  He 
was  the  author  of  a  remarkable  book,  The  Net  of  Faith,  directed  against  Church 
and  State.  It  is  mentioned  in  Tolstoy's  The  Kingdom  of  God  is  Within  You. 
—A.  M. 


CHAPTER  VII 

An  esthetic  theory  framed  to  suit  the  view  of  life  of  the  ruling  classes. 

From  the  time  that  people  of  the  upper  classes  lost  faith  in 
Church-Christianity,  beauty  (that  is  to  say,  the  pleasure  re- 
ceived from  art)  became  their  standard  of  good  and  bad  art. 
And  in  accordance  with  that  view,  an  esthetic  theory  natu- 
rally sprang  up  among  those  upper  classes,  justifying  such 
a  conception — a  theory  according  to  which  the  aim  of  art  is 
to  exhibit  beauty.  The  partisans  of  this  esthetic  theory  in 
confirmation  of  its  truth  affirmed  that  it  was  no  invention  of 
their  own,  but  that  it  existed  in  the  nature  of  things  and 
was  recognised  even  by  the  ancient  Greeks.  But  this  asser- 
tion was  quite  arbitrary  and  had  no  foundation  other  than 
the  fact  that  among  the  ancient  Greeks,  in  consequence  of 
the  low  level  of  their  moral  ideal  (as  compared  with  the 
Christian),  their  conception  of  the  good,  ™  *ya06vy  was  not 
yet  sharply  divided  from  their  conception  of  the  beautiful, 

to  KaXov, 

That  highest  perfection  of  goodness  (not  only  not  identical 
with  beauty  but  for  the  most  part  contrasting  with  it)  which 
was  discerned  by  the  Jews  even  in  the  times  of  Isaiah  and 
fully  expressed  by  Christianity,  was  quite  unknown  to  the 
Greeks.  They  supposed  that  the  beautiful  must  necessarily 
also  be  the  good.  It  is  true  that  their  foremost  thinkers — 
Socrates,  Plato,  Aristotle — felt  that  goodness  may  happen  not 
to  coincide  with  beauty.  Socrates  expressly  subordinated 
beauty  to  goodness;  Plato,  to  unite  the  two  conceptions, 
spoke  of  spiritual  beauty;  while  Aristotle  demanded  from  art 
that  it  should  have  a  moral  influence  on  people  (*a0apais). 

184 


WHAT  IS  ART?  185 

But  notwithstanding  all  this,  they  could  not  quite  dismiss 
the  notion  that  beauty  and  goodness  coincide. 

Consequently,  in  the  language  of  that  period,  a  compound 
word  (Ka\oKayadiaf  beauty-goodness)  came  into  use  to  express 
that  notion. 

Evidently  the  Greek  sages  began  to  draw  near  to  that 
perception  of  goodness  which  is  expressed  in  Buddhism  and 
in  Christianity,  but  got  entangled  in  denning  the  relation 
between  goodness  and  beauty.  Plato's  reasoning  about 
beauty  and  goodness  is  full  of  contradictions.  And  it  was 
just  this  confusion  of  ideas  that  those  Europeans  of  a  later 
age,  who  had  lost  all  faith,  tried  to  elevate  into  a  law. 
They  tried  to  prove  that  this  union  of  beauty  and  goodness 
is  inherent  in  the  very  essence  of  things;  that  beauty  and 
goodness  must  coincide;  and  that  the  word  and  conception 
KoXoKayaSla  (which  had  a  meaning  for  Greeks  but  has  none 
at  all  for  Christians)  represents  the  highest  ideal  of  humanity. 
On  this  misunderstanding  the  new  science  of  esthetics  was 
built  up:  and  to  justify  its  existence  the  teachings  of  the  an- 
cients on  art  were  twisted  so  that  it  should  appear  that  this  in- 
vented science  of  esthetics  had  existed  among  the  Greeks. 

In  reality  the  reasoning  of  the  ancients  on  art  was  quite 
unlike  ours.  As  Benard,  in  his  book  on  the  esthetics  of 
Aristotle,  quite  justly  remarks :  Pour  qui  vent  y  regarder  de 
pres,  la  theorie  du  beau  et  celle  de  Vart  sont  tout  a  fait 
separees  dans  Aristote,  comme  elles  le  sont  dans  Plat  on  et  chez 
tous  leurs  successeurs  (L'esthetique  d 'Aristote  et  de  ses 
successeurs,  Paris,  1889,  p.  28). 1  And,  indeed,  the  reason- 
ing of  the  ancients  on  art  not  only  does  not  confirm  our 
science  of  esthetics,  but  rather  contradicts  its  doctrine  of 
beauty.  But  nevertheless  all  the  esthetic  guides,  from 
Schasler  to  Knight,  declare  that  the  science  of  the  beautiful 

1  Anyone   examining   closely   may   see   that   the   theory   of   beauty   and   that   of 
art  are  quite  separated  in  Aristotle  as  they  are  in  Plato  and  in  all  their  successors. 


186  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

— esthetic  science — was  begun  by  the  ancients,  by  Socrates, 
Plato,  Aristotle;  and  was  continued,  they  say,  to  some  extent 
by  the  Epicureans  and  Stoics,  by  Seneca  and  Plutarch,  down 
to  Plotinus.  But  it  is  supposed  that  this  science,  by  some 
unfortunate  accident,  suddenly  vanished  in  the  fourth  cen- 
tury and  stayed  away  for  about  1500  years,  and  only  after 
these  1500  years  had  passed  did  it  revive  in  Germany,  a.  d. 
1750,  in  Baumgarten's  doctrine. 

After  Plotinus,  says  Schasler,  fifteen  centuries  passed 
away  during  which  there  was  not  the  slightest  scientific  in- 
terest shewn  for  the  world  of  beauty  and  art.  These  one 
and  a  half  thousand  years,  says  he,  have  been  lost  to  esthetics 
and  have  contributed  nothing  towards  the  erection  of  the 
learned  edifice  of  this  science.1 

In  reality  nothing  of  the  kind  happened.  The  science  of 
esthetics,  the  science  of  the  beautiful,  neither  did  nor  could 
vanish,  because  it  never  existed.  Simply  the  Greeks  (just 
like  everybody  else,  always  and  everywhere)  considered 
art  (like  everything  else)  good  only  when  it  served  goodness 
(as  they  understood  goodness),  and  bad  when  it  was  in 
opposition  to  that  goodness.  And  the  Greeks  themselves 
were  so  little  developed  morally  that  goodness  and  beauty 

1  Die  Lucke  von  fiinf  Jahrhunderten  welche  zwischen  den  Kunst-philosophischen 
Betrachtungen  des  Plato  und  Aristoteles  ur.d  die  des  Plotins  fallt,  kann  zwar 
auffallig  erscheinen;  dennoch  kann  man  eigentlich  nicht  sagen,  dass  in  dieser 
Zwischenziet  uberhaupt  von  asthetischen  Dingen  nicht  die  Rede  gewesen;  oder 
dass  gar  ein  vblliger  Mangel  an  Zusammenhang  zwischen  den  Kunsc-anschauungen 
des  letztgenamten  Philosophen  und  denen  dei  ersteren  existire.  Freilich  wurde 
die  von  Aristotle  begrundete  Wissenschaft  in  Nichts  dadurch  gefordert !  immerhin 
aber  zeigt  sich  in  jener  Zwischenzeit  noch  ein  gewisses  Interesse  fur  asthetische 
Fragen.  Nach  Plotin  aber,  die  wenigen,  ihm  in  der  Ziet  nahestehenden  Philoso- 
phen, wie  Longin,  Augustin,  u.  s.  f.  kommen,  wie  wir  gesehen,  kaum  in  Belracht 
und  schliessen  sich  iibrigens  in  ihrer  Anschauungsweise  an  ihn  an, — vergehen  nicht 
fiinf,  sondern  fiinjzehen  Jahrhunderte,  in  denen  von  irgend  einer  wissenschaft- 
lichen  Interesse  fur  die  Welt  des  Schonen  und  der  Kunst  nichts  zu  spuren  ist. 

Diese  anderthalbtausend  Jahre,  innerhalb  deren  der  Weltgeist  durch  die  mannig- 
fachsten  Kampfe  hindurch  zu  einer  vbllig  neuen  Gestaltung  des  Lebens  sich  dur- 
charbeitete,    sind    fiir    die    Aesthetik,    hinsichtlich    des  -weiteren    Ausbaus    dieser 


WHAT  IS  ART?  187 

seemed  to  them  to  coincide.  On  that  obsolete  Greek  view  of 
life  was  erected  the  science  of  esthetics,  invented  by  men  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  and  especially  shaped  and  mounted  in 
Baumgarten's  theory.  The  Greeks  (as  anyone  may  see  who 
will  read  Benard's  admirable  book  on  Aristotle  and  his  suc- 
cessors, and  Walter's  work  on  Plato)  never  had  a  science  of 
esthetics. 

Esthetic  theories  arose  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago  among  the  wealthy  classes  of  the  Christian  European 
world,  and  arose  simultaneously  among  different  nations, — 
German,  Italian,  Dutch,  French,  and  English.  The  founder 
and  organiser  of  it,  who  gave  it  a  scientific  and  theoretic  form, 
was  Baumgarten. 

With  a  characteristically  German  external  exactitude, 
pedantry,  and  symmetry,  he  devised  and  expounded  this 
extraordinary  theory.  And  notwithstanding  its  obvious 
lack  of  substance,  no  one  else's  theory  so  pleased  the  cultured 
crowd  or  was  accepted  so  readily  and  with  such  an  absence 
of  criticism.  It  so  suited  the  people  of  the  upper  classes 
that  to  this  day,  notwithstanding  its  entirely  fantastic  charac- 

Wissenschaft  verloren. — Kritische  Geschichte  der  Aesthetik,  von  Max  Schasler. 
Berlin,  1872,  p.  253,  §  25. 


The  gap  of  five  hundred  years,  which  occurred  between  the  artistic-philosophic 
observations  of  Plato  and  Aristotle  and  those  of  Plotinus,  may  indeed  appear  strik- 
ing, but  one  cannot  exactly  say  that  in  this  interval  of  time  there  was  absolutely 
no  mention  of  esthetic  matters;  or  even  that  a  complete  lack  of  correspondence 
exists  between  the  art-views  of  the  last-named  philosopher  and  that  of  the  for- 
mer. It  is  true  that  the  science  founded  by  Aristotle  was  not  in  any  way  advanced 
thereby;  but,  for  all  that,  during  this  interval  a  certain  interest  in  esthetic  ques- 
tions still  appears.  But  after  Plotinus  (the  few  philosophers  near  him  in  time, 
such  as  Longinus,  Augustinus  and  so  forth,  hardly  come  into  question  as  we 
have  seen,  and  moreover  they  adhere  to  him  in  their  views)  there  passed  not 
five,  but  fifteen  centuries  in  which  there  is  no  indication  of  any  sort  of  scientific 
interest  for  the  world  of  the  beautiful  and  of  art. 

These  one-and-a-half-thousand  years,  within  which  the  world-spirit  worked  out 
a  completely  new  foundation  of  life,  are  lost  for  esthetics  as  regards  any  further 
construction  of  this  science. 


188  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

ter  and  the  arbitrary  nature  of  its  assertions,  it  is  repeated 
by  learned  and  unlearned  as  though  it  were  something  indu- 
bitable and  self-evident. 

Pro  captu  lectoris  habent  sua  fata  libelli,1  and  so,  or  even 
more  so,  theories  habent  sua  fata  according  to  the  condition 
of  error  in  which  that  society  lives  among  whom  and  for 
whom  the  theories  are  invented.  If  a  theory  justifies  the  false 
position  in  which  a  certain  part  of  a  society  is  living,  then 
however  unfounded  or  even  obviously  false  the  theory  may 
be,  it  is  accepted  and  becomes  an  article  of  faith  to  that  sec- 
tion of  society.  Such,  for  instance,  was  the  celebrated  and 
unfounded  theory  expounded  by  Malthus,  of  the  tendency 
of  the  population  of  the  world  to  increase  in  geometrical 
progression  but  of  the  means  of  subsistence  to  increase  only 
in  arithmetical  progression,  and  of  the  consequent  over- 
population of  the  world;  such  also  was  the  theory  (an 
outgrowth  of  the  Malthusian)  of  selection  and  struggle  for 
existence  as  the  basis  of  human  progress.  Such  again  is 
Marx's  theory,  which  regards  the  gradual  destruction  of 
small  private  production  by  large  capitalistic  production,  now 
going  on  around  us,  as  an  inevitable  decree  of  fate.  How- 
ever unfounded  such  theories  are,  however  contrary  to  all 
that  is  known  and  confessed  by  humanity,  and  however  ob- 
viously immoral  they  may  be,  they  are  credulously  accepted, 
pass  uncriticised,  and  are  preached,  perhaps  for  centuries, 
until  the  conditions  are  destroyed  which  they  served  to  justify, 
or  until  their  absurdity  has  become  too  evident.  To  this 
class  belongs  this  astonishing  theory  of  the  Baumgartenian 
Trinity:  Goodness,  Beauty,  and  Truth,  according  to  which 
it  appears  that  the  very  best  that  can  be  done  by  the  art  of 
nations  after  1900  years  of  Christian  teaching  is  to  choose 
as  the  ideal  of  their  life  the  ideal  that  was  held  by  a  small, 
semi-savage,  slave-holding  people  who  lived  2000  years  ago, 

1  The  fate  of  books  depends  on  the  head  of  the  reader. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  189 

who  imitated  the  nude  human  body  extremely  well  and  erected 
buildings  pleasant  to  look  at.  All  these  incompatibilities 
pass  completely  unnoticed.  Learned  people  write  long, 
cloudy  treatises  on  beauty  as  a  member  of  the  esthetic  trinity 
of  Beauty,  Truth,  and  Goodness;  das  Schone,  das  Wahre, 
das  Gute;  le  Beau,  le  Vrai,  le  Bon,  are  repeated  with  capital 
letters  by  philosophers,  estheticians,  and  artists,  by  private  in- 
dividuals, by  novelists  and  by  feuilletonistes;  and  they  all 
think  when  pronouncing  these  sacrosanct  words  that  they 
speak  of  something  quite  definite  and  solid — something  on 
which  they  can  base  their  opinions.  In  reality  these  words 
not  only  have  no  definite  meaning,  but  they  hinder  us  in  at- 
taching any  definite  meaning  to  existing  art;  they  are  wanted 
only  for  the  purpose  of  justifying  the  false  importance  we 
attribute  to  an  art  that  transmits  every  kind  of  feeling  if  only 
those  feelings  afford  us  pleasure.1 

1  What  is  Art?  was  translated  by  me  from  Tolstoy's  MSS.,  which  he  sent  me 
chapter  by  chapter  as  he  wrote  it.  He  revised  his  work  to  such  an  extent  that 
some  chapters  were  re- written  three  times  over  after  he  first  sent  them  to  me  for 
translation.  The  following  passages  belonging  to  an  early  version  of  this  chapter, 
though  he  did  not  retain  them  in  his  final  revision,  seem  worth  preserving,  so  I 
give  them  here  in  a  foot-note: 

We  only  need  escape  for  a  moment  from  the  habit  of  considering  this  trinity 
of  Goodness,  Beauty  and  Truth,  presented  to  us  by  Baumgarten,  to  be  as  true  as 
the  Trinity  of  religion,  and  need  only  ask  ourselves  what  we  all  have  always  under- 
stood by  the  words  which  make  up  this  triad,  in  order  to  be  convinced  of  the 
utterly  fantastic  nature  of  the  union  into  one,  of  three  absolutely  different  words 
and  conceptions  which  are  not  even  commensurable  in  meaning. 

Goodness,  Beauty,  and  Truth  are  put  on  one  level,  and  all  three  conceptions 
are  treated  as  though  they  were  fundamental  and  metaphysical.  Whereas  in 
reality  such  is  not  at  all  the  case. 

Goodness  is  the  eternal,  the  highest,  aim  of  our  life.  However  we  may  under- 
stand goodness,  our  life  is  nothing  but  a  striving  towards  the  good,  that  is,  towards 
God. 

Goodness  is  really  the  fundamental  metaphysical  perception  which  forms  the 
essence  of  our  consciousness:  a  perception  not  denned  by  reason. 

Goodness  is  that  which  cannot  be  defined  by  anything  else,  but  which  defines 
everything   else. 

But  Beauty — if  we  do  not  want  mere  words  but  speak  about  what  we  under- 
stand— beauty  is  nothing  but  what  pleases  us.  The  notion  of  beauty  not  only 
does  not  coincide  with  goodness,  but  rather  is  contrary  to  it;   for  the  good  most 


190  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

often  coincides  with  victory  over  the  passions,  while  beauty  is  at  the  root  of  all 
our  passions. 

The  more  utterly  we  surrender  ourselves  to  beauty  the  farther  we  depart  from 
goodness.  I  know  that  to  this  people  always  reply  that  there  is  a  moral  and 
spiritual  beauty,  but  this  is  merely  playing  with  words,  for  by  spiritual  and 
moral  beauty  nothing  else  is  understood  but  goodness.  For  the  most  part,  beauty 
of  soul,  or  goodness  not  only  does  not  coincide  with  what  is  ordinarily  un- 
derstood as  beauty,  but  is  contrary  to  it. 

As  to  truth — still  less  can  we  attribute  to  this  member  of  the  trinity  iden- 
tity with  goodness,  or  even  any  independent  existence  at  all. 

By  truth  we  merely  mean  the  correspondence  of  an  expression,  or  of  the  defi- 
nition of  an  object,  with  reality,  or  with  an  understanding  of  the  object  common 
to  everyone,  and  therefore  it  is  a  means  of  arriving  at  the  good.  But  what  is 
there  in  common  between  the  conceptions  of  beauty  and  truth  on  the  one  hand, 
and  of  goodness  on  the  other?  Truth  spoken  expressly  to  cause  annoyance  cer- 
tainly does  not  harmonise  with  goodness. 

Not  only  are  beauty  and  truth  not  conceptions  equivalent  to  goodness,  and  not 
only  do  they  not  form  one  entity  with  goodness,  but  they  do  not  even  coincide 
with  it.  For  instance,  Socrates  and  Pascal  as  well  as  many  others,  considered 
that  learning  the  truth  about  unnecessary  things  does  not  accord  with  good- 
ness. With  beauty,  truth  has  not  even  anything  in  common,  but  for  the  most  part 
is  in  contradiction  with  it,  for  truth  generally  exposes  the  deception  and  de- 
stroys the  illusion  which  is  a  chief  condition  of  beauty. 

And  lo  and  behold!  the  arbitrary  conjunction  into  one,  of  these  three  con- 
ceptions which  are  not  commensurable  but  foreign  to  one  another,  has  served 
as  the  basis  for  that  amazing  theory  according  to  which  the  difference  between 
good  art,  transmitting  good  feeling,  and  bad  art,  transmitting  bad  feeling,  is 
completely  obliterated,  and  one  of  the  lowest  manifestations  of  art,  art  merely 
for  enjoyment — that  art  against  which  all  the  teachers  of  humanity  have 
warned  mankind — has  come  to  be  considered  the  highest  art. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Who  have  adopted  this  esthetic  theory?  Real  art  needful  for  all  men.  Our 
art  too  expensive,  too  unintelligible,  and  too  harmful,  for  the  masses.  The  theory 
of  "the  elect"  in  art. 

But  if  art  is  a  human  activity  having  for  its  purpose  the 
transmission  to  others  of  the  highest  and  best  feelings  to 
which  men  have  risen,  how  could  it  be  that  humanity  for  a 
certain  rather  considerable  period  of  its  existence  (from  the 
time  people  ceased  to  believe  in  Church  doctrine  down  to 
the  present  day)  should  exist  without  this  important  activity, 
and  instead  of  it  should  put  up  with  an  insignificant  artistic 
activity  only  affording  pleasure? 

To  answer  this  question  it  is  necessary  first  of  all  to  correct 
the  current  error  people  make  in  attributing  to  our  art 
the  significance  of  true,  universal  art.  We  are  so  accustomed 
not  only  naively  to  consider  the  Circassian  family  the 
best  stock  of  people,  but  also  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  the 
best  race  if  we  are  Englishmen  or  Americans,  or  the  Teutonic 
if  we  are  Germans,  or  the  Gallo-Latin  if  we  are  French, 
or  the  Slavonic  if  we  are  Russians,  that  when  speaking  of  our 
own  art  we  feel  fully  convinced  not  only  that  our  art  is  true 
art,  but  even  that  it  is  the  best  and  only  true  art.  But  in 
reality  our  art  is  not  only  not  the  only  art  (as  the  Bible  was 
once  held  to  be  the  only  book) , — it  is  not  even  the  art  of  the 
whole  of  Christendom,  only  of  a  small  section  of  our  part 
of  humanity.  It  was  correct  to  speak  of  a  national  Jewish, 
Greek,  or  Egyptian  art,  and  one  may  speak  of  a  now-existing 
Chinese,  Japanese,  or  Indian  art,  shared  in  by  a  whole  people. 
Such  art  common  to  a  whole  nation  existed  in  Russia  till 

191 


192  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Peter  the  First's  time,  and  existed  in  the  rest  of  Europe 
until  the  thirteenth  or  fourteenth  century;  but  since  the 
upper  classes  of  European  society,  having  lost  faith  in 
the  Church  teaching,  did  not  accept  real  Christianity 
but  remained  without  any  faith,  one  can  no  longer  speak 
of  an  art  of  the  Christian  nations  in  the  sense  of  the 
whole  of  art.  Since  the  upper  classes  of  the  Christian 
nations  lost  faith  in  Church-Christianity  the  art  of  those 
upper  classes  has  separated  itself  from  the  art  of  the  rest  of 
the  people  and  there  have  been  two  arts — the  art  of  the 
people,  and  genteel  art.  And  therefore  the  answer  to  the 
question  how  it  could  happen  that  humanity  lived  for  a 
certain  period  without  real  art,  replacing  it  by  art  which 
served  enjoyment  only,  is  that  not  the  whole  of  humanity,  nor 
even  any  considerable  portion  of  it,  lived  without  real  art, 
but  only  the  highest  classes  of  European  Christian  society, 
and  even  they  only  for  a  comparatively  short  time — from  the 
commencement  of  the  Renaissance  down  to  our  own  day. 

The  consequence  of  this  absence  of  true  art  showed  itself 
inevitably  in  the  corruption  of  that  class  which  nourished 
itself  on  the  false  art.  All  the  confused  unintelligible 
theories  of  art,  all  the  false  and  contradictory  judgments  on 
art,  and  particularly  the  self-confident  stagnation  of  our  art 
in  its  false  channels — all  arise,  from  the  assertion,  which  has 
come  into  common  use  and  is  accepted  as  an  unquestioned 
truth  but  is  yet  amazingly  and  palpably  false,  the  assertion 
namely  that  the  art  of  our  upper  classes  *  is  the  whole  of 
art:  the  true,  the  only,  the  universal  art.  And  although 
this  assertion  (which  is  precisely  similar  to  the  assertion  made 
by  religious  people  of  the  various  Churches,  who  consider 
that  theirs  is  the  only  true  religion)  is  quite  arbitrary  and 

1  The  contrast  made  is  between  the  classes  and  the  masses :  between  those  who 
do  not  and  those  who  do  earn  their  bread  by  productive  manual  labour ;  the  middle 
classes  being  taken  as  an  offshoot  of  the  upper  classes. — A.  M. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  193 

obviously  unjust,  yet  it  is  calmly  repeated  by  all  the  people 
of  our  circle  with  full  faith  in  its  infallibility. 

The  art  we  have  is  the  whole  of  art,  the  real,  the  only 
art,  and  yet  two-thirds  of  the  human  race  (all  the  peoples 
of  Asia  and  Africa)  live  and  die  knowing  nothing  of  this 
sole  and  supreme  art.  And  even  in  our  Christian  society 
hardly  one  per  cent,  of  the  people  make  use  of  this  art  which 
we  speak  of  as  being  the  whole  of  art;  the  remaining  ninety- 
nine  per  cent,  live  and  die,  generation  after  generation, 
crushed  by  toil  and  never  tasting  this  art,  which  moreover 
is  of  such  a  nature  that  if  they  could  get  it  they  would  not 
understand  anything  of  it.  We,  according  to  the  current 
esthetic  theory,  acknowledge  art  either  as  one  of  the  highest 
manifestations  of  the  Idea,  God,  Beauty,  or  as  the  highest 
spiritual  enjoyment;  furthermore  we  hold  that  all  people 
have  equal  rights,  if  not  to  material  at  any  rate  to  spiritual 
well-being;  and  yet  ninety-nine  per  cent,  of  our  European 
population  live  and  die,  generation  after  generation,  crushed 
by  toil,  much  of  which  toil  is  necessary  for  the  production  of 
our  art  which  they  never  use,  and  we  in  face  of  this,  calmly 
assert  that  the  art  which  we  produce  is  the  real,  true,  only 
art — all  of  art ! 

To  the  remark  that  if  our  art  is  the  true  art  everyone 
should  have  the  benfit  of  it,  the  usual  reply  is  that  if  every- 
body at  present  does  not  make  use  of  existing  art,  the  fault 
lies  not  in  the  art  but  in  the  false  organisation  of  society; 
that  one  can  imagine  to  oneself  in  the  future  a  state  of  things 
in  which  physical  labour  will  be  partly  superseded  by 
machinery,  partly  lightened  by  its  just  distribution,  and  that 
labour  for  the  production  of  art  will  be  taken  in  turns:  that 
there  is  no  need  for  some  people  always  to  sit  below  the 
stage  moving  the  decorations,  winding  up  the  machinery, 
working  at  the  piano  or  French  horn,  and  setting  type  and 
printing  books,  but  that  the  people  who  do  all  this  work 


A 


194  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

might  be  engaged  only  a  few  hours  per  day  and  in  their 
leisure  time  might  enjoy  all  the  blessings  of  art. 

That  is  what  the  defenders  of  our  exclusive  art  say.  But 
I  think  they  do  not  themselves  believe  it.  They  cannot  help 
knowing  that  fine  art  can  arise  only  on  the  slavery  of  the 
masses  of  the  people,  and  can  continue  only  as  long  as  that 
slavery  lasts,  and  they  cannot  help  knowing  that  only  under 
conditions  of  intense  hardship  for  the  workers  can  specialists 
— writers,  musicians,  dancers,  and  actors — arrive  at  that  fine 
degree  of  perfection  to  which  they  do  attain,  or  produce  their 
refined  works  of  art,  and  that  only  under  the  same  conditions 
can  there  be  a  fine  public  to  appreciate  such  productions. 
Free  the  slaves  of  capital,  and  it  will  be  impossible  to  pro- 
duce such  refined  art. 

But  even  were  we  to  admit  the  inadmissible,  and  say  that 
means  may  be  found  by  which  art  (that  art  which  is  con- 
sidered to  be  art  among  us)  may  be  made  accessible  to  the 
whole  people,  another  consideration  presents  itself  showing 
that  fashionable  art  cannot  be  the  whole  of  art,  namely  the 
fact  that  it  is  completely  unintelligible  to  the  people.  For- 
merly men  wrote  poems  in  Latin,  but  now  their  artistic  pro- 
ductions are  as  unintelligible  to  the  common  folk  as  if  they 
were  written  in  Sanskrit.  The  usual  reply  to  this  is,  that  if 
the  people  do  not  now  understand  this  art  of  ours  it  only 
proves  that  they  are  undeveloped,  and  that  this  has  been  so  at 
each  fresh  step  forward  made  by  art.  It  has  never  been  un- 
derstood at  first,  but  afterwards  people  have  become 
accustomed  to  it. 

It  will  be  the  same  with  our  present  art;  it  will  be  under- 
stood when  everybody  is  as  well  educated  as  are  we — the 
people  of  the  upper  classes — who  produce  it,  say  the  defenders 
of  our  art.  But  this  assertion  is  evidently  even  more  untrue 
than  the  former,  for  we  know  that  the  majority  of  the  pro- 
ductions of  the  art  of  the  upper  classes,  such  as  various  odes, 


WHAT  IS  ART?  195 

poems,  dramas,  cantatas,  pastorals,  pictures,  and  so  forth, 
which  delighted  people  of  the  upper  classes  when  they  were 
produced,  never  were  afterwards  either  understood  or  valued 
by  the  great  masses  of  mankind,  but  have  remained,  what 
they  were  at  first,  a  mere  pastime  for  the  rich  people  of  their 
time,  for  whom  alone  they  ever  were  of  any  importance.  It 
is  also  often  urged  in  proof  of  the  assertion  that  the  people 
will  some  day  understand  our  art,  that  some  productions  of 
so-called  classical  poetry,  music,  or  painting  which  formerly 
did  not  please  the  masses,  do — now  that  they  have  been  offered 
to  them  from  all  sides — begin  to  please  these  same  masses; 
but  this  only  shows  that  the  crowd,  especially  the  half-spoilt 
town  crowd,  can  easily  (its  taste  having  been  perverted)  be 
accustomed  to  any  sort  of  art.  Moreover  this  art  is  not 
produced  by  these  masses,  nor  even  chosen  by  them,  but 
is  energetically  thrust  upon  them  in  those  public  places  in 
which  art  is  accessible  to  the  people.  For  the  great  majority 
of  working  people  our  art,  besides  being  inaccessible  on 
account  of  its  costliness,  is  strange  in  its  very  nature, 
transmitting  as  it  does  the  feelings  of  people  far  removed 
from  those  conditions  of  laborious  life  which  are  natural  to 
the  great  body  of  humanity.  That  which  is  enjoyment  to 
a  man  of  the  rich  classes  is  incomprehensible,  as  a  pleasure, 
to  a  working  man,  and  evokes  in  him  either  no  feeling  at 
all  or  a  feeling  quite  contrary  to  that  which  it  evokes  in  an 
idle  and  satiated  man.  Such  feelings  as  form  the  chief 
subjects  of  present-day  art — say,  for  instance,  honour,1 
patriotism,  and  amorousness — evoke  in  a  working  man  only 
bewilderment  and  contempt,  or  indignation.  So  that  even 
if  a  possibility  were  given  to  the  labouring  classes  to  see,  to 
read,  and  to  hear,  in  their  leisure  time,  all  that  forms  the 
flower  of  contemporary  art  (as  is  done  to  some  extent  in 

1  Duelling  was  still  customary  among  the  higher  circles  in  Russia,  as  in  other 
Continental  countries  when  this  was  written. — A.  M. 


196  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

towns,  by  means  of  picture-galleries,  popular  concerts,  and 
libraries),  the  working  man  (to  the  extent  to  which  he  is  a 
labourer  and  has  not  begun  to  pass  into  the  ranks  of  those 
perverted  by  idleness)  would  be  able  to  make  nothing  of  our 
fine  art,  and  if  he  did  understand  it,  what  he  understood 
would  not  elevate  his  soul,  but  would  certainly  in  most  cases 
pervert  it.  To  thoughtful  and  sincere  people  there  can 
therefore  be  no  doubt  that  the  art  of  our  upper  classes  never 
can  be  the  art  of  the  whole  people.  But  if  art  is  an  im- 
portant matter,  a  spiritual  blessing  essential  for  all  men 
(like  religion,  as  the  devotees  of  art  are  found  of  saying), 
then  it  should  be  accessible  to  everyone.  And  if,  as  in  our 
day,  it  is  not  accessible  to  all  men,  then  one  of  two  things: 
either  art  is  not  the  vital  matter  it  is  represented  to  be,  or 
that  art  which  we  call  art  is  not  the  real  thing. 

The  dilemma  is  inevitable,  and  therefore  clever  and  im- 
moral people  avoid  it  by  denying  one  side  of  it,  namely, 
denying  that  the  common  people  have  a  right  to  art.  These 
people  simply  and  boldly  speak  out  and  say  (what  goes  to 
the  heart  of  the  matter)  that  the  participators  in  and  utilisers 
of  what  in  their  esteem  is  highly  beautiful  art,  that  is,  art 
furnishing  the  greatest  enjoyment,  can  only  be  schbne  Geister, 
the  elect,  as  the  romanticists  called  them,  the  U ebermenschen, 
as  they  are  called  by  the  followers  of  Nietzsche;  the  vulgar 
herd  which  remains,  incapable  of  experiencing  these  pleas- 
ures, must  serve  the  exalted  pleasures  of  this  superior  breed 
of  people.  The  people  who  express  these  views  at  least  do 
not  pretend,  and  do  not  try  to  combine  the  incombinable,  but 
frankly  admit  what  is  the  case,  that  our  art  is  an  art  of  the 
upper  classes  only.  So  in  reality  art  has  been,  and  is,  under- 
stood by  everyone  engaged  on  it  in  our  society. 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  perversion  of  our  art.  It  has  lost  its  natural  subject-matter,  Has  no 
flow  of  fresh  feeling.     Transmits  chiefly  three  base  emotions. 

The  unbelief  of  the  upper  classes  of  the  European  world 
had  this  effect,  that  instead  of  an  artistic  activity  aiming  at 
transmitting  the  highest  feelings  to  which  humanity  has  at- 
tained,— those  flowing  from  religious  perception, — we  have 
an  activity  which  aims  at  affording  the  greatest  enjoyment 
to  a  certain  class  of  society.  And  of  all  the  immense  domain 
of  art  that  part  has  been  fenced  off,  and  is  alone  called  art, 
which  affords  enjoyment  to  the  people  of  this  particular 
circle. 

Apart  from  the  moral  effects  on  European  society  of  such 
a  selection,  out  of  the  whole  sphere  of  art,  of  what  did  not  de- 
serve such  a  valuation,  and  the  acknowledgment  of  it  as 
important,  this  perversion  of  art  has  weakened  art  itself 
and  well-nigh  destroyed  it.  The  first  great  result  was  that 
art  was  deprived  of  the  infinite,  varied,  and  profound  re-  i 
ligious  subject-matter  proper  to  it.  The  second  result  was 
that,  having  only  a  small  circle  of  people  in  view,  it  lost  its 
beauty  of  form  and  became  affected  and  obscure;  and  the  * 
third  and  chief  result  was  that  it  ceased  to  be  natural  or  even 
sincere,  and  became  thoroughly  artificial  and  brain-spun. 

The  first  result — the  impoverishment  of  subject-matter — 
followed  because  only  that  is  a  true  work  of  art  which  trans- 
mits fresh  feelings  not  before  experienced  by  man.  As 
thought-product  is  only  then  real  thought-product  when  it 
transmits  new  conceptions  and  thoughts  and  does  not  merely 

repeat  what  was  known  before,  so  also  an  art-product  is  only 

197 


198  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

then  a  genuine  art-product  when  it  brings  a  new  feeling 
(however  insignificant)  into  the  current  of  human  life.  This 
explains  why  children  and  youths  are  so  strongly  impressed 
by  those  works  of  art  which  first  transmit  to  them  feelings 
they  had  not  before  experienced. 

The  same  powerful  impression  is  made  on  people  by  feel- 
ings which  are  quite  new  and  have  never  before  been 
expressed  by  man.  And  it  is  the  source  from  which  such 
feelings  flow  that  the  art  of  the  upper  classes  has  deprived 
itself  of  by  estimating  feelings,  not  in  conformity  with  re- 
ligious perception  but  according  to  the  degree  of  enjoyment 
they  afford.  There  is  nothing  older  and  more  hackneyed 
than  enjoyment,  and  there  is  nothing  fresher  than  the  feel- 
ings springing  from  the  religious  consciousness  of  each  age. 
It  could  not  be  otherwise:  man's  enjoyment  has  limits  estab- 
lished by  his  nature,  but  the  movement  forward  of  humanity, 
which  expresses  itself  in  religious  consciousness,  has  no  limits. 
At  every  forward  step  taken  by  humanity — and  such  steps 
are  taken  in  consequence  of  the  greater  and  greater  elucida- 
tion of  religious  perception — men  experience  new  and  fresh 
feelings.  And  therefore  only  on  the  basis  of  religious  percep- 
tion (which  shows  the  highest  level  of  life-comprehension 
reached  by  the  men  of  a  certain  period)  can  fresh  emotion, 
never  before  felt  by  man,  arise.  From  the  religious  percep- 
tion of  the  ancient  Greeks  flowed  the  really  new,  important, 
and  endlessly  varied  feelings  expressed  by  Homer  and  the 
tragic  writers.  It  was  the  same  among  the  Jews,  who  at- 
tained the  religious  conception  of  a  single  God, — from  that 
perception  flowed  all  those  new  and  important  emotions  ex- 
pressed by  the  prophets.  It  was  the  same  for  the  poets  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  who,  if  they  believed  in  a  heavenly  hierarchy, 
believed  also  in  the  Catholic  commune;  and  it  is  the  same 
for  a  man  of  to-day  who  has  grasped  the  religious  conception 
of  true  Christianity — the  brotherhood  of  man. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  199 

The  variety  of  fresh  feelings  flowing  from  religious  per- 
ception is  endless,  and  they  are  all  new,  for  religious  per- 
ception is  nothing  else  than  the  first  indication  of  that  which 
is  coming  into  existence,  namely,  a  new  relation  of  man  to  < 
the  world  around  him.  But  the  feelings  flowing  from  the 
desire  for  enjoyment  are  on  the  contrary  not  only  limited, 
but  were  long  ago  experienced  and  expressed.  And  therefore 
the  lack  of  belief  of  the  upper  classes  of  Europe  has  left  them 
with  an  art  fed  on  the  poorest  subject-matter. 

The  impoverishment  of  the  subject-matter  of  upper-class 
art  was  further  increased  by  the  fact  that,  ceasing  to  be 
religious,  it  ceased  also  to  be  popular,  and  this  again  dimin- 
ished the  range  of  feelings  which  it  transmitted.  For  the 
range  of  feelings  experienced  by  the  powerful  and  the  rich, 
who  have  no  experience  of  labour  for  the  support  of  life, 
is  far  poorer,  more  limited,  and  more  insignificant,  than  the 
range  of  feelings  natural  to  working  people. 

People  of  our  circle,  estheticians,  usually  think  and  say 
just  the  contrary  of  this.  I  remember  how  Goncharev  the 
author,  a  very  clever  and  educated  man  but  a  thorough  towns- 
man and  an  esthetician,  said  to  me  that  after  Turgenev's 
Sportsman's  Notebook  there  was  nothing  left  to  write  about 
in  peasant  life.  It  was  all  used  up.  The  life  of  working 
people  seemed  to  him  so  simple  that  Turgenev's  peasant 
stories  had  used  up  all  there  was  to  describe.  The  life  of 
our  wealthy  people,  with  their  love  affairs  and  dissatisfac- 
tion with  themselves,  seemed  to  him  full  of  inexhaustible 
subject-matter.  One  hero  kissed  his  lady  on  the  palm  of 
her  hand,  another  on  her  elbow,  and  a  third  somewhere  else. 
One  man  is  discontented  through  idleness,  and  another  because 
people  don't  love  him.  And  Goncharev  thought  that  in  this 
sphere  there  is  no  end  of  variety.  And  this  opinion — that 
the  life  of  working  people  is  poor  in  subject-matter,  but  that 
our  life,  the  life  of  the  idle,  is  full  of  interest — is  shared  by 


200  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

very  many  people  in  our  society.  The  life  of  a  labouring 
man,  with  its  endlessly  varied  forms  of  labour  and  the  dan- 
gers connected  with  labour  on  sea  and  underground;  his  mi- 
grations, his  intercourse  with  his  employers,  overseers,  and 
companions,  and  with  men  of  other  religions  and  other  na- 
tionalities: his  struggles  with  nature  and  with  wild  beasts, 
his  association  with  domestic  animals,  his  work  in  the  forest, 
on  the  steppe,  in  the  field,  the  garden,  the  orchard:  his  inter- 
course with  wife  and  children,  not  only  as  with  people  near 
and  dear  to  him  but  as  with  co-workers  and  helpers  in  labour, 
replacing  him  in  time  of  need:  his  concern  in  all  economic 
questions,  not  as  matters  of  display  or  discussion  but  as  prob- 
lems of  life  for  himself  and  his  family:  his  pride  in  self- 
suppression  and  service  of  others,  his  pleasures  of  refresh- 
ment; and  the  permeation  of  all  these  interests  by  a  religious 
re-action  towards  the  facts :  all  this  to  us,  who  have  not  these 
interests  and  possess  no  religious  perception,  seems  monot- 
onous in  comparison  with  those  small  enjoyments  and 
insignificant  cares  of  our  life, — a  life,  not  of  labour  nor  of 
production,  but  of  consumption  and  destruction  of  that  which 
others  have  produced  for  us.  We  think  the  feelings  exper- 
ienced by  people  of  our  day  and  our  class  are  very  important 
and  varied ;  but  in  reality  almost  all  the  feelings  of  people  of 
our  class  amount  to  but  three  very  insignificant  and  simple 
>  feelings — the  feeling  of  pride,  the  feeling  of  sexual  desire, 
and  the  feeling  of  weariness  of  life.  These  three  feelings, 
with  their  off-shoots,  form  almost  the  only  subject-matter  of 
the  art  of  the  rich  classes. 

At  first,  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  separation  of  the 
exclusive  art  of  the  upper  classes  from  universal  art,  its  chief 
subject-matter  was  the  feeling  of  pride.  It  was  so  at  the  time 
of  the  Renaissance  and  after  it,  when  the  chief  subject  of 
works  of  art  was  the  laudation  of  the  strong — popes,  kings, 
and  dukes.     Odes  and  madrigals  were  written  in  their  honour, 


WHAT  IS  ART?  201 

they  were  extolled  in  cantatas  and  hymns,  and  their  por- 
traits were  painted,  and  their  statues  carved,  in  various 
adulatory  ways. 

Next,  the  element  of  sexual  desire  began  more  and  more 
to  enter  into  art,  and  (with  very  few  exceptions,  and  in  novels 
and  dramas  almost  without  exception)  it  has  now  become 
an  essential  feature  of  every  art  product  of  the  wealthy 
classes. 

The  third  feeling  transmitted  by  the  art  of  the  rich — that 
of  discontent  with  life — appeared  yet  later  in  modern  art. 
This  feeling,  which  at  the  commencement  of  the  present  cen- 
tury was  expressed  only  by  exceptional  men:  by  Byron,  by 
Leopardi,  and  afterwards  by  Heine,  has  latterly  become  fash- 
ionable and  is  expressed  by  most  ordinary  and  empty  people. 
Most  justly  does  the  French  critic  Doumic  characterise  the 
works  of  the  new  writers:  .  .  .  c'est  la  lassitude  de  vivre 
le  mepris  de  Vepoque  presente,  le  regret  d'un  autre  temps 
apergu  a  tr avers  V illusion  de  Vart,  le  gout  du  paradoxe,  le 
besoin  de  se  singulariser,  une  aspiration  de  raffines  vers  la 
simplicite,  V adoration  enfantine  du  merveilleux,  la  seduction 
maladive  de  la  reverie,  Vebranlement  des  nerfs, — surtout  Vap- 
pel  exaspere  de  la  sensualite  (Les  Jeunes,  Rene  Doumic).1 
And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  of  these  three  feelings  it  is  sensuality, 
the  lowest  (accessible  not  only  to  all  men  but  even  to  all 
animals),  which  forms  the  chief  subject-matter  of  works  of 
art  of  recent  times. 

From  Boccaccio  to  Marcel  Prevost,  all  novels,  poems,  and 
verses  invariably  transmit  the  feeling  of  sexual  love  in  its 
different  forms.  Adultery  is  not  only  the  favourite,  but 
almost  the  only  theme  of  all  the  novels.     A  performance  is 

1  ...  it  is  weariness  of  life,  contempt  for  the  present  epoch,  regret  for 
another  age  seen  through  the  illusion  of  art,  a  taste  for  paradox,  a  desire  to  be 
singular,  a  sentimental  aspiration  towards  simplicity,  an  infantile  adoration  of  the 
marvellous,  a  sickly  tendency  towards  reverie,  a  shattered  condition  of  nerves, 
— and,  above  all,  the  exasperated  demand  of  sensuality. 


202  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

not  a  performance  unless,  under  some  pretext,  women  appear 
with  naked  busts  and  limbs.  Songs  and  romances — all  are 
expressions  of  lust  idealised  in  various  degrees. 

A  majority  of  the  pictures  by  French  artists  represent 
female  nakedness  in  various  forms.  In  recent  French  litera- 
ture there  is  hardly  a  page  or  a  poem  in  which  nakedness  is 
not  described,  and  in  which,  relevantly  or  irrelevantly,  their 
favourite  thought  and  word  nu  is  not  repeated  a  couple  of 
times.  There  is  a  certain  writer,  Remy  de  Gourment,  who 
gets  printed  and  is  considered  talented.  To  obtain  an  idea  of 
the  new  writers,  I  read  his  novel,  Les  Chevaux  de  Diomede. 
It  is  a  consecutive  and  detailed  account  of  the  sexual  con- 
nections some  gentleman  had  with  various  women.  Every 
page  contains  lust-kindling  descriptions.  It  is  the  same  in 
Pierre  Louys'  book,  Aphrodite,  which  met  with  success;  it  is 
the  same  in  a  book  I  lately  chanced  upon,  Huysmans'  Certains, 
and  with  but  few  exceptions  it  is  the  same  in  all  French 
novels.  They  are  all  the  productions  of  people  suffering  from 
erotic  mania.  And  these  people  are  evidently  convinced  that 
as  their  whole  life,  in  consequence  of  their  diseased  condition, 
is  concentrated  on  amplifying  various  sexual  abominations, 
therefore  the  life  of  all  the  world  is  similarly  concentrated. 
And  these  people,  suffering  from  erotic  mania,  are  imitated 
throughout  the  whole  artistic  world  of  Europe  and  America. 

Thus,  in  consequence  of  the  lack  of  belief  and  the  ex- 
ceptional manner  of  life  of  the  wealthy  classes,  the  art  of 
these  classes  became  impoverished  in  its  subject-matter  and 
has  sunk  to  the  transmission  of  the  feelings  of  pride,  dis- 
content with  life,  and  above  all  of  sexual  desire. 


CHAPTER  X 

Loss  of  comprehensibility .  Decadent  art.  Recent  French  art.  Have  we  a 
right  to  say  it  is  bad?  The  highest  art  has  always  been  comprehensible  to 
normal  people.     What  jails  to  infect  normal  people  is  not  art. 

In  consequence  of  their  unbelief,  the  art  of  the  upper  classes 
became  poor  in  subject-matter.  But  besides  that,  becoming 
continually  more  and  more  exclusive  it  became  at  the  same 
time  continually  more  and  more  involved  affected  and 
obscure. 

When  a  universal  artist  (such  as  were  some  of  the  Greek 
artists  or  the  Jewish  prophets)  composed  his  work  he  naturally 
strove  to  say  what  he  had  to  say  in  such  a  way  that  his 
production  should  be  intelligible  to  all  men.  But  when  an 
artist  composed  for  a  small  circle  of  people  placed  in  excep- 
tional conditions,  or  even  for  a  single  individual  and  his 
courtiers — for  popes,  cardinals,  kings,  dukes,  queens,  or  for  a 
king's  mistress — he  naturally  only  aimed  at  influencing  these 
people,  who  were  well  known  to  him  and  lived  in  excep- 
tional conditions  familiar  to  him.  And  this  was  an  easier 
task,  and  the  artist  was  involuntarily  drawn  to  express  him- 
self by  allusions  comprehensible  only  to  the  initiated  and 
obscure  to  everyone  else.  In  the  first  place,  more  could 
be  said  in  this  way;  and  secondly,  there  is  (for  the  initiated) 
even  a  certain  charm  in  the  cloudiness  of  such  a  manner  of 
expression.  This  method,  which  showed  itself  both  in  eu- 
phuism and  in  mythological  and  historical  allusions,  came 
more  and  more  into  use,  until  it  apparently  at  last  reached 
its  utmost  limits  in  the  so-called  art  of  the  Decadents.  It 
has  come,  finally,  to  this:  that  not  only  are  haziness,  myste- 
riousness,    obscurity,    and   exclusiveness    (shutting   out   the 

203 


204  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

masses)  elevated  to  the  rank  of  a  merit  and  a  condition  of 
poetic  art,  but  even  incorrectness,  indefiniteness,  and  lack  of 
eloquence,  are  held  in  esteem. 

Theophile  Gautier,  in  his  preface  to  the  celebrated  Fleurs 
du  Mai,  says  that  Baudelaire  as  far  as  possible  banished 
from  poetry  eloquence,  passion,  and  truth  too  strictly 
copied  ("l' eloquence,  la  passion,  et  la  verite  calquee  trop 
exactement") . 

And  Baudelaire  not  only  did  this,  but  maintained  this 
thesis  in  his  verses,  and  yet  more  strikingly  in  the  prose 
of  his  Petits  Poemes  en  Prose,  the  meanings  of  which  have 
to  be  guessed  like  a  rebus  and  remain  for  the  most  part 
undiscovered. 

The  poet  Verlaine  (who  followed  next  after  Baudelaire, 
and  was  also  esteemed  great)  even  wrote  an  Art  poetique, 
in  which  he  advises  this  style  of  composition: — 

De  la  musique  avant  toute  chose, 
Et  pour  cela  prefere  V Impair 
Plus  vague  et  plus  soluble  dans  Vair, 
Sans  rien  en  lui  qui  pese  ou  qui  pose. 


>    II  faut  aussi  que  tu  n'ailles  point 

Choisir  tes  mots  sans  quelque  meprise: 
Rien  de  plus  cher  que  la  chanson  grise 
Ou  VIndecis  au  Precis  se  joint. 


And  again:- 


De  la  musique  encore  et  toujours! 
Que  ton  vers  soit  la  chose  envolee 
Qu'on  sent  qui  fuit  d'une  dme  en  allee 
Vers  d'autres  cieux  a  d'autres  amours. 

Que  ton  vers  soit  la  bonne  aventure 
sparse  au  vent  crispe  du  matin, 


WHAT  IS  ART?  205 

Qui  va  fleurant  la  menthe  et  le  thym  .  .  . 
Et  tout  le  reste  est  litter ature.1 

After  these  two  comes  Mallarme,  considered  the  most  im- 
portant of  the  young  poets,  and  he  plainly  says  that  the 
charm  of  poetry  lies  in  our  having  to  guess  its  meaning — 
that  in  poetry  there  should  always  be  a  puzzle: — 

Je  pense  qu'il  faut  qu'il  n'y  ait  qu 'allusion,  says  he. 
La  contemplation  des  objets,  Vintage  s'envolant  des  reveries 
suscitees  par  eux,  sont  le  chant:  les  Parnassiens,  eux, 
prennent  la  chose  entierement  et  la  montrent;  par  la  Us 
manquent  de  mystere;  Us  retirent  aux  esprits  cette  joie 
delicieuse  de  croire  qu'ils  creent.  Nommer  un  objet,  c'est 
supprimer  les  trois  quarts  de  la  jouissance  du  poeme,  qui 
est  faite  du  bonheur  de  deviner  peu  a  peu:  le  suggerer, 
voila  le  reve.  C'est  le  parfait  usage  de  ce  mystere  qui 
constitue  le  symbole:  evoquer  petit  a  petit  un  objet  pour 
montrer  un  etat  d'dme,  ou,  inversement,  choisir  un  objet  et 

1  Music,  music  before  all  things ! 
The    eccentric    still    prefer, 
Vague  in  air,  and  nothing  weighty, 
Soluble.     Yet  do  not  err, 

Choosing  words;  still  do  it  lightly, 
Do  it  with  contemptuous  mind: 
Dearest  are  grey  songs  where  mingle 
The  Defined  and  Undefined! 


Music  always,  now  and  ever! 
Be  thy  verse  the  thing  that  flies 
From  a  soul  that's  gone,  escaping, 
Gone  to  other  loves  and  skies. 

Gone  to  other  loves  and  regions, 
Following  fortunes  that  allure, 
Mint    and    thyme    and   morning   crispness 
All  the  rest's  mere  literature. 


206  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

en  degager  un  Stat  d'dme,  par  une  shrie  de  dechiffrements. 

.  .  .  Si  un  etre  d'une  intelligence  moyenne,  et  d'une 
preparation  litteraire  insuffisante,  ouvre  par  hasard  un  livre 
ainsi  fait  et  pretend  en  jouir,  il  y  a  malentendu,  il  faut 
remettre  les  choses  a  leur  place.  II  doit  y  avoir  toujours 
enigme  en  poesie,  et  c'est  le  but  de  la  litterature,  il  riy  en 
a  pas  d 'autre, — d'evoquer  les  objets. — Enquete  sur  revolu- 
tion litteraire,  Jules  Huret,  pp.  60,  61.1 

Thus  is  obscurity  elevated  into  a  dogma  among  the  new 
poets.  As  the  French  critic  Doumic  (who  has  not  yet  ac- 
cepted the  dogma)  quite  correctly  says: — 

II  serait  temps  aussi  oVen  finir  avec  cette  fameuse  "theorie 
de  I'obscurite"  que  la  nouvelle  Scale  a  SlevSe,  en  effet  a  la 
hauteur  d'un  dogme. — Les  Jeunes,  etudes  et  portraits, 
Rene  Doumic.2 

But  it  is  not  only  French  writers  who  think  thus.  The 
poets  of  all  other  countries  think  and  act  in  the  same  way: 
German,  and  Scandinavian,  and  Italian,  and  Russian,  and 
English.  So  also  do  the  artists  of  the  new  period  in  all 
branches  of  art:  in  painting,  in  sculpture,  and  in  music. 
Relying  on  Nietzsche  and  Wagner,  the  artists  of  the  new 
age  conclude  that  it  is  unnecessary  for  them  to  be  intelli- 

1 1  think  there  should  be  nothing  but  allusions.  The  contemplation  of  objects, 
the  flying  image  of  reveries  evoked  by  them,  make  the  song.  The  Parnassians  state 
the  thing  completely,  and  show  it,  and  thereby  lack  mystery;  they  deprive  the  mind 
of  that  delicious  joy  of  imagining  that  it  creates.  To  name  an  object  is  to  take 
away  three-fourths  of  the  enjoyment  of  the  poem,  which  consists  in  the  happiness 
of  guessing  little  by  little:  to  suggest  it,  that  is  the  dream.  It  is  the  perfect  use 
of  this  mystery  that  constitutes  the  symbol:  little  by  little  to  evoke  an  object  in 
order  to  show  a  state  of  the  soul;  or  inversely,  to  choose  an  object,  and  from 
it  to  disengage  a  state  of  the  soul  by  a  series  of  decipherings. 

...  If  a  being  of  mediocre  intelligence  and  insufficient  literary  preparation 
chances  to  open  a  book  made  in  this  way  and  pretends  to  enjoy  it,  there  is  a  mis- 
understanding— things  must  be  returned  to  their  places.  There  should  always  be 
an  enigma  in  poetry,  and  the  aim  of  literature — it  has  no  other — is  to  evoke 
objects. 

2  It  were  time  also  to  have  done  with  this  famous  "  theory  of  obscurity,"  which 
the  new  school  has  practically  raised  to  the  height  of  a  dogma. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  207 

gible  to  the  vulgar  crowd;  it  is  enough  for  them  to  evoke 
poetic  emotion  in  'the  finest  nurtured,'  to  borrow  a  phrase 
from  an  English  esthetician. 

In  order  that  what  I  am  saying  may  not  seem  to  be  mere 
assertion,  I  will  quote  at  least  a  few  examples  from  the 
French  poets  who  have  led  this  movement.  The  name  of 
these  poets  is  legion.  I  have  taken  French  writers  because 
they,  more  decidedly  than  any  others,  indicate  the  new  di- 
rection of  art  and  are  imitated  by  most  European  writers. 

Besides  those  whose  names  are  already  considered  famous, 
such  as  Baudelaire  and  Verlaine,  here  are  the  names  of  a 
few  of  them:  Jean  Moreas,  Charles  Morice,  Henri  de 
Regnier,  Charles  Vignier,  Adrien  Remade,  Rene  Ghil,  Maur- 
ice Maeterlinck,  G.  Albert  Aurier,  Remy  de  Gourm&it,  Saint- 
Pol-Roux-le-Magnifique,  Georges  Rodenbach,  le  comte  Robert 
de  Montesquiou-Fezensac.  These  are  Symbolists  and  De- 
cadents. Next  we  have  the  "Magi":  Josephin  Peladan, 
Paul  Adam,  Jules  Bois,  M.  Papus,  and  others. 

Besides  these  there  are  yet  one  hundred  and  forty-one 
others  whom  Doumic  mentions  in  the  book  referred  to  above. 

Here  are  some  examples  from  the  work  of  those  of  them 
who  are  considered  to  be  the  best,  beginning  with  that  most 
celebrated  man,  acknowledged  to  be  a  great  artist  worthy 
of  a  monument — Baudelaire.  This  is  a  poem  from  his  cele- 
brated Fleurs  du  mat: — 


No.  XXIV 

Je  f  adore  a  Vegal  de  la  voute  nocturne, 

O  vase  de  tristesse,  6  grande  taciturne, 

Et  faime  d'autant  plus,  belle,  que  tu  me  fuis, 

Et  que  tu  me  parais,  ornement  de  mes  nuits, 

Plus  ironiquement  accumuler  les  lieues 

Qui  separent  mes  bras  des  immensites  bleues. 


208  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Je  m'avance  a  I'attaque,  et  je  grimpe  aux  assauts, 
Comme  apres  un  cadavre  un  ch&ur  de  vermisseaux, 
Et  je  cherts,  6  bete  implacable  et  cruelle, 
Jusqu'd.  cette  froideur  par  ou  tu  m'es  plus  belle!  l 

And  this  is  another  by  the  same  writer: — 

No.  XXXVI 
DUELLUM 

Deux  guerriers  ont  couru  Vun  sur  V autre;  leurs  artnes 
Out  eclabousse  I'air  de  lueurs  et  de  sang. 
Ces  jeux,  ces  cliquetis  du  fer  sont  les  vacarmes 
D'une  jeunesse  en  proie  a  V amour  vagissant. 


Les  glaives  sont  brisesf  comme  notre  jeunesse, 
Ma  cheref    Mais  les  dents,  les  ongles  aceres, 
Vengent  bientot  Vepee  et  la  dague  traxtresse. 
O  fureur  des  cozurs  murs  par  V amour  ulceres! 


Dans  le  ravin  hante  des  chats-pards  et  des  onces 
Nos  heros,  s'etreignant  mechamment,  ont  roule, 
Et  leur  peau  fleurira  Varidite  des  ronces. 
Ce  gouffre,  c'est  V  en  fer,  de  nos  amis  peuplef 
Roulons-y  sans  remords,  amazone  inhumaine, 
A  fin  oVeterniser  Vardeur  de  notre  haine! 2 

To  be  exact,  I  should  mention  that  the  collection  contains 
verses  less  comprehensible  than  these,  but  not  one  poem  which 
is  plain  and  can  be  understood  without  a  certain  effort — 
an  effort  seldom  rewarded,  for  the  feelings  which  the  poet 
transmits  are  evil  and  very  low  ones.  And  these  feelings 
are  always,  and  purposely,  expressed  by  him  with  eccentricity 
and  lack  of  clearness.  This  premeditated  obscurity  is  espe- 
cially noticeable  in  his  prose,  where  the  author  could  speak 
clearly  if  he  wanted  to. 

1  For  translation,  see  Appendix  I. 

2  For  translation,  see  Appendix  I. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  209 

Take,  for  instance,  the  first  piece  from  his  Petits  poemes 
en  prose: — 

ViTRANGER 

Qui  aimes-tu  le  mieux,  homme  enigmatique,  dis?  ton  phe,  ta  mire, 
ta  soeur,  ou  ton  frfre? 

Je  n'ai  ni  pere,  ni  mfre,  ni  soeur,  ni  frere. 

Tes  amis? 

Vous  vous  servez  la  d'une  parole  dont  le  sens  m'est  reste  jusqu'a  ce 
jour  inconnu. 

Ta  patrie? 

J'ignore  sous  quelle  latitude  elle  est  situee. 

La  beaute? 

Je  Vaimerais  volontiers,  deesse  et  immortelle. 

L'or? 

Je  le  hais,  comme  vous  haissez  Dieu. 

Et  qu' aimes-tu  done,  extraordinaire  Stranger? 

J'aime  les  nuages  .  .  .  les  nuages  qui  passent  .  .  .  la  bas,  .  .  .  les 
merveilleux  nuages!  x 

The  piece  called  La  Soupe  et  les  nuages  is  probably 
intended  to  express  the  unintelligibility  of  the  poet  even  to 
her  whom  he  loves.     This  is  the  piece  in  question: — 

Ma  petite  folle  bien-aimee  me  donnait  a  diner,  et  par  la 
fenetre  ouverte  de  la  salle  a  manger  je  contemplais  les 
mouvantes  architectures  que  Dieu  fait  avec  les  vapeurs,  les 
merveilleuses  constructions  de  I'impalpable.  Et  je  me  disais, 
a  tr avers  ma  contemplation:  uToutes  ces  fantasmagories 
sont  presque  aussi  belles  que  les  yeux  de  ma  belle  bten-aimee, 
la  petite  folle  monstrueuse  aux  yeux  verts." 

Et  tout-a-coup  je  regus  un  violent  coup  de  poing  dans  le' 
dos,  et  j'entendis  une  voix  rauque  et  charmante,  une  voix 
hysterique  et  comme  enrouee  par  V eau-de-vie,  la  voix  de  ma 
chere  petite  bien-aimee,  qui  me  dis  ait,  "Allez-vous  bientot 

1  For  translation,  see  Appendix  I, 


210  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 


manger    votre    soupe,    s  ....  b  ....  de    marchand    de 
nuages?"  1 

However  artificial  these  two  pieces  may  be,  it  is  still  pos- 
sible with  some  effort  to  guess  at  what  the  author  meant 
them  to  express,  but  some  of  the  pieces  are  absolutely  incom- 
prehensible— at  least  to  me.  Le  Galant  Tireur  is  a  piece  I 
was  quite  unable  to  understand. 


LE  GALANT  TIREUR 

Comme  la  voiture  traversait  le  bois,  il  la  fit  arreter  dans 
le  voisinage  d'un  tir,  disant  qu'il  lui  serait  agreable  de  titer 
quelques  balles  pour  tuer  le  Temps.  Tuer  ce  monstre-la, 
riest-ce  pas  V occupation  la  plus  ordinaire  et  la  plus  legitime 
de  chacun? — Et  il  offrit  galamment  la  main  a  sa  chere, 
delicieuse  et  execrable  femme,  a  cette  mysterieuse  femme  a 
laquelle  il  doit  tant  de  plaisirs,  tant  de  douleurs,  et  peut-etre 
aussi  une  grande  partie  de  son  genie. 

Plusieurs  balles  frapperent  loin  du  but  propose;  Vune 
d'elles  s'enfonga  mime  dans  le  plafond;  et  comme  la  char- 
mante  creature  riait  follement,  se  moquant  de  la  maladresse 
de  son  epoux,  celui-ci  se  tourna  brusquement  vers  elle,  et  lui 
dit:  "Observez  cette  poupee,  la-bas,  a  droite,  qui  porte  le  nez 
en  Vair  et  qui  a  la  mine  si  hautaine.  Eh  bienl  cher  ange, 
je  me  figure  que  c'est  vous."  Et  il  ferma  les  yeux  et  il  lacha 
la  detente.     La  poupee  jut  nettement  decapitee. 

Alors  s'inclinant  vers  sa  chlre,  sa  delicieuse,  son  execrable 
femme,  son  inevitable  et  impitoyable  Muse,  et  lui  baisant 
respectueusement  la  main,  il  a j 'out a:  "Ah!  mon  cher  ange, 
combien  je  vous  remercie  de  mon  adresse!n  2 

The  productions  of  another  celebrity,  Verlaine,  are  not 

1  For  translation,  see  Appendix  I. 

2  For  translation,  see  Appendix  I. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  211 

less  affected  and  unintelligible.     This,  for  instance,  is  the 
first  poem  in  the  section  called  Ariettes  oubliees: 

"Le  vent  dans  la  plaine 
Suspend  son  haleine." — Favart. 

Cest  Vextase  langoureuse, 
C'est  la  fatigue  amoureuse, 
Cest  tous  les  frissons  des  bois 
Parmi  Vetreinte  des  brises, 
.  C'est,  vers  les  ramures  grises, 
Le  choeur  des  petit es  voix. 

O  le  frele  et  frais  murmuref 
Cela  gazouille  et  susurre, 
Cela  ressemble  au  cri  doux 
Que  Vherbe  agitee  expire  .  .  . 
Tu  dirais,  sous  Veau  qui  vire, 
Le  roulis  sourd  des  cailloux. 

Cette  ame  qui  se  lamente 
En  cette  plainte  dormante, 
C'est  la  notre,  n'est-ce  pas? 
La  mienne,  dis,  et  la  tienne, 
Dont  s 'exhale  V humble   antienne 
Par  ce  tiede  soir,  tout  bas?  x 

What  "choeur  des  petites  voix,"  and  what  "cri  doux  que 
Vherbe  agitee  expire"  and  what  it  all  means,  remains  al- 
together unintelligible  to  me. 

And  here  is  another  Ariette: — 


VIII. 

Dans  V interminable 
Ennui  de  la  plaine, 
La  neige  incertaine 
Luit  comme  du  sable. 

1  For  translation,  see  Appendix  I. 


212  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Le  ciel  est  de  cuivre, 
Sans  lueur  aucune. 
On  croirait  voir  vivre 
Et  mourir  la  lune. 

Comme  des  nuees 
Flottent  gris  les  chenes 
Des  forets  prochaines 
Parmi  les  buees. 

Le  ciel  est  de  cuivre, 
Sans  lueur  aucune. 
On  croirait  voir  vivre 
Et  mourir  la  lune. 

Corneille  poussive 
Et  vous,  les  loups  maigres, 
Par  ces  bises  aigres, 
Quoi  done  vous  arrive? 

Dans  V interminable 
Ennui  de  la  plaine, 
La  neige  incertaine 
Luit  comme  du  sable} 

How  does  the  moon  seem  to  live  and  die  in  a  copper  heaven? 
And  how  can  snow  shine  like  sand?  The  whole  thing  is 
not  merely  unintelligible,  but  under  pretence  of  conveying 
an  impression  it  passes  off  a  string  of  incorrect  comparisons 
and  words. 

Besides  these  artificial  and  obscure  poems  there  are  others 
which  are  intelligible,  but  make  up  for  it  by  being  altogether 
bad  both  in  form  and  in  content.  Such  are  all  the  poems 
under  the  heading  La  Sagesse.  The  chief  place  in  these 
verses  is  occupied  by  a  very  poor  expression  of  the  most 
commonplace  Roman  Catholic  and  patriotic  sentiments.  For 
instance,  one  meets  with  verses  such  as  this: — 

1  For  translation,  see   Appendix  I. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  213 

Je  ne  veux  plus  penser  qu'  a  ma  mere  Marie, 

Sihge  de  la  sagesse  et  source  de  pardons, 

Mere  de  France  aussi  DE  QUI  NOUS  ATTENDONS 

INEBRANLABLEMENT  V HON N EUR  DE  LA  PATRIE.1 

Before  citing  examples  from  other  poets,  I  must  pause  to 
note  the  amazing  celebrity  of  these  two  versifiers,  Baudelaire 
and  Verlaine,  who  are  now  accepted  as  being  great  poets. 
How  the  French,  who  had  Chenier,  Musset,  Lamartine,  and 
above  all  Hugo, — and  among  whom  quite  recently  flourished  > 
the  so-called  Parnassians:  Leconte  de  Lisle,  Sully-Prud- 
homme,  etc. — could  attribute  such  importance  to  these  two 
versifiers  who  were  far  from  skilful  in  form  and  most  con-^ 
temptible  and  commonplace  in  subject-matter,  is  to  me  incom- 
prehensible. The  life-conception  of  one  of  them,  Baudelaire, 
consisted  in  elevating  gross  egotism  into  a  theory  and  re- 
placing morality  by  a  cloudy  conception  of  beauty — espe- 
cially artificial  beauty.  Baudelaire  had  a  preference,  which 
he  expressed,  for  a  woman's  face  painted  rather  than  in  its 
natural  colour,  and  for  metal  trees  and  a  theatrical  imitation 
of  water  rather  than  real  trees  and  real  water. 

The  life-conception  of  the  other,  Verlaine,  consisted  in 
weak  profligacy,  in  confession  of  moral  impotence,  and,  as 
an  antidote  to  that  impotence,  in  the  grossest  Roman  Catholic 
idolatry.  Both  moreover  were  quite  lacking  in  naivete,  sin- 
cerity, and  simplicity,  and  both  overflowed  with  artificiality, 
forced  originality,  and  self-assurance.  So  that  in  their  least 
bad  productions  one  sees  more  of  M.  Baudelaire  or  M.  Ver- 
laine than  of  what  they  were  describing.  But  these  two 
indifferent  versifiers  form  a  school,  and  lead  hundreds  of 
followers  after  them. 

1 1  do  not  wish  to  think  any  more,  except  about  my  mother  Mary, 
Seat  of  wisdom  and  source  of  pardon, 
Also  Mother  of  France,  from  whom  we 
Steadfastly  expect  the  honour  of  our  country. 


214  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

There  is  only  one  explanation  of  this  fact:  it  is  that  the 
art  of  the  society  in  which  these  versifiers  lived  is  not  a 
serious,  important  matter  of  life,  but  a  mere  amusement. 
And  all  amusements  grow  wearisome  by  repetition.  And 
in  order  to  make  wearisome  amusement  again  tolerable  it 
is  necessary  to  find  some  means  to  freshen  it  up.  When, 
at  cards,  ombre  grows  stale,  whist  is  introduced;  when  whist 
grows  stale,  ecarte  is  substituted;  when  ecarte  grows  stale, 
some  other  novelty  is  invented,  and  so  on.  The  substance 
of  the  matter  remains  the  same,  only  its  form  is  changed. 
It  is  the  same  with  this  kind  of  art.  The  subject-matter  of 
the  art  of  the  upper  classes  growing  continually  more  and 
more  limited — it  has  come  at  last  to  this,  that  to  the  artists  of 
these  exclusive  classes  it  seems  as  if  everything  has  already 
been  said  and  that  to  find  anything  new  to  say  is  impossible. 
And  therefore  to  freshen  up  this  art  they  look  out  for  fresh 
forms. 

Baudelaire  and  Verlaine  invent  such  a  new  form,  furbish 
it  up  moreover  with  hitherto  unused  pornographic  details, 
and — the  critics  and  the  public  of  the  upper  classes  hail 
them  as  great  writers. 

This  is  the  only  explanation  of  the  success  not  of  Baude- 
laire and  Verlaine  only,  but  of  all  the  Decadents. 

For  instance,  there  are  poems  by  Mallarme  and  Maeterlinck 
which  have  no  meaning,  and  yet,  for  all  that  or  perhaps  on 
that  very  account,  are  printed  by  tens  of  thousands,  not 
only  in  various  publications  but  even  in  collections  of  the 
best  works  of  the  younger  poets. 

This,  for  example,  is  a  sonnet  by  Mallarme: — 

A  la  nue  accablante  tu 
Basse  de  basalte  et  de  laves 
A  meme  les  echos  esclaves 
Par  une  trompe  sans  vertu. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  215 

Quel  sepulcral  naufrage  (tu 
Le  soir,  ecume,  mats  y  baves) 
Supreme  une  entre  les  epaves 
Abolit  le  mat  devetu. 

Ou  cela  que  furibond  faute 

De  quelque  perdition  haute 

Tout  I'abime  vain  eploye 

Dans  le  si  blanc  cheveu  qui  traxne 

Avarement  aura  noye 

Le  flanc  enfant  d'une  sirene.1 

("Pan,"  1895,  No.  1.) 

This  poem  is  not  exceptional  in  its  incomprehensibility. 
I  have  read  several  other  poems  by  Mallarmej  and  they  also 
had  no  meaning  whatever.  I  give  a  sample  of  his  prose  in 
Appendix  II.  There  is  a  whole  volume  of  this  prose,  called 
Divagations.  It  is  impossible  to  understand  any  of  it.  And 
that  is  evidently  what  the  author  intended. 

And  here  is  a  song  by  Maeterlinck,  another  celebrated 
author  of  to-day: — 

Quand  il  est  sorti, 
(J'entendis  la  porte) 
Quand  il  est  sorti 
Elle  avait  souri  .  .  . 

Mais  quand  il  rentra 
(J'entendis  la  lampe) 
Mais  quand  il  rentra 
Une  autre  etait  la  .  .  . 

Et  fat  vu  la  mort, 
(J'entendis  son  ante) 
Et  j'ai  vu  la  mort 
Qui  V attend  encore  .  .  . 

xThis  sonnet  seems  too  unintelligible  for  translation. — Trans. 


216  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

On  est  venu  dire, 
(Mon  enfant,  j'ai  peur) 
On  est  venu  dire 
Qu'il  allait  partir  .  .  . 

Ma  lampe  allumee, 
(Mon  enfant,  j'ai  peur) 
Ma  lampe  allumee 
Me  suis  approchee  .  .  . 

A  la  premiere  porte, 
(Mon  enfant,  j'ai  peur) 
A  la  premiere  porte, 
La  flamme  a  tremble  .  .  . 

A  la  seconde  porte, 
(Mon  enfant,  j'ai  peur) 
A  la  seconde  porte, 
La  flamme  a  parle  .  .  . 

A  la  troisieme  porte, 
(Mon  enfant,  j'ai  peur) 
A  la  troisieme  porte, 
La  lumiere  est  morte  .  .  . 

Et  s'il  revenait  un  jour, 
Que  faut-il  lui  dire? 
Dites-lui  qu'on  I'attendit 
Jusqu'a  s'en  mourir  .  .  . 

Et  s'il  m'interroge  encore 
Sans  me  reconnoitre? 
Parlez-lui  comme  une  sozur. 
II  souffre  peut-etre  .  .  . 

Et  s'il  demande  ou  vous  etes 
Que  faut-il  repondre? 
Donnez-lui  mon  anneau  d'or 
Sans  rien  lui  repondre.  .  . 

Et  s'il  veut  savoir  pourquoi 
La  salle  est  deserte? 


WHAT  IS  ART?  217 

Montrez-lui  la  lampe  eteinte 
Et  la  porte  ouverte  .  .  . 


Et  s'il  m'interroge  alors 
Sur  la  derniere  heure? 
Dites  lui  que  fax  souri 
De  peur  qu'il  ne  pleure 


("Pan,"  1895,  No.  2.) 


Who  went  out  ?  Who  came  in  ?  Who  is  speaking  ?  Who 
died? 

I  beg  the  reader  to  take  the  trouble  to  read  through  the 
samples  I  cite  in  Appendix  III  of  the  celebrated  and  esteemed 
young  poets:  Regnier,  Griffin,  Verhaeren,  Moreas,  and 
Montesquiou.  It  is  important  to  do  so  in  order  to  form  a 
clear  conception  of  the  present  position  of  art,  and  not  to  sup- 
pose as  many  do  that  Decadentism  is  an  accidental  and  transi- 
tory phenomenon.  To  avoid  the  reproach  of  having  selected 
the  worst  verses,  I  have  copied  out  of  each  volume  the  poem 
which  happened  to  stand  on  page  28. 

All  the  other  productions  of  these  poets  are  equally  un- 
intelligible, or  can  only  be  understood  with  great  difficulty 
and  then  not  fully.  All  the  productions  of  those  hundreds 
of  poets,  of  whom  I  have  named  a  few,  are  the  same  in  kind. 
And  among  the  Germans,  Swedes,  Norwegians,  Italians,  and 
us  Russians,  similar  verses  are  printed.  And  such  produc- 
tions are  printed  and  made  up  into  book-form,  if  not  by  the 
million  then  by  the  hundred-thousand  (some  of  these  separate 
works  sell  in  tens  of  thousands).  For  type-setting,  paging, 
printing  and  binding  these  books,  millions  and  millions  of 
working  days  are  spent — not  less,  I  think,  than  went  to  build 
the  Great  Pyramid.  Nor  is  this  all.  The  same  is  going  on 
in  all  the  other  arts:  millions  and  millions  of  working  days 

1  For  translation,  see  Appendix  I. 


218  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

are  being  spent  on  the  production  of  equally  incomprehensible 
works  in  painting,  in  music,  and  in  drama. 

Painting  not  only  does  not  lag  behind  poetry  in  this  matter, 
but  rather  outstrips  it.  Here  is  an  extract  from  the  diary 
of  an  amateur  of  art,1  written  when  visiting  the  Paris  exhi- 
bitions in  1894: — 

"I  was  to-day  at  three  exhibitions:  the  Symbolists',  the  Im- 
pressionists', and  the  Neo-Impressionists'.  I  looked  at  the 
pictures  conscientiously  and  carefully,  but  again  felt  the  same 
stupefaction  and  ultimate  indignation.  The  first  exhibition, 
that  of  Camille  Pissarro,  was  comparatively  the  most  com- 
prehensible, though  the  pictures  were  out  of  drawing,  had  no 
content,  and  the  colourings  were  most  improbable.  The 
drawing  was  so  indefinite  that  you  were  sometimes  unable 
to  make  out  which  way  an  arm  or  a  head  was  turned.  The 
subject  was  generally,  'effets' — Effet  de  brouillard,  Effet  du 
soir,  Soleil  couchant.  There  were  some  pictures  with  figures, 
but  without  subjects. 

"In  the  colouring,  bright  blue  and  bright  green  predomi- 
nated. And  each  picture  had  its  special  colour  with  which 
the  whole  picture  was,  as  it  were,  splashed.  For  instance  in 
'A  Girl  guarding  Geese'  the  special  colour  is  vert  de  gris,  and 
dots  of  it  were  splashed  about  everywhere:  on  the  face,  the 
hair,  the  hands,  and  the  clothes.  In  the  same  gallery — 
'Durand-Ruel' — were  other  pictures:  by  Puvis  de  Chavannes, 
Manet,  Monet,  Renoir,  Sisley,  who  are  all  Impressionists. 
One  of  tjiem,  whose  name  I  could  not  make  out, — it  was 
something  like  Redon, — had  painted  a  blue  face  in  profile. 
On  the  whole  face  there  is  only  this  blue  tone,  with  white- 
of-lead.  Pissarro  has  a  water-colour  all  done  in  dots.  In  the 
foreground  is  a  cow  entirely  painted  with  various-coloured 
dots.     The  general  colour  cannot  be  distinguished,  however 

xIt  was  Tolstoy's  eldest  daughter,  Tatiana,  Mme.  Sukhotin;  who  was  herself 
a  talented  art-student. — A.  M. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  219 

much  one  stands  back  from,  or  draws  near  to,  the  picture. 
From  there  I  went  to  see  the  Symbolists.  I  looked  at  them 
long  without  asking  anyone  for  an  explanation,  trying  to 
guess  the  meaning;  but  it  is  beyond  human  comprehension. 
One  of  the  first  things  to  catch  my  eye  was  a  wooden  haut- 
relief,  wretchedly  executed,  representing  a  woman  (naked) 
who  with  both  hands  is  squeezing  from  her  two  breasts 
streams  of  blood.  The  blood  flows  down,  becoming  lilac  in 
colour.  Her  hair  first  descends  and  then  rises  again  and 
turns  into  trees.  The  figure  is  all  coloured  yellow,  and  the 
hair  is  brown. 

"Next — a  picture:  a  yellow  sea  on  which  swims  something 
which  is  neither  a  ship  nor  a  heart;  on  the  horizon  is  a  pro- 
file with  a  halo  and  yellow  hair,  which  changes  into  the  sea, 
in  which  it  is  lost.  Some  of  the  painters  lay  on  their  colours 
so  thickly  that  the  effect  is  something  between  painting  and 
sculpture.  A  third  exhibit  was  even  less  comprehensible:  a 
man's  profile;  before  him  a  flame  and  black  stripes — leeches, 
as  I  was  afterwards  told.  At  last  I  asked  a  gentleman  who 
was  there  what  it  meant,  and  he  explained  to  me  that  the 
haut-relief  was  a  symbol,  and  represented  'La  Terre.'  The 
heart  swimming  in  a  yellow  sea  was  'Illusion  perdue,'  and 
the  gentleman  with  the  leeches  was  'Le  Mai.'  There  were 
also  some  Impressionist  pictures:  elementary  profiles,  hold- 
ing some  sort  of  flowers  in  their  hands;  in  monotone,  out  of 
drawing,  and  either  quite  blurred  or  else  marked  out  with 
wide  black  outlines." 

This  was  in  1894;  the  same  tendency  is  now  even  more 
strongly  defined,  and  we  have  Bocklin;  Stuck,  Klinger, 
Sasha  Schneider,  and  others. 

The  same  thing  is  taking  place  in  the  drama.  The  play- 
writers  give  us  an  architect  who,  for  some  reason,  has  not  ful- 
filled his  former  high  intentions,  and  consequently  climbs  on 
to  the  roof  of  a  house  he  has  erected  and  tumbles  down  head 


220  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

foremost;  *  or  an  incomprehensible  old  woman  (who  exter- 
minates rats),  and  who,  for  an  unintelligible  reason,  takes  a 
poetic  child  to  the  sea  and  there  drowns  him ;  2  or  some  blind 
men,  who,  sitting  on  the  seashore,  for  some  reason  always 
repeat  one  and  the  same  thing;  3  or  a  bell  of  some  kind,  which 
flies  into  a  lake  and  there  rings.4 

And  the  same  is  happening  in  music — in  that  art  which 
more  than  any  other  one  would  have  thought  should  be  in- 
telligible to  everybody. 

An  acquaintance  of  yours,  a  musician  of  repute,  sits  down 
to  the  piano  and  plays  you  what  he  says  is  a  new  composition 
of  his  own  or  of  one  of  the  new  composers.  You  hear  the 
strange,  loud  sounds,  and  admire  the  gymnastic  exercises 
performed  by  his  fingers,  and  you  see  that  the  performer 
wishes  to  convey  to  you  that  the  sounds  he  is  producing 
express  various  poetic  strivings  of  the  soul.  You  see  his 
intention,  but  no  feeling  whatever  except  weariness  is  trans- 
mitted to  you.  The  execution  lasts  long,  at  least  it  seems  very 
long  to  you  because  you  do  not  receive  any  clear  impression, 
and  involuntarily  you  remember  the  words  of  Alphonse  Karr, 
"Plus  ga  va  vite,  plus  ga  dure  longtemps"  5  And  it  occurs 
to  you  that  perhaps  it  is  all  a  mystification ;  perhaps  the  per- 
former is  trying  you — just  throwing  his  hands  and  fingers 
wildly  about  the  key-board  in  the  hope  that  you  will  fall 
into  the  trap  and  praise  him,  and  then  he  will  laugh  and 
confess  that  he  only  wanted  to  see  if  he  could  hoax  you.  But 
when  at  last  the  piece  does  finish,  and  the  perspiring  and 
agitated  musician  rises  from  the  piano  obviously  anticipating 
praise,  you  see  that  it  was  all  done  in  earnest. 

The  same  thing  takes  place  at  all  the  concerts  with  pieces 

1  Ibsen's  The  Master-Builder.—A.  M. 

2  Ibsen's  Little  Eyolf.—A.  M. 

8  Maeterlinck's  Les  Aveiigles. — A.  M. 

4G.  Hauptmann's  Die  versunkenc  Glocke. — A.  M. 

5  "The  quicker  it  goes  the  longer  it  lasts." 


WHAT  IS  ART?  221 

by  Liszt,  Wagner,  Berlioz,  Brahms,  and  (newest  of  all) 
Richard  Strauss,  and  the  numberless  other  composers  of  the 
new  school,  who  unceasingly  produce  opera  after  opera,  sym- 
phony after  symphony,  piece  after  piece. 

The  same  is  occurring  in  a  domain  in  which  it  seemed  hard 
to  be  unintelligible — in  the  sphere  of  novels  and  short  stories. 

Read  La-Bas  by  Huysmans,  or  some  of  Kipling's  short 
stories,  or  L'atinonciateur  by  Villiers  de  l'lsle  Adam  in  his 
Contes  Cruels,  etc.,  and  you  will  find  them  not  only  "abscons" 
(to  use  a  word  adopted  by  the  new  writers)  but  absolutely 
unintelligible  both  in  form  and  in  substance.  Such,  again,  is 
the  work  by  E.  Morel,  Terre  Promise,  now  appearing  in  the 
Revue  Blanche,  and  such  are  most  of  the  new  novels.  The 
style  is  very  high-flown,  the  feelings  seem  to  be  most  elevated, 
but  you  can't  make  out  what  is  happening,  to  whom  it  is 
happening,  and  where  it  is  happening.  And  such  is  the  bulk 
of  the  young  art  of  our  time. 

People  who  grew  up  in  the  first  half  of  this  century,  ad- 
miring Goethe,  Schiller,  Musset,  Hugo,  Dickens,  Beethoven, 
Chopin,  Raphael,  da  Vinci,  Michael  Angelo,  and  Delaroche, 
being  unable  to  make  head  or  tail  of  this  new  art,  simply  at- 
tribute its  productions  to  tasteless  insanity,  and  wish  to  ignore 
them.  But  such  an  attitude  towards  this  new  art  is  quite 
unjustifiable  because,  in  the  first  place,  this  art  is  spreading 
more  and  more,  and  has  already  conquered  for  itself  a  firm 
position  in  society  similar  to  that  occupied  by  the  Ro- 
manticists in  the  third  decade  of  this  century;  and  secondly 
and  chiefly  because,  if  it  is  permissible  to  judge  in  this  way 
of  the  productions  of  the  latest  form  of  art,  called  by  us 
Decadent  art,  merely  because  we  do  not  understand  it,  then 
remember,  there  are  an  enormous  number  of  people — all  the^ 
labourers  and  many  of  the  non-labouring  folk — who,  in  just 
the  same  way,  do  not  comprehend  those  productions  of  art 
which  we  consider  admirable:   the  verses  of  our  favourite 


222  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

artists — Goethe,  Schiller,  and  Hugo;  the  novels  of  Dickens, 
the  music  of  Beethoven  and  Chopin,  the  pictures  of  Raphael, 
Michael  Angelo,  da  Vinci,  and  so  forth. 

If  I  have  a  right  to  think  that  great  masses  of  people  do 
not  understand  and  do  not  like  what  I  consider  undoubtedly 
good  because  they  are  not  sufficiently  developed,  then  I  have 
no  right  to  deny  that  perhaps  the  reason  why  I  cannot  under- 
stand and  cannot  like  the  new  productions  of  art  is  merely 
that  I  am  still  insufficiently  developed  to  understand  them. 
If  I  have  a  right  to  say  that  I,  and  the  majority  of  people 
who  are  in  sympathy  with  me,  do  not  understand  the  pro- 
ductions of  the  new  art  simply  because  there  is  nothing  in  it  to 
understand  and  because  it  is  bad  art,  then  with  just  the  same 
right  the  still  larger  majority,  the  whole  labouring  mass,  who 
do  not  understand  what  I  consider  admirable  art,  can  say  that 
what  I  reckon  as  good  art  is  bad  art  and  there  is  nothing 
(in  it  to  understand. 

I  once  saw  the  injustice  of  such  condemnation  of  the  new 
art  with  especial  'clearness,  when  in  my  presence  a  certain 
poet,  who  writes  incomprehensible  verses,  ridiculed  incom- 
prehensible music  with  gay  self-assurance;  and  shortly  after- 
wards a  certain  musician,  who  composes  incomprehensible 
symphonies,  laughed  at  incomprehensible  poetry  with  equal 
self-confidence.  I  have  no  right  and  no  authority  to  con- 
demn the  new  art  on  the  ground  that  I  (a  man  educated 
in  the  first  half  of  the  century)  do  not  understand  it;  I  can 
only  say  that  it  is  incomprehensible  to  me.  The  only  ad- 
vantage the  art  I  acknowledge  has  over  the  Decadent  art 
lies  in  the  fact  that  the  art  I  recognise  is  comprehensible 
to  a  somewhat  larger  number  of  people  than  present-day 
art. 

The  fact  that  I  am  accustomed  to  a  certain  exclusive  art 
and  can  understand  it,  but  am  unable  to  understand  another 
still  more  exclusive  art,  does  not  give  me  a  right  to  con- 


r-liiAa     +V-»i 


WHAT  IS  ART?  223 


elude  that  my  art  is  the  real,  true  art,  and  that  the  other 
one,  which  I  do  not  understand,  is  an  unreal,  a  bad  art.  I 
can  only  conclude  that  art,  becoming  ever  more  and  more 
exclusive,  has  become  more  and  more  incomprehensible  to 
an  ever-increasing  number  of  people,  and  that,  in  this  its 
progress  towards  greater  and  greater  incomprehensibility 
(on  one  level  of  which  I  am  standing,  with  the  art  familiar 
to  me),  it  has  reached  a  point  where  it  is  understood  by  a 
very  small  number  of  the  elect,  and  the  number  of  these 
chosen  people  is  becoming  ever  smaller  and  smaller. 

As  soon  as  ever  the  art  of  the  upper  classes  separated 
itself  from  universal  art,  a  conviction  arose  that  art  may 
be  art  and  yet  be  incomprehensible  to  the  masses.  And 
as  soon  as  this  position  was  admitted  it  had  inevitably  to 
be  admitted  also  that  art  may  be  intelligible  only  to  the  very 
smallest  number  of  the  elect,  and  eventually  to  two,  or  to  one, 
of  our  nearest  friends,  or  to  oneself  alone.  Which  is  prac- 
tically what  is  being  said  by  modern  artists: — "I  create  and  (^ 
understand  myself,  and  if  anyone  does  not  understand  me 
so  much  the  worse  for  him." 

The  assertion  that  art  may  be  good  art,  and  at  the  same 
time  incomprehensible  to  a  great  number  of  people,  is  ex- 
tremely unjust  and  its  consequences  are  ruinous  to  art  itself; 
but  at  the  same  time  it  is  so  common,  and  has  so  eaten  into 
our  conceptions,  that  it  is  impossible  sufficiently  to  elucidate 
the  whole  absurdity  of  it. 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  to  hear  it  said  of  reputed 
works  of  art,  that  they  are  very  good  but  very  difficult  to 
understand.  We  are  quite  used  to  such  assertions,  and  yet 
to  say  that  a  work  of  art  is  good,  but  incomprehensible  to 
the  majority  of  men,  is  the  same  as  saying  of  some  kind 
of  food  that  it  is  very  good  but  that  most  people  can't  eat  it. 
The  majority  of  men  may  not  like  rotten  cheese  or  putrefying 
grouse,  dishes  esteemed  by  people  with  perverted  tastes;  but 


224  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

bread  and  fruit  are  only  good  when  they  are  such  as  please 
the  majority  of  men.  And  it  is  the  same  with  art.  Per- 
verted art  may  not  please  the  majority  of  men,  but  good 
art  always  pleases  everyone. 

It  is  said  that  the  very  best  works  of  art  are  such  that 
they  cannot  be  understood  by  the  masses,  but  are  accessible 
only  to  the  elect  who  are  prepared  to  understand  these  great 
works.  But  if  the  majority  of  men  do  not  understand,  the 
knowledge  necessary  to  enable  them  to  understand  should 
be  taught  and  explained  to  them.  But  it  turns  out  that 
there  is  no  such  knowledge,  that  the  works  cannot  be  ex- 
plained, and  that  those  who  say  the  majority  do  not  under- 
stand good  works  of  art,  still  do  not  explain  those  works, 
but  only  tell  us  that  in  order  to  understand  them  one  must 
read,  and  see,  and  hear,  these  same  works  over  and  over 
again.  But  this  is  not  to  explain,  it  is  only  to  habituate! 
And  people  may  habituate  themselves  to  anything,  even  to 
the  very  worst  things.  As  people  may  habituate  themselves 
to  bad  food,  to  spirits,  tobacco,  and  opium,  just  in  the  same 
way  they  may  habituate  themselves  to  bad  art — and  that  is 
exactly  what  is  being  done.- 

Moreover  it  cannot  be  said  that  the  majority  of  people  lack 
the  taste  to  esteem  the  highest  works  of  art.  The  majority 
always  have  understood,  and  still  understand,  what  we  also 
recognise  as  being  the  very  best  art :  the  epic  of  Genesis,  the 
Gospel  parables,  folk-legends,  fairy-tales,  and  folk-songs,  are 
understood  by  all.  How  can  it  be  that  the  majority  has 
suddenly  lost  its  capacity  to  understand  what  is  high  in 
our  art? 

Of  a  speech  it  may  be  said  that  it  is  admirable,  but  in- 
comprehensible to  those  who  do  not  know  the  language  in 
which  it  is  delivered.  A  speech  delivered  in  Chinese  may 
be  excellent,  and  may  yet  remain  incomprehensible  to  me 
if  I  do  not  know  Chinese;  but  what  distinguishes  a  work  of 


WHAT  IS  ART?  225 

art  from  all  other  mental  activity  is  just  the  fact  that  its 
language  is  understood  by  all,  and  that  it  infects  all  without 
distinction.  The  tears  and  laughter  of  a  Chinaman  infect  me 
just  as  the  laughter  and  tears  of  a  Russian;  and  it  is  the 
same  with  painting  and  music,  and  also  poetry,  when  it  is 
translated  into  a  language  I  understand.  The  songs  of  a 
Kirghiz  or  of  a  Japanese  touch  me,  though  in  a  lesser  degree 
than  they  touch  a  Kirghiz  or  a  Japanese.  I  am  also  touched 
by  Japanese  painting,  Indian  architecture,  and  Arabian 
stories.  If  I  am  but  little  touched  by  a  Japanese  song  and  a 
Chinese  novel,  it  is  not  that  I  do  not  understand  these  pro- 
ductions, but  that  I  know  and  am  accustomed  to  higher  works 
of  art.  It  is  not  because  their  art  is  above  me.  Great  works 
of  art  are  only  great  because  they  are  accessible  and  compre- 
hensible to  everyone.  The  story  of  Joseph,  translated  into 
the  Chinese  language,  touches  a  Chinese.  The  story  of  Sakya 
Muni  (Buddha)  touches  us.  And  there  are,  and  must  be, 
buildings,  pictures,  statues,  and  music,  of  similar  power.  So 
that  if  art  fails  to  move  men  it  cannot  be  said  that  this  is  due 
to  the  spectators'  or  hearers'  lack  of  understanding;  but  the 
conclusion  to  be  drawn  may  be,  and  should  be,  that  such  art 
is  either  bad  or  is  not  art  at  all. 

Art  is  differentiated  from  activity  of  the  understanding, 
which  demands  preparation  and  a  certain  sequence  of  knowl- 
edge (so  that  one  cannot  learn  trigonometry  before  knowing  u 
geometry),  by  the  fact  that  it  acts  on  people  independently  of 
their  state  of  development  and  education,  that  the  charm  of  \ 
a  picture,  of  sounds,  or  of  forms,  infects  any  man,  whatever 
his  plane  of  development. 

The  business  of  art  lies  just  in  this:  to  make  that  under-/ 
stood  and  felt  which  in  the  form  of  an  argument  might  bej 
incomprehensible  and  inaccessible.     Usually  it  seems  to  the\ 
recipient  of  a  truly  artistic  impression  that  he  knew  the  thing  \ 
before,  but  had  been  unable  to  express  it. 


226  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

And  such  has  always  been  the  nature  of  good,  supreme  art; 
the  Iliad,  the  Odyssey;  the  stories  of  Isaac,  Jacob,  and  Joseph; 
the  Hebrew  prophets,  the  psalms,  the  Gospel  parables;  the 
story  of  Sakya  Muni,  and  the  hymns  of  the  Vedas:  all  trans- 
mit very  exalted  feelings,  and  are  nevertheless  quite  compre- 
hensible now  to  us,  educated  or  uneducated,  as  they  were  com- 
prehensible to  the  men  of  those  time%  long  ago,  who  were 
even  less  educated  than  our  labourers.  People  talk  about 
incomprehensibility ;  but  if  art  ts  the  transmission  of  feelings 
flowing  from  man's  religious  perception,  how  can  a  feeling 
be  incomprehensible  which  is  founded  on  religion,  that  is,  on 
,'  man's  relation  to  God?  Such  art  should  be,  and  has  actually 
always  been,  comprehensible  to  everybody,  because  every 
man's  relation  to  God  is  one  and  the  same.  This  is  why 
the  churches  and  the  images  in  them  were  always  compre- 
hensible to  everyone.  The  hindrance  to  an  understanding  of 
the  best  and  highest  feelings  (as  is  said  in  the  Gospel)  does 
not  at  all  lie  in  deficiency  of  development  or  learning,  but  on 
the  contrary  in  false  development  and  false  learning.  A  good 
and  lofty  work  of  art  may  be  incomprehensible,  but  not  to 
simple,  unperverted  peasant  labourers  (all  that  is  highest  is 
understood  by  them) — it  may  be  and  often  is  unintelligible 
to  erudite,  perverted  people  destitute  of  religion.  And  this 
continually  occurs  in  our  society,  in  which  the  highest  feelings 
are  simply  not  understood.  For  instance,  I  know  people 
who  consider  themselves  most  refined  and  who  say  that  they 
do  not  understand  the  poetry  of  love  to  one's  neighbour,  of 
self-sacrifice,  or  of  chastity. 

So  that  good,  great,  universal,  religious  art  may  be  incom- 
prehensible to  a  small  circle  of  spoilt  people,  but  certainly 
not  to  any  large  number  of  plain  men. 

Art  cannot  be  incomprehensible  to  the  great  masses  only 
because  it  is  very  good, — as  artists  of  our  day  are  fond  of 


WHAT  IS  ART?  227 


telling  us.  Rather  we  are  bound  to  conclude  that  this  art 
is  unintelligible  to  the  great  masses  only  because  it  is  very 
bad  art,  or  even  is  not  art  at  all.  So  that  the  favourite  argu- 
ment (naively  accepted  by  the  cultured  crowd),  that  in  order 
to  feel  art  one  has- first  to  understand  it  (which  really  only 
means  habituate  oneself  to  it),  is  the  truest  indication  that 
what  we  are  asked  to  understand  by  such  a  method  is  either 
very  bad,  exclusive  art,  or  is  not  art  at  all.  ^ 

People  say  that  works  of  art  do  not  please  the  people 
because  they  are  incapable  of  understanding  them.  But  if 
the  aim  of  works  of  art  is  to  infect  people  with  the  emotion 
the  artist  has  experienced,  how  can  one  talk  about  not- 
understanding  ? 

A  man  of  the  people  reads  a  book,  sees  a  picture,  hears  a 
play  or  a  symphony,  and  is  touched  by  no  feeling.  He  is 
told  that  this  is  because  he  cannot  understand.  People 
promise  to  let  a  man  see  a  certain  show;  he  enters  and  sees 
nothing.  He  is  told  that  this  is  because  his  sight  is  not 
prepared  for  this  show.  But  the  man  knows  for  certain  that 
he  sees  quite  well,  and  if  he  does  not  see  what  people  promised 
to  show  him  he  only  concludes  (as  is  quite  just)  that  those 
who  undertook  to  show  him  the  spectacle  have  not  fulfilled 
their  engagement.  And  it  is  perfectly  just  for  a  man  who 
does  feel  the  influence  of  some  works  of  art,  to  come  to  this 
conclusion  concerning  artists  who  do  not,  by  their  works, 
evoke  feeling  in  him.  To  say  that  the  reason  a  man  is  not 
touched  by  my  art  is  because  he  is  still  too  stupid,  besides 
being  very  self -conceited  and  also  rude,  is  to  reverse  the 
roles,  and  for  the  sick  to  send  the  hale  to  bed. 

Voltaire  said  that  "Tous  les  genres  sont  bons,  hors  le 
genre  ennuyeux" ;  l  but  with  even  more  right  one  may  say 
of  art  that  Tous  les  genres  sons  bons,  hors  celui  qu'on  ne 

1  All  styles  are  good  except  the  wearisome  style, 


228  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

comprend  pas,  or  qui  ne  produit  pas  son  effet,1  for  of  what 
value  is  an  article  which  fails  to  effect  what  was  intended? 

Mark  this  above  all:  if  only  it  be  admitted  that  art  may 
be  unintelligible  to  anyone  of  sound  mind  and  yet  still  be  art, 
there  is  no  reason  why  any  circle  of  perverted  people  should 
not  compose  works  tickling  their  own  perverted  feelings,  and 
comprehensible  to  no  one  but  themselves,  and  call  it  "art," 
as  is  actually  being  done  by  the  so-called  Decadents. 

The  direction  art  has  taken  may  be  compared  to  placing 
on  a  large  circle  other  circles,  smaller  and  smaller,  until  a 
cone  is  formed,  the  apex  of  which  is  no  longer  a  circle  at 
all.     That  is  what  has  happened  to  the  art  of  our  times. 

1  All  styles  are  good  except  that  which  is  not  understood,  or  which  fails  to  pro- 
duce its  effect. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Counterfeits  of  art  produced  by:  Borrowing;  Imitating;  Striking;  Interesting. 
Qualifications  needful  for  production  of  real  works  of  art,  and  those  sufficient 
for  production  of  counterfeits. 

Becoming  ever  poorer  and  poorer  in  subject-matter  and 
more  and  more  unintelligible  in  form,  the  art  of  the  upper 
classes  in  its  latest  productions  has  even  lost  all  the  charac- 
teristics of  art  and  has  been  replaced  by  imitations  of  art. 
Not  only  has  upper-class  art  in  consequence  of  its  separation 
from  universal  art  become  poor  in  subject-matter  and  bad 
in  form,  that  is,  ever  more  and  more  unintelligible, — it  has 
in  course  of  time  ceased  even  to  be  art  at  all  and  has  been 
replaced  by  counterfeits. 

This  has  resulted  from  the  following  causes.  Universal  art 
arises  only  when  some  one  of  the  people  having  experienced 
a  strong  emotion  feels  the  necessity  of  transmitting  it  to  others. 
The  art  of  the  rich  classes  on  the  other  hand  arises  not  from 
the  artist's  inner  impulse,  but  chiefly  because  people  of  the 
upper  classes  demand  amusement  and  pay  well  for  it.  They 
demand  from  art  the  transmission  of  feelings  that  please 
them,  and  this  demand  artists  try  to  meet.  But  it  is  a  very 
difficult  task,  for  people  of  the  wealthy  classes  spending 
their  lives  in  idleness  and  luxury  desire  to  be  continually 
diverted  by  art;  and  art,  even  the  lowest,  cannot  be  produced 
at  will,  but  has  to  generate  spontaneously  in  the  artist's  inner 
self.  And  therefore,  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  people  of  the 
upper  classes,  artists  have  had  to  devise  methods  of  produc- 
ing imitations  of  art.     And  such  methods  have  been  devised. 

These  methods  are  those  of  (1)  borrowing,  (2)  imitating, 
(3)   striking  (producing  effects),  and  (4)  interesting. 

229 


230  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

The  first  method  consists  in  borrowing  whole  subjects,  or 
merely  separate  features,  from  former  works  recognised  by 
everyone  as  being  poetic,  and  in  so  re-shaping  them  with 
sundry  additions  that  they  should  have  an  appearance  of 
novelty. 

Such  works,  evoking  in  people  of  a  certain  class  memories 
of  artistic  feelings  formerly  experienced,  produce  an  impres- 
sion similar  to  art,  and  provided  only  that  they  conform  to 
other  needful  conditions  they  pass  for  art  among  those  who 
seek  for  pleasure  from  art.  Subjects  borrowed  from  previous 
works  of  art  are  usually  called  poetic  subjects.  Objects  and 
people  thus  borrowed  are  called  poetic  objects  and  people. 
Thus  in  our  circle  all  sorts  of  legends,  sagas,  and  ancient 
traditions,  are  considered  poetic  subjects.  Among  poetic 
people  and  objects  we  reckon  maidens,  warriors,  shepherds, 
hermits,  angels,  devils  of  all  sorts,  moonlight,  thunder,  moun- 
tains, the  sea,  precipices,  flowers,  long  hair,  lions,  lambs, 
doves,  and  nightingales.  In  general  all  those  objects  are 
considered  poetic  which  have  most  frequently  been  used  by 
former  artists  in  their  productions. 

Some  forty  years  ago  a  stupid  but  highly  cultured — ayant 
beaucoup  d' acquis — lady  (since  deceased)  asked  me  to  listen 
to  a  novel  written  by  herself.  It  began  with  a  heroine  who 
in  a  poetic  white  dress,  and  with  poetically  flowing  hair, 
was  reading  poetry  near  some  water  in  a  poetic  wood. 
The  scene  was  in  Russia,  but  suddenly  from  behind  the 
bushes  the  hero  appears,  wearing  a  hat  with  a  feather  a  la 
Guillaume  Tell  (the  book  specially  mentioned  this)  and 
accompanied  by  two  poetical  white  dogs.  The  authoress 
deemed  all  this  highly  poetic,  and  it  might  have  passed  muster 
if  only  it  had  not  been  necessary  for  the  hero  to  speak.  But 
as  soon  as  the  gentleman  in  the  hat  a  la  Guillaume  Tell 
began  to  converse  with  the  maiden  in  the  white  dress,  it  became 
obvious  that  the  authoress  had  nothing  to  say,  but  had  merely 


Kppn   rrw 


WHAT  IS  ART?  231 


been  moved  by  poetic  memories  of  other  works,  and  imagined 
that  by  ringing  the  changes  on  those  memories  she  could 
produce  an  artistic  impression.  But  an  artistic  impression, 
that  is  to  say,  infection,  is  only  received  when  an  author  has 
in  the  manner  peculiar  to  himself  experienced  the  feeling 
which  he  transmits,  and  not  when  he  passes  on  another  man's 
feeling  previously  transmitted  to  him.  Such  poetry  from 
poetry  cannot  infect  people,  it  can  only  simulate  a  work  of 
art,  and  even  that  only  to  people  of  perverted  esthetic  taste. 
The  lady  in  question  being  very  stupid  and  devoid  of  talent, 
it  was  at  once  apparent  how  the  case  stood;  but  when  such 
borrowing  is  resorted  to  by  people  who  are  erudite  and  talented 
and  have  cultivated  the  technique  of  their  art,  we  get  those  bor- 
rowings from  the  Greek,  the  antique,  the  Christian  or  mytho- 
logical world,  which  have  become  so  numerous,  and  which 
particularly  in  our  day  continue  to  increase  and  multiply, 
and  are  accepted  by  the  public  as  works  of  art  if  only  the 
borrowings  are  well  mounted  by  means  of  the  technique  of 
the  particular  art  to  which  they  belong. 

As  a  characteristic  example  of  such  counterfeits  of  art 
in  the  realm  of  poetry,  take  Rostand's  Princesse  Lointaine, 
in  which  there  is  not  a  spark  of  art,  but  which  seems  very 
poetic  to  many  people,  and  probably  also  to  its  author. 

The  second  method  of  imparting  a  semblance  of  art  is 
that  which  I  have  called  imitating.  The  essence  of  this 
method  consists  in  supplying  details  accompanying  the  thing 
described  or  depicted.  In  literary  art  this  method  consists  t 
in  describing  in  the  minutest  details  the  external  appear- 
ance, the  faces,  the  clothes,  the  gestures,  the  tones,  and  the 
habitations,  of  the  characters  represented,  with  all  the  occur- 
rences met  with  in  life.  For  instance  in  novels  and  stories, 
when  one  of  the  characters  speaks  we  are  told  in  what  voice 
he  spoke  and  what  he  was  doing  at  the  time.  And  the  things 
said  are  not  given  so  that  they  should  have  as  much  sense 


232  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

as  possible,  but  as  they  are  in  life,  disconnectedly,  and  with 
interruptions  and  omissions.  In  dramatic  art,  besides  such 
imitation  of  real  speech,  this  method  consists  in  having  all 
the  accessories  and  all  the  people  just  like  those  in  real  life. 
In  painting  this  method  assimilates  painting  to  photography 
and  destroys  the  difference  between  them.  And  strange  to 
say  this  method  is  used  also  in  music:  music  tries  to  imitate, 
not  only  by  its  rhythm  but  also  by  its  very  sounds,  the  sounds 
which  in  real  life  accompany  the  thing  it  wishes  to  represent. 
The  third  method  is  by  action,  often  purely  physical,  on 
the  outer  senses.  Work  of  this  kind  is  said  to  be  "striking," 
"effective."  In  all  arts  these  effects  consist  chiefly  in  con- 
trasts; in  bringing  together  the  terrible  and  the  tender,  the 
beautiful  and  the  hideous,  the  loud  and  the  soft,  darkness 
and  light,  the  most  ordinary  and  the  most  extraordinary.  In 
verbal  art,  besides  effects  of  contrast  there  are  also  effects 
consisting  in  the  description  of  things  that  have  never  before 
been  described.  These  are  usually  pornographic  details 
evoking  sexual  desire,  or  details  of  suffering  and  death  evok- 
ing feelings  of  horror,  such,  for  instance,  as  when  describing 
a  murder,  to  give  a  detailed  medical  account  of  the  lacerated 
tissues,  of  the  swellings,  of  the  smell,  quantity,  and  appear- 
ance of  the  blood.  It  is  the  same  in  painting:  besides  all 
kinds  of  other  contrasts,  one  is  coming  into  vogue  which 
consists  in  giving  careful  finish  to  one  object  and  being 
careless  about  all  the  rest.  The  chief  and  usual  effects  in 
painting  are  effects  of  light  and  the  presentation  of  the  hor- 
rible. In  the  drama  the  most  common  effects,  besides  con- 
trasts, are  tempests,  thunder,  moonlight,  scenes  at  sea  or  by 
the  seashore,  changes  of  costume,  exposure  of  the  female  body, 
madness,  murders,  and  death  generally:  the  dying  person 
exhibiting  in  detail  all  the  phases  of  agony.  In  music  the 
most  usual  effects  are  a  crescendo,  passing  from  the  softest 
and  simplest  sounds  to  the  loudest  and  most  complex 


WHAT  IS  ART?  238 

of  the  full  orchestra;  a  repetition  of  the  same  sounds 
arpeggio  in  all  the  octaves  and  on  various  instruments; 
or  for  the  harmony,  tone,  and  rhythm,  to  be  not  at  all  those 
naturally  flowing  from  the  course  of  the  musical  thought  but 
such  as  strike  one  by  their  unexpectedness.  Besides  these,  the 
commonest  effects  in  music  are  produced  in  a  purely  physical 
manner  by  strength  of  sound,  especially  in  an  orchestra. 

Such  are  some  of  the  most  usual  effects  in  the  various 
arts,  but  there  yet  remains  one  common  to  them  all,  namely, 
to  convey  by  means  of  one  art  what  it  would  be  natural  to 
convey  by  another:  for  instance,  to  make  music  describe  (as  is 
done  by  the  programme  music  of  Wagner  and  his  followers), 
or  to  make  painting,  the  drama,  or  poetry,  induce  a  frame  of  i 
mind  (as  is  aimed  at  by  all  the  Decadent  art). 

The  fourth  method  is  that  of  interesting  (that  is,  absorbing 
the  mind)  in  connection  with  works  of  art.  The  interest 
may  lie  in  an  intricate  plot — a  method  till  quite  recently 
much  employed  in  English  novels  and  French  plays,  but 
now  going  out  of  fashion  and  being  replaced  by  realism, 
that  is,  by  detailed  description  of  some  historic  period  or  some 
branch  of  contemporary  life.  For  example,  in  a  novel  inter- 
est may  consist  in  a  description  of  Egyptian  or  Roman  life, 
the  life  of  miners,  or  that  of  the  clerks  in  a  large  shop.  The 
reader  becomes  interested,  and  mistakes  this  interest  for  an" 
artistic  impression.  The  interest  may  also  depend  on  the  very 
method  of  expression;  a  kind  of  interest  that  has  now  come 
much  into  use.  Both  verse  and  prose,  as  well  as  pictures, 
plays,  and  music,  are  constructed  so  that  they  must  be 
guessed  like  riddles,  and  this  process  of  guessing,  again, 
affords  pleasure  and  gives  a  semblance  of  the  feeling  received 
from  art. 

It  is  very  often  said  that  a  work  of  art  is  very  good 
because  it  is  poetic,  or  realistic,  or  striking,  or  interesting; 
whereas  not  only  can  neither  the  first,  nor  the  second,  nor 


234.  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

the  third,  nor  the  fourth,  of  these  attributes  supply  a  standard 
of  excellence  in  art,  but  they  have  not  even  anything  in  com- 
mon with  art. 

Poetic — means  borrowed.  All  borrowing  merely  recalls  to 
the  reader,  spectator,  or  listener,  some  dim  recollection  of 
artistic  impressions  received  from  previous  works  of  art,  and 
does  not  infect  with  feeling  experienced  by  the  artist  himself. 
A  work  founded  on  something  borrowed,  like  Goethe's  Faust 
for  instance,  may  be  very  well  executed  and  be  full  of  mind 
and  every  beauty,  but  because  it  lacks  the  chief  characteristic 
of  a  work  of  art — completeness,  oneness,  the  inseparable  unity 
of  form  and  content  expressing  the  feeling  the  artist  has  ex- 
I  perienced — it  cannot  produce  a  really  artistic  impression.  In 
availing  himself  of  this  method  the  artist  only  transmits  the 
feeling  received  by  him  from  a  previous  work  of  art ;  therefore 
every  borrowing,  whether  it  be  of  whole  subjects  or  of  various 
scenes,  situations,  or  descriptions,  is  but  a  reflection  of  art, 
a  simulation  of  it,  but  not  art  itself.  And  therefore,  to  say 
that  a  certain  production  is  good  because  it  is  poetic, — that  is, 
resembles  a  work  of  art, — is  like  saying  of  a  coin  that  it  is 
good  because  it  resembles  real  money. 

Equally  little  can  imitation,  realism,  serve,  as  many  people 
suppose,  as  a  measure  of  the  quality  of  art.  Imitation  cannot 
be  such  a  measure,  for  the  chief  characteristic  of  art  is  the 
infection  of  others  with  the  feelings  the  artist  has  experienced, 
and  infection  with  a  feeling  is  not  only  not  identical  with 
description  of  the  accessories  of  what  is  transmitted,  but  is 
usually  hindered  by  superfluous  details.  The  attention  of  the 
receiver  of  the  artistic  impression  is  diverted  by  all  these  well- 
observed  details,  and  they  hinder  the  transmission  of  feeling 
even  when  it  exists. 

To  value  a  work  of  art  by  the  degree  of  its  realism,  by  the 
accuracy  of  the  details  reproduced,  is  as  strange  as  to  judge 
of  the  nutritive  quality  of  food  by  its  external  appearance. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  285 

When  we  appraise  a  work  according  to  its  realism,  we  only 
show  that  we  are  talking,  not  of  a  work  of  art  but  of  its 
counterfeit. 

Neither  does  the  third  method  of  imitating  art — by  the 
use  of  what  is  striking  or  effective — coincide  with  real  art 
any  better  than  the  two  former  methods,  for  in  effective- 
ness (the  effects  of  novelty,  of  the  unexpected,  of  contrasts, 
of  the  horrible)  there  is  no  transmission  of  feeling  but/ 
only  an  action  on  the  nerves.  If  an  artist  were  to  paint 
a  bloody  wound  admirably,  the  sight  of  the  wound  would 
strike  me,  but  it  would  not  be  art.  One  prolonged  note 
on  a  powerful  organ  will  produce  a  striking  impression, 
will  often  even  cause  tears,  but  there  is  no  music  in  it,  Z 
because  no  feeling  is  transmitted.  Yet  such  physiological 
effects  are  constantly  mistaken  for  art  by  people  of  our 
circle,  and  this  not  only  in  music  but  also  in  poetry,  painting, 
and  the  drama.  It  is  said  that  art  has  become  refined.  On 
the  contrary,  thanks  to  the  pursuit  of  effects,  it  has  become 
very  coarse.  A  new  piece  is  brought  out  and  accepted  all  over 
Europe,  such,  for  instance,  as  Hanneles  Himmelfatift,1  in  rJ 
which  play  the  author  wishes  to  transmit  to  the  spectators 
pity  for  a  persecuted  girl.  To  evoke  this  feeling  in  the 
audience  by  means  of  art,  the  author  should  either  make 
one  of  the  characters  express  this  pity  in  such  a  way  as  to 
infect  everyone,  or  should  describe  the  girl's  feelings  correctly. 
But  he  cannot  or  will  not  do  this  and  chooses  another  way, 
more  complicated  in  stage  management  but  easier  for  the 
author.  He  makes  the  girl  die  on  the  stage ;  and  still  further 
to  increase  the  physiological  effect  on  the  spectators,  he  extin- 
guishes the  lights  in  the  theatre,  leaving  the  audience  in  the 
dark,  and  to  the  sound  of  dismal  music  shows  how  the  girl 
is  pursued  and  beaten  by  her  drunken  father.  The  girl 
shrinks — screams — groans — and  falls.     Angels  appear  and 

1  By  G.  Hauptmann. 


236  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

carry  her  away.  And  the  audience,  experiencing  some  excite- 
ment while  this  is  going  on,  are  fully  convinced  that  this  is 
true  esthetic  feeling.  But  there  is  nothing  esthetic  in  such 
excitement,  for  there  is  no  infection  of  man  by  man,  but 
only  a  mingled  feeling  of  pity  for  another  and  of  self- 
congratulation  that  it  is  not  I  who  am  suffering:  it  is  like 
what  we  feel  at  the  sight  of  an  execution,  or  what  the  Romans 
felt  in  their  circuses. 

The  substitution  of  effect  for  esthetic  feeling  is  particularly 
noticeable  in  musical  art — that  art  which  by  its  nature  has 
an  immediate  physiological  action  on  the  nerves.  Instead 
of  transmitting  by  means  of  a  melody  the  feelings  he  has 
experienced,  a  composer  of  the  new  school  accumulates  and 
complicates  sounds,  and  by  now  strengthening  now  weaken- 
ing them,  he  produces  on  the  audience  a  physiological  effect 
'  of  a  kind  that  can  be  measured  by  an  apparatus  invented  for 
that  purpose.1  And  the  public  mistake  this  physiological 
effect  for  the  effect  of  art. 

As  to  the  fourth  method — that  of  interesting — it  also  is 
frequently  confounded  with  art.  One  often  hears  it  said, 
not  only  of  a  poem,  a  novel,  or  a  picture,  but  even  of  a 
musical  work,  that  it  is  interesting.  What  does  this  mean? 
To  speak  of  an  interesting  work  of  art  means  either  that  we 
receive  from  a  work  of  art  information  new  to  us,  or  that 
the  work  is  not  fully  intelligible  and  that  little  by  little, 
and  with  effort,  we  arrive  at  its  meaning  and  experience  a 
certain  pleasure  in  this  process  of  guessing  it.  In  neither 
case  has  the  interest  anything  in  common  with  artistic  im- 
pression. Art  aims  at  infecting  people  with  feeling  experi- 
enced by  the  artist.  But  the  mental  effort  necessary  to  en- 
able the  spectator,  listener,  or  reader,  to  assimilate  the  new 

1  An  apparatus  exists  by  means  of  which  a  very  sensitive  arrow,  in  dependence 
on  the  tension  of  a  muscle  of  the  arm,  will  indicate  the  physiological  action  of 
music  on  the  nerves  and  muscles. — L.  T. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  237 

information  contained  in  the  work,  or  to  guess  the  puzzles 
propounded  hinders  this  infection  by  distracting  him. 
And  therefore  the  interest  of  a  work  not  only  has  nothing 
to  do  with  its  excellence  as  a  work  of  art,  but  rather  hinders 
than  assists  artistic  impression. 

We  may,  in  a  work  of  art,  meet  with  what  is  poetic,  and 
realistic,  and  striking,  and  interesting,  but  these  things  cannot 
replace  the  essential  of  art — feeling  experienced  by  the  artist. 
Latterly,  in  upper-class  art  most  of  the  objects  given  out  as 
being  works  or  art  are  of  the  kind  which  only  resemble  art 
and  are  devoid  of  its  essential  quality — feeling  experienced 
by  the  artist.  And  for  the  diversion  of  the  rich  such  objects 
are  continually  being  produced  in  enormous  quantities  by  the 
artisans  of  art. 

Many  conditions  must  be  fulfilled  to  enable  a  man  to 
produce  a  real  work  of  art.  It  is  necessary  that  he  should 
stand  on  the  level  of  the  highest  life-conception  of  his  - 
time,  that  he  should  experience  feeling  and  have  the  desire 
and  capacity  to  transmit  it,  and  that  he  should  moreover 
have  a  talent  for  some  one  of  the  forms  of  art.  It  is  very  *■ 
seldom  that  all  these  conditions  necessary  to  the  production 
of  true  art  are  combined.  But  in  order — aided  by  the  cus- 
tomary methods  of  borrowing,  imitating,  introducing  effects, 
and  interesting — unceasingly  to  produce  the  counterfeits  of 
art  which  pass  for  art  in  our  society  and  are  well  paid  for, 
it  is  only  necessary  to  have  a  talent  for  some  branch  of 
art;  and  this  is  very  often  to  be  met  with.  By  talent  I 
mean  ability:  in  literary  art  the  ability  to  express  one's 
thoughts  and  impressions  easily,  and  to  notice  and  remember 
characteristic  details;  in  graphic  arts  to  distinguish 
and  remember  lines,  forms,  and  colours;  in  music  to  dis- 
tinguish the  intervals  and  to  remember  and  transmit  the 
sequence  of  sounds.  And  a  man  in  our  time  if  only  he 
possesses  such  a  talent  and  selects  some  speciality,  may  after 


238  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

learning  the  methods  of  counterfeiting  used  in  his  branch  of 
art, — if  he  has  patience  and  if  his  esthetic  feeling  (which 
would  render  such  productions  revolting  to  him)  be  atrophied 
— unceasingly  to  the  end  of  his  life  turn  out  works  which 
will  pass  for  art  in  our  society. 

To  produce  such  counterfeits,  definite  rules  or  recipes 
exist  in  each  branch  of  art.  So  the  talented  man,  having 
assimilated  them,  may  produce  such  works  a  froid,  cold- 
drawn,  without  feeling. 

In  order  to  write  poems,  a  man  of  literary  talent  needs 
only  these  qualifications:  to  acquire  the  knack,  conformably 
with  the  requirements  of  rhyme  and  rhythm,  of  using,  in- 
stead of  the  one  really  suitable  word,  ten  others  meaning 
approximately  the  same;  to  learn  how  to  take  any  phrase 
which  to  be  clear  has  but  one  natural  order  of  words,  and 
despite  all  possible  dislocations  still  to  retain  some  sense 
in  it;  and  lastly,  to  be  able,  guided  by  the  words  required 
for  the  rhymes,  to  devise  some  semblance  of  thoughts,  feel- 
ings, or  descriptions,  to  suit  these  words.  Having  acquired 
these  qualifications,  he  may  unceasingly  produce  poems — 
short  or  long,  religious,  amatory,  or  patriotic,  according  to 
the  demand. 

If  a  man  of  literary  talent  wishes  to  write  a  story  or  novel, 
he  need  only  form  his  style — that  is,  learn  how  to  describe 
all  that  he  sees — and  accustom  himself  to  remember  or  note 
down  details.  When  he  has  accustomed  himself  to  this,  he 
can,  according  to  his  inclination  or  the  demand,  unceasingly 
produce  novels  or  stories — historical,  naturalistic,  social, 
erotic,  psychological,  or  even  religious,  for  which  latter  kind 
a  demand  and  fashion  begins  to  show  itself.  He  can  take 
subjects  from  books  or  from  the  events  of  life,  and  can 
copy  the  characters  of  the  people  in  his  book  from  his 
acquaintances. 

And  such  novels  and  stories,  if  only  they  are  decked  out 


WHAT  IS  ART?  239 


with  well-observed  and  carefully  noted  details,  preferably 
erotic  ones,  will  be  considered  works  of  art,  even  though 
they  may  not  contain  a  spark  of  feeling  experienced. 

To  produce  art  in  dramatic  form,  a  talented  man,  in  ad- 
dition to  all  that  is  required  for  novels  and  stories,  must 
also  learn  to  furnish  his  characters  with  as  many  smart 
and  witty  sentences  as  possible,  must  know  how  to  utilise 
theatrical  effects,  and  how  to  entwine  the  action  of  his 
characters  so  that  there  should  be  no  long  conversations, 
but  as  much  bustle  and  movement  on  the  stage  as  possible. 
If  the  writer  is  able  to  do  this,  he  may  produce  dramatic 
works  one  after  another  without  stopping,  selecting  his  sub- 
jects from  the  reports  of  the  law  courts,  or  from  the  latest 
society  topic,  such  as  hypnotism,  heredity,  etc.,  or  from  deep 
antiquity,  or  even  from  the  realms  of  fancy. 

In  the  sphere  of  painting  and  sculpture  it  is  still  easier 
for  the  talented  man  to  produce  imitations  of  art.  He  need 
only  learn  to  draw,  paint,  and  model — especially  naked  bod- 
ies. Thus  equipped  he  can  continue  to  paint  pictures,  or 
model  statues,  one  after  another,  choosing  subjects  according 
to  his  bent:  mythological,  or  religious,  or  fantastic,  or  sym- 
bolic; or  he  may  depict  what  is  written  about  in  the  papers: 
a  coronation,  a  strike,  the  Turko-Grecian  war,  famine  scenes; 
or,  commonest  of  all,  he  may  just  copy  anything  he  thinks 
beautiful — from  naked  women  to  copper  basins. 

For  the  production  of  musical  art  the  talented  man  needs 
still  less  of  what  constitutes  the  essence  of  art,  that  is,  feeling 
wherewith  to  infect  others ;  but  on  the  other  hand  he  requires 
more  physical,  gymnastic  labour  than  for  any  other  art, 
unless  it  be  dancing.  To  produce  works  of  musical  art  he 
must  first  learn  to  move  his  fingers  on  some  instrument  as 
rapidly  as  those  who  have  reached  the  highest  perfection; 
next  he  must  know  how  in  former  times  polyphonic  music 
was  written,  must  study  what  are  called  counterpoint  and 


240  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

fugue;  and,  furthermore,  he  must  learn  orchestration,  that  is, 
how  to  utilise  the  effects  of  the  instruments.  But  once  he  has 
learned  all  this,  the  composer  may  unceasingly  produce  one 
work  after  another:  whether  programme-music,  opera,  or 
song  (devising  sounds  more  or  less  corresponding  to  the 
words),  or  chamber  music,  that  is,  he  may  take  another  man's 
themes  and  work  them  up  into  definite  forms  by  means  of 
counterpoint  and  fugue;  or,  what  is  commonest  of  all,  he 
may  compose  fantastic  music,  that  is,  he  may  take  a  conjunc- 
tion of  sounds  which  happens  to  come  to  hand,  and  pile 
every  sort  of  complication  and  ornamentation  on  to  this 
chance  combination. 

Thus  in  all  realms  of  art  counterfeits  of  art  are  manufac- 
tured to  a  ready-made,  prearranged  recipe,  and  these  counter- 
feits the  public  of  our  upper  classes  accept  for  real  art. 

And  this  substitution  of  counterfeits  for  real  works  of 
art  was  the  third  and  most  important  consequence  of  the  sepa- 
ration of  the  art  of  the  upper  classes  from  universal  art. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Causes  of  production  of  counterfeits.    Professionalism.    Criticism.     Schools   of 
art. 

In  our  society  three  conditions  co-operate  to  cause  the  pro- 
duction of  objects  of  counterfeit  art.  They  are  (1)  the 
considerable  remuneration  of  artists  for  their  productions 
and  the  professionalism  which  this  has  produced  among 
artists,  (2)  art  criticism,  and  (3)  schools  of  art. 

While  art  was  as  yet  undivided,  and  only  religious  art 
was  valued  and  rewarded  while  indiscriminate  art  was  left 
unrewarded,  there  were  no  counterfeits  of  art  or,  if  any  ex- 
isted, being  exposed  to  the  criticism  of  the  whole  people  they 
quickly  disappeared.  But  as  soon  as  that  division  occurred, 
and  the  upper  classes  acclaimed  every  kind  of  art  as  good  if 
only  it  afforded  them  pleasure,  and  began  to  reward  such 
art  more  highly  than  any  other  social  activity,  a  large  number 
of  people  immediately  devoted  themselves  to  this  activity  and 
art  assumed  quite  a  different  character  and  became  a 
profession. 

And  as  soon  as  this  occurred  the  chief  and  most  precious 
quality  of  art — its  sincerity — was  at  once  greatly  weakened 
and  eventually  quite  destroyed. 

The  professional  artist  lives  by  his  art  and  has  continually 
to  invent  subjects  for  his  works,  and  does  invent  them.  And 
it  is  obvious  how  great  a  difference  must  exist  between  works 
of  art  produced  on  the  one  hand  by  men  such  as  the  Jewish 
prophets,  the  authors  of  the  Psalms,  Francis  of  Assisi,  the 
authors  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  of  folk-stories,  legends, 
and  folk-songs,  many  of  whom  not  only  received  no  remunera- 
tion for  their  work  but  did  not  even  attach  their  names  to  it, 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  works  produced  by  court  poets,  drama- 

241 


is 


242  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

tists,  and  musicians,  receiving  honours  and  remuneration ;  and 
later  on  by  professional  artists  who  lived  by  the  trade,  re- 
ceiving remuneration  from  newspaper  editors,  publishers,  im- 
presarios, and  in  general  from  the  agents  who  come  between 
the  artists  and  the  town  public — the  consumers  of  art. 

Professionalism  is  the  first  condition  of  the  diffusion  of 
false,  counterfeit  art. 

The  second  condition  is  the  growth  in  recent  times  of 
art  criticism,  that  is,  the  valuation  of  art  not  by  everybody, 
and  above  all  not  by  plain  men,  but  by  erudite,  that  is,  by 
perverted  and  at  the  same  time  self-confident  individuals. 

A  friend  of  mine,  speaking  of  the  relation  of  critics  to 
artists,  half-jokingly  defined  it  thus:  "Critics  are  the  stupid 
who  discuss  the  wise."  However  partial,  inexact,  and  rude 
this  definition  may  be,  it  is  yet  partly  true,  and  is  incom- 
parably juster  than  the  definition  which  considers  critics  to 
be  men  who  can  explain  works  of  art. 

"Critics  explain!"     What  do  they  explain? 

The  artist,  if  a  real  artist,  has  by  his  work  transmitted 
to  others  the  feeling  he  experienced.  What  is  there,  then, 
to  explain? 

If  a  work  is  a  good  work  of  art,  then  the  feeling  expressed 
by  the  artist — be  it  moral  or  immoral — transmits  itself  to 
other  people.  If  transmitted  to  others,  then  they  feel  it 
and  all  interpretations  are  superfluous.  If  the  work  does 
not  infect  people,  no  explanation  can  make  it  contagious. 
An  artist's  work  cannot  be  interpreted.  Had  it  been  pos- 
sible to  explain  in  words  what  he  wished  to  convey,  the 
artist  would  have  expressed  himself  in  words.  He  expressed 
it  by  his  art,  only  because  the  feeling  he  experienced  could 
not  be  otherwise  transmitted.  The  interpretation  of  works  of 
art  by  words  only  indicates  that  the  interpreter  is  himself 
incapable  of  feeling  the  infection  of  art.  And  this  is  actually 
the  case  for,  however  strange  it  may  seem  to  say  so,  critics 


WHAT  IS  ART?  243 


have  always  been  people  less  susceptible  than  other  men  to 
the  contagion  of  art.  For  the  most  part  they  are  able  writers, 
educated  and  clever,  but  with  their  capacity  for  being  infected 
by  art  quite  perverted  or  atrophied.  And  therefore  their 
writings  have  always  largely  contributed,  and  still  contribute, 
to  the  perversion  of  the  taste  of  that  public  which  reads  them 
and  trusts  them. 

Art  criticism  did  not  exist — could  not  and  cannot  exist — 
in  societies  where  art  is  undivided,  and  where,  consequently,  it 
is  appraised  by  the  religious  conception  of  life  common  to 
the  whole  people.  Art  criticism  grew,  and  could  grow,  only 
on  the  art  of  the  upper  classes  who  did  not  acknowledge 
the  religious  perception  of  their  time. 

Universal  art  has  a  definite  and  indubitable  internal  cri- 
terion— religious  perception;  upper-class  art  lacks  this,  and 
therefore  the  appreciators  of  that  art  are  obliged  to  cling  to 
some  external  criterion.  And  they  find  it  in  "the  judgments 
of  the  finest-nurtured,"  as  an  English  esthetician  has  phrased 
it,  that  is,  in  the  authority  of  the  people  who  are  considered 
educated;  nor  in  this  alone,  but  also  in  a  tradition  of  such 
authorities.  This  tradition  is  extremely  misleading,  both 
because  the  opinions  of  "the  finest-nurtured"  are  often  mis- 
taken, and  also  because  judgments  which  were  valid  once 
cease  to  be  so  with  the  lapse  of  time.  But  the  critics,  having  L 
no  basis  for  their  judgments,  never  cease  to  repeat  their  tra- 
ditions. The  classical  tragedians  were  once  considered  good, 
and  therefore  criticism  considers  them  to  be  so  still.  Dante 
was  esteemed  a  great  poet,  Raphael  a  great  painter,  Bach  a 
great  musician — and  the  critics,  lacking  a  standard  by  which 
to  separate  good  art  from  bad,  not  only  consider  these  artists 
great,  but  regard  all  their  productions  as  admirable  and 
worthy  of  imitation.  Nothing  has  contributed,  and  still  con- 
tributes, so  much  to  the  perversion  of  art  as  these  authorities 
set  up  by  criticism.     A  man  produces  a  work  of  art,  express- 


244  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

ing  in  his  own  peculiar  manner,  like  every  true  artist,  a 
feeling  he  has  experienced.  Most  people  are  infected  by  the 
artist's  feeling,  and  his  work  becomes  known.  Then  criti- 
cism, discussing  the  artist,  says  that  the  work  is  not  bad,  but 
all  the  same  the  artist  is  not  a  Dante,  nor  a  Shakespeare,  nor  a 
Goethe,  nor  a  Raphael,  nor  what  Beethoven  was  in  his  last 
period.  And  the  young  artist  sets  to  work  to  copy  those  held 
up  for  his  imitation,  and  he  produces  not  only  feeble  works 
but  false  works,  counterfeits  of  art. 

Thus,  for  instance,  our  Pushkin  writes  his  short  poems, 
Evgeni  One  gin,  The  Gipsies,  and  his  stories — works  all 
varying  in  quality,  but  all  true  art.  But  then,  under  the 
influence  of  false  criticism  extolling  Shakespeare,  he  writes 
Boris  Godunov,  a  cold,  brain-spun  work,  and  this  production 
is  lauded  by  the  critics,  set  up  as  a  model,  and  imitations  of 
it  appear:  Minin  by  Ostrovski,  and  Tsar  Boris  by  Alexey 
Tolstoy,  and  such  imitations  of  imitations  as  crowd  all  litera- 
tures with  insignificant  productions.  The  chief  harm  done 
by  the  critics  is  this,  that  themselves  lacking  the  capacity  to 
be  infected  by  art  (and  that  is  the  characteristic  of  all  critics, 
for  did  they  not  lack  this  they  could  not  attempt  the  impossible 
— the  interpretation  of  works  of  art),  they  pay  most  attention 
to,  and  eulogise,  brain-spun  invented  works,  and  set  these 
up  as  models  worthy  of  imitation.  That  is  the  reason  they 
so  confidently  extol,  in  literature,  the  Greek  tragedians,  Dante, 
Tasso,  Milton,  Shakespeare,  Goethe  (almost  all  he  wrote), 
and,  among  recent  writers,  Zola  and  Ibsen;  in  music,  Beetho- 
ven's last  period,  and  Wagner.  To  justify  their  praise  of 
these  brain-spun  invented  works,  they  devise  entire  theories 
(of  which  the  famous  theory  of  beauty  is  one) ;  and  not  only 
dull  but  also  talented  people  compose  works  in  strict  defer- 
ence to  these  theories;  and  often  even  real  artists,  doing 
violence  to  their  genius,  submit  to  them. 

Every  false  work  extolled  by  the  critics  serves  as  a  door 


WHAT  IS  ART?  245 

through    which   the    hypocrites    of    art    at   once    crowd    in. 

It  is  solely  due  to  the  critics,  who  in  our  times  still  praise 
rude,  savage,  and,  for  us,  often  meaningless  works  of  the 
ancient  Greeks:  Sophocles,  Euripides,  ^Eschylus,  and  espe- 
cially Aristophanes;  or,  of  modern  writers,  Dante,  Tasso, 
Milton,  Shakespeare;  in  painting,  all  of  Raphael,  all  of  c 
Michael  Angelo,  including  his  absurd  "Last  Judgment";  in 
music,  the  whole  of  Bach,  and  the  whole  of  Beethoven,  in- 
cluding his  last  period, — thanks  only  to  them,  have  the 
Ibsens,  Maeterlincks,  Verlaines,  Mallarmes,  Puvis  de  Cha- 
vannes,  Klingers,  Bocklins,  Stucks,  Schneiders;  in  music, 
the  Wagners,  Liszts,  Berliozes,  Brahmses,  and  Richard 
Strausses,  etc.,  and  all  that  immense  mass  of  good-for- 
nothing  imitators  of  these  imitators,  become  possible  in  our 
day. 

As  a  good  illustration  of  the  harmful  influence  of  criticism, 
take  its  relation  to  Beethoven.  Among  his  innumerable 
hasty  productions  written  to  order,  there  are,  notwithstand- 
ing their  artificiality  of  form,  works  of  true  art.  But  he 
grows  deaf,  cannot  hear,  and  begins  to  write  invented,  un- 
finished works,  which  are  consequently  often  meaningless 
and  musically  unintelligible.  I  know  that  musicians  can 
imagine  sounds  vividly  enough,  and  can  almost  hear  what 
they  read,  but  imaginary  sounds  can  never  be  the  same  as 
real  ones,  and  every  composer  must  hear  his  production  in  c 
order  to  perfect  it.  Beethoven  however  could  not  hear,  could 
not  perfect  his  work,  and  consequently  published  productions 
which  are  artistic  ravings.  But  criticism,  having  once  ac- 
knowledged him  to  be  a  great  composer,  seizes  on  just  these 
abnormal  works  with  special  gusto  and  searches  for  extraor- 
dinary beauties  in  them.  And,  to  justify  its  praises  (per- 
verting the  very  meaning  of  musical  art),  it  attributed  to 
music  the  property  of  describing  what  it  cannot  describe. 
And  imitators  appear — an  innumerable  host  of  imitators  of 


246  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

these  abnormal  attempts  at  artistic  productions  which  Beetho- 
ven wrote  when  he  was  deaf. 

Then  Wagner  appears,  who  at  first  in  critical  articles 
praises  just  Beethoven's  last  period,  connecting  this  music 
with  Schopenhauer's  mystical  theory  that  music  is  the  ex- 
pression of  Will — not  of  separate  manifestations  of  will 
objectivised  on  various  planes,  but  of  its  very  essence — 
which  is  in  itself  as  absurd  as  this  music  of  Beethoven. 
And  afterwards  he  composes  music  of  his  own  on  this  theory, 
in  conjunction  with  another  still  more  erroneous  system  of 
the  union  of  all  the  arts.  After  Wagner  yet  new  imitators 
appear,  diverging  yet  further  from  art:  Brahms,  Richard 
Strauss,  and  others. 

Such  are  the  results  of  criticism.  But  the  third  condition 
of  the  perversion  of  art,  namely,  art  schools,  is  almost  more 
harmful  still. 

As  soon  as  art  became,  not  art  for  the  whole  people  but 
for  a  rich  class,  it  became  a  profession;  as  soon  as  it  became 
a  profession,  methods  were  devised  to  teach  it;  people  who 
chose  this  profession  of  art  began  to  learn  these  methods, 
and  thus  professional  schools  sprang  up:  classes  of  rhetoric 
or  literature  in  the  public  schools,  academies  for  painting, 
conservatoires  for  music,  schools  for  dramatic  art. 

In  these  schools  art  is  taught !  But  art  is  the  transmission 
to  others  of  a  special  feeling  experienced  by  the  artist.  How 
can  this  be  taught  in  schools? 

No  school  can  evoke  feeling  in  a  man,  and  still  less  can 
it  teach  him  how  to  manifest  it  in  the  one  particular  manner 
natural  to  him  alone.  But  the  essence  of  art  lies  in  these 
things. 

The  one  thing  these  schools  can  teach  is  how  to  transmit 
feelings  experienced  by  other  artists  in  the  way  those  other 
artists  transmitted  them.  And  this  is  just  what  the  pro- 
fessional schools  do  teach;   and  such  instruction  not  only 


WHAT  IS  ART?  247 

does  not  assist  the  spread  of  true  art  but,  on  the  contrary, 
by  diffusing  counterfeits  of  art  does  more  than  anything 
else  to  deprive  people  of  the  capacity  to  understand  true  art. 

In  literary  art  people  are  taught  how,  without  having 
anything  they  wish  to  say,  to  write  a  many-paged  composi- 
tion on  a  theme  about  which  they  have  never  thought  and, 
moreover,  to  write  it  so  that  it  should  resemble  the  work  of 
an  author  admitted  to  be  celebrated.  This  is  taught  in 
schools. 

In  painting  the  chief  training  consists  in  learning  to  draw 
and  paint  from  copies  and  models,  the  naked  body  chiefly 
(the  very  thing  that  is  never  seen,  and  which  a  man  occupied 
with  real  art  hardly  ever  has  to  depict),  and  to  draw  and 
paint  as  former  masters  drew  and  painted.  The  composition 
of  pictures  is  taught  by  giving  out  themes  similar  to  those 
which  have  been  treated  by  former  acknowledged  celebrities. 

So  also  in  dramatic  schools — the  pupils  are  taught  to  recite 
monologues  just  as  tragedians,  held  to  be  celebrated,  de- 
claimed them. 

It  is  the  same  in  music.  The  whole  theory  of  music  is 
nothing  but  a  disconnected  repetition  of  those  methods  which 
the  acknowledged  masters  of  composition  made  use  of. 

I  have  elsewhere  quoted  the  profound  remark  of  the  Rus- 
sian artist  Bryulov  on  art,  but  I  cannot  here  refrain  from  re- 
peating it,  because  nothing  better  illustrates  what  can  and  what 
can  not  be  taught  in  the  schools.  Once  when  correcting  a  pu- 
pil's study,  Byulov  just  touched  it  in  a  few  places,  and  the  poor 
dead  study  immediately  became  animated.  "Why,  you  only 
touched  it  a  wee  bit,  and  it  is  quite  another  thing!"  said  one 
of  the  pupils.  "Art  begins  where  the  wee  bit  begins,"  replied 
Byulov,  indicating  by  these  words  just  what  is  most  character- 
istic of  art.  The  remark  is  true  of  all  the  arts,  but  its  justice 
is  particularly  noticeable  in  the  performance  of  music.  That 
musical  execution  should  be  artistic,  should  be  art,  that  is, 


248  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

should  carry  infection,  three  chief  conditions  must  be  observed. 
There  are  many  others  needed  for  musical  perfection:  the 
transition  from  one  sound  to  another  must  be  interrupted  or 
continuous;  the  sound  must  increase  or  diminish  steadily;  it 
must  be  blended  with  one  and  not  with  another  sound;  the 
sound  must  have  this  or  that  timbre,  and  much  besides, — but 
take  the  three  chief  conditions:  the  pitch,  the  time,  and  the 
strength  of  the  sound.  Musical  execution  is  only  then  art, 
only  then  infects,  when  the  sound  is  neither  higher  nor  lower 
than  it  should  be,  that  is,  when  exactly  the  infinitely  small 
centre  of  the  required  note  is  taken;  when  that  note  is  con- 
tinued exactly  as  long  as  is  needed ;  and  when  the  strength  of 
the  sound  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  is  required.  The 
slightest  deviation  of  pitch  in  either  direction,  the  slightest 
increase  or  decrease  in  time,  or  the  slightest  strengthening  or 
weakening  of  the  sound  beyond  what  is  needed,  destroys 
the  perfection  and  consequently  the  infectiousness  of  the  work. 
So  that  the  feeling  of  infection  by  the  art  of  music,  which 
seems  so  simple  and  so  easily  obtained,  is  a  thing  we  receive 
only  when  the  performer  finds  those  infinitely  minute  degrees 
which  are  necessary  to  perfection  in  music.  It  is  the  same  in 
all  arts :  a  wee  bit  lighter,  a  wee  bit  darker,  a  wee  bit  higher, 
lower,  to  the  right  or  the  left — in  painting;  a  wee  bit 
weaker  or  stronger  in  intonation,  a  wee  bit  sooner  or  later 
— in  dramatic  art;  a  wee  bit  omitted,  over-emphasised, 
or  exaggerated — in  poetry,  and  there  is  no  contagion.  Infec- 
tion is  only  obtained  when  an  artist  finds  those  infinitely  mi- 
nute degrees  of  which  a  work  of  art  consists,  and  only  to  the 
extent  to  which  he  finds  them.  And  it  is  quite  impossible  to 
teach  people  by  external  means  to  find  these  minute  degrees: 
they  can  only  be  found  when  a  man  yields  to  his  feeling. 
No  instruction  can  make  a  dancer  catch  just  the  tact  of  the 
music,  or  a  singer  or  a  fiddler  take  exactly  the  infinitely 
minute  centre  of  his  note,  or  a  sketcher  draw  of  all  possible 


WHAT  IS  ART?  249 

lines  the  only  right  one,  or  a  poet  find  the  only  meet  arrange- 
ment of  the  only  suitable  words.  All  this  is  found  only  by 
feeling.  And  therefore  schools  may  teach  what  is  necessary 
in  order  to  produce  something  resembling  art,  but  not  art 
itself. 

The  teaching  of  the  schools  stops  where  the  wee  bit  begins 
— consequently  where  art  begins. 

Accustoming  people  to  something  resembling  art,  disaccus- 
toms them  to  the  comprehension  of  real  art.  And  that  is  how 
it  comes  about  that  none  are  more  dull  to  art  than  those  who 
have  passed  through  the  professional  schools  and  been  most 
successful  in  them.  Professional  schools  produce  an  hypoc- 
risy of  art  precisely  akin  to  that  hypocrisy  of  religion  which 
is  produced  by  theological  colleges  for  training  priests,  pas- 
tors, and  religious  teachers  generally.  As  it  is  impossible  in 
a  school  to  train  a  man  so  as  to  make  a  religious  teacher  of 
him,  so  it  is  impossible  to  teach  a  man  how  to  become  an 
artist. 

Art  schools  are  thus  doubly  destructive  of  art :  first,  in  that 
they  destroy  the  capacity  to  produce  real  art  in  those  who  have 
the  misfortune  to  enter  them  and  go  through  a  seven  or  eight 
years'  course;  and  secondly,  in  that  they  generate  enormous 
quantities  of  that  counterfeit  art  which  perverts  the  taste  of 
the  masses  and  overflows  our  world.  In  order  that  born  artists 
may  know  the  methods  of  the  various  arts  elaborated  by  for- 
mer artists,  there  should  exist  in  all  elementary  schools  such 
classes  for  drawing  and  music  (singing)  that,  after  passing 
through  them,  every  talented  scholar  may,  by  using  exist- 
ing models  accessible  to  all,  be  able  to  perfect  himself  in  his 
art  independently. 

These  three  conditions — the  professionalisation  of  artists, 
art  criticism,  and  art  schools — have  had  this  effect:  that 
most  people  in  our  times  are  quite  unable  even  to  understand 
what  art  is,  and  accept  as  art  the  grossest  counterfeits  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Wagner's  "Nibelungen  Ring"  a  type  of  counterfeit  art.  Its  success,  and  the 
reasons  thereof. 

To  what  an  extent  people  of  our  circle  and  time  have  lost 
the  capacity  to  receive  real  art,  and  have  become  accustomed 
to  accept  as  art  things  that  have  nothing  in  common  with  it, 
is  best  seen  from  the  works  of  Richard  Wagner,  which  have 
latterly  come  to  be  more  and  more  esteemed  not  only  by 
the  Germans  but  also  by  the  French  and  the  English  as  the 
very  highest  art  revealing  new  horizons  to  us. 

The  peculiarity  of  Wagner's  music,  as  is  known,  consists 
in  this,  that  he  considered  that  music  should  serve  poetry, 
expressing  all  the  shades  of  a  poetical  work. 

The  union  of  the  drama  with  music,  devised  in  the  fif- 
teenth century  in  Italy  for  the  revival  of  what  they  imagined 
to  have  been  the  ancient  Greek  music-drama,  is  an  artificial 
form  which  had,  and  has,  success  only  among  the  upper 
classes,  and  among  them  only  when  gifted  composers  such  as 
Mozart,  Weber,  Rossini,  and  others,  drawing  inspiration  from 
a  dramatic  subject,  yielded  freely  to  the  inspiration  and  sub- 
ordinated the  text  to  the  music,  so  that  in  their  operas  the  im- 
portant thing  to  the  audience  is  merely  the  music  on  a  cer- 
tain text,  and  not  the  text  at  all,  which  latter  even  when  it 
was  utterly  absurd,  as  for  instance  in  the  Magic  Flute,  still 
does  not  prevent  the  music  from  producing  an  artistic 
impression. 

Wagner  wishes  to  correct  the  opera  by  letting  music  submit 
to  the  demands  of  poetry  and  unite  with  it.  But  each  art  has 
its  own  definite  realm,  which  is  not  identical  with  the  realm  of 
other  arts  but  merely  comes  in  contact  with  them;  and  there- 
fore if  the  manifestations,  I  will  not  say  of  several  but  even  of 

250 


WHAT  IS  ART?  251 

two  arts — the  dramatic  and  the  musical — be  united  in  one  com- 
plete production,  then  the  demands  of  the  one  art  will  make 
it  impossible  to  fulfil  the  demands  of  the  other,  as  has  always 
occurred  in  the  ordinary  operas,  where  the  dramatic  art  has 
submitted  to,  or  rather  yielded  place  to,  the  musical.  Wagner 
wishes  that  musical  art  should  submit  to  dramatic  art  and 
that  both  should  appear  in  full  strength.  But  this  is  impos- 
sible, for  every  work  of  art,  if  it  be  a  true  one,  is  an  expression 
of  the  intimate  feelings  of  the  artist,  which  are  quite  peculiar 
to  him  and  not  like  anything  else.  Such  is  a  musical  produc- 
tion and  such  is  a  dramatic  work,  if  they  be  true  art.  And 
therefore,  in  order  that  a  production  in  the  one  branch  of  art 
should  coincide  with  a  production  in  the  other  branch,  it  is 
necessary  that  the  impossible  should  happen:  that  two  works/ 
from  different  realms  of  art  should  be  absolutely  exceptional, 
unlike  anything  that  existed  before,  and  yet  should  coincide 
and  be  exactly  alike. 

And  this  cannot  be,  just  as  there  cannot  be  two  men,  or 
even  two  leaves  on  a  tree,  exactly  alike.  Still  less  can  two 
works  from  different  realms  of  art,  the  musical  and  the  lit- 
erary, be  absolutely  alike.  If  they  coincide,  then  either  one 
is  a  work  of  art  and  the  other  a  counterfeit,  or  both  are  coun- 
terfeits. Two  live  leaves  cannot  be  exactly  alike  but  two  arti- 
ficial leaves  may  be.  And  so  it  is  with  works  of  art. 
They  can  only  coincide  completely  when  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other  is  art,  but  both  are  only  cunningly  devised  sem- 
blances of  it. 

If  poetry  and  music  may  be  joined,  as  occurs  in  hymns, 
songs,  and  romances — (though  even  in  these  the  music  does 
not  follow  the  changes  of  each  verse  of  the  text  as  Wagner 
wants  to,  but  the  song  and  the  music  merely  produce  a  coin- 
cident effect  on  the  mind) — this  occurs  only  because  lyrical 
poetry  and  music  have,  to  some  extent,  one  and  the  same  aim: 
to  produce  a  mental  condition,  and  the  conditions  produced 


252  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

by  lyrical  poetry  and  by  music  can,  more  or  less,  coincide. 
But  even  in  these  conjunctions  the  centre  of  gravity  always 
lies  in  one  of  the  two  productions,  so  that  it  is  one  of  them 
that  produces  the  artistic  impression  while  the  other  remains 
unregarded.  And  still  less  is  it  possible  for  such  union  to  ex- 
ist between  epic  or  dramatic  poetry  and  music. 

Moreover,  one  of  the  chief  conditions  of  artistic  creation  is 
the  complete  freedom  of  the  artist  from  every  kind  of  precon- 
ceived demand.  And  the  necessity  of  adjusting  his  musical 
work  to  a  work  from  another  realm  of  art  is  a  preconceived 
demand  of  such  a  kind  as  to  destroy  all  possibility  of  crea- 
tive power;  and  therefore  adjusted  works  of  this  kind  are 
and  must  be,  as  has  always  happened,  not  works  of  art  but 
only  imitations  of  art,  like  the  music  of  a  melodrama,  titles 
of  pictures,  illustrations  to  books,  and  librettos  to  operas. 

And  such  Wagner's  productions  are.  A  confirmation  of 
this  is  to  be  seen  in  the  fact  that  Wagner's  new  music  lacks 
the  chief  characteristic  of  every  true  work  of  art,  namely, 
such  entirety  and  completeness  that  the  smallest  alteration  in 
its  form  would  disturb  the  meaning  of  the  whole  work.  In 
a  true  work  of  art — poem,  drama,  picture,  song,  or  symphony 
— it  is  impossible  to  extract  one  line,  one  scene,  one  figure, 
or  one  bar  from  its  place  and  put  it  in  another,  without  in- 
fringing the  significance  of  the  whole  work,  just  as  it  is  impos- 
sible without  infringing  the  life  of  an  organic  being  to  extract 
an  organ  from  one  place  and  insert  it  somewhere  else.  But 
in  the  music  of  Wagner's  last  period,  with  the  exception  of 
certain  parts  of  little  importance  which  have  an  independent 
musical  meaning,  it  is  possible  to  make  all  kinds  of  transposi- 
tions, putting  what  was  in  front  behind  and  vice  versa,  without 
altering  the  musical  sense.  And  the  reason  why  these  trans- 
positions do  not  alter  the  sense  of  Wagner's  music  is  because 
the  sense  lies  in  the  words  and  not  in  the  music. 

The  musical  score  of  Wagner's  later  operas  is  like  what 


WHAT  IS  ART?  253 

would  result  should  one  of  those  versifiers — of  whom  there 
are  now  many,  with  tongues  so  broken  that  they  can,  on  any 
theme  to  any  rhymes  in  any  rhythm,  write  verses  which 
sound  as  if  they  had  a  meaning — conceive  the  idea  of  illus- 
trating by  his  verses  some  symphony  or  sonata  of  Beethoven, 
or  some  ballade  of  Chopin,  in  the  following  manner.  To 
the  first  bars  of  one  character,  he  writes  verses  corresponding 
in  his  opinion  to  those  first  bars.  Next  come  some  bars  of 
a  different  character,  and  he  also  writes  verses  corresponding 
in  his  opinion  to  them,  but  with  no  internal  connection  with 
the  first  verses,  and  moreover  without  rhymes  and  without 
rhythm.  Such  a  production,  without  the  music,  would  be 
exactly  parallel  in  poetry  to  what  Wagner's  operas  are  in 
music,  if  heard  without  the  words. 

But  Wagner  is  not  only  a  musician,  he  is  also  a  poet, 
or  both  together ;  and  therefore,  to  judge  of  Wagner  one  must 
know  his  poetry  also — that  same  poetry  which  the  music 
has  to  subserve.  The  chief  poetical  production  of  Wagner 
is  the  Nibelungen  Ring.  This  work  has  attained  such 
enormous  importance  in  our  time  and  has  such  influence  on 
all  that  now  professes  to  be  art,  that  it  is  necessary  for 
everyone  to-day  to  have  some  idea  of  it.  I  have  carefully 
read  through  the  four  booklets  which  contain  this  work,  and 
have  drawn  up  a  brief  summary  of  it,  which  I  give  in 
Appendix  III.  I  would  strongly  advise  the  reader  (if  he 
has  not  perused  the  poem  itself,  which  would  be  the  best  thing 
to  do)  at  least  to  read  my  account  of  it,  so  as  to  have  an  idea 
of  this  extraordinary  work.  It  is  a  model  work  of  counterfeit 
art  so  gross  as  to  be  even  ridiculous. 

But  we  are  told  that  it  is  impossible  to  judge  of  Wagner's 
works  without  seeing  them  on  the  stage.  The  Second  Day 
of  this  drama,  which  as  I  was  told  is  the  best  part  of  the 
whole  work,  was  given  in  Moscow  last  winter  and  I  went 
to  see  the  performance. 


254  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

When  I  arrived  the  enormous  theatre  was  already  filled 
from  top  to  bottom.  There  were  Grand-Dukes,  and  the 
flower  of  the  aristocracy,  of  the  merchant  class,  of  the  learned, 
and  of  the  middle-class  official  public.  Most  of  them  held 
the  libretto,  fathoming  its  meaning.  Musicians — some  of 
them  elderly,  grey-haired  men — followed  the  music,  score  in 
hand.  Evidently  the  performance  of  this  work  was  an  event 
of  importance. 

I  was  rather  late,  but  I  was  told  that  the  short  prelude 
with  which  the  act  begins  was  of  slight  importance  and 
that  it  did  not  matter  having  missed  it.  When  I  arrived, 
an  actor  sat  on  the  stage  amid  decorations  intended  to 
represent  a  cave  and  before  something  which  was  meant  to 
represent  a  smith's  forge.  He  was  dressed  in  trico  tights, 
with  a  cloak  of  skins,  wore  a  wig  and  an  artificial  beard,  and 
with  white,  weak,  genteel  hands  (his  easy  movements  and 
especially  the  shape  of  his  stomach  and  his  lack  of  muscle 
revealed  the  actor)  beat  an  impossible  sword  with  an  un- 
natural hammer  in  a  way  in  which  no  one  ever  uses  a  ham- 
mer; and  at  the  same  time,  opening  his  mouth  in  a  strange 
way,  he  sang  something  incomprehensible.  The  music  of 
various  instruments  accompanied  the  strange  sounds  which 
he  emitted.  From  the  libretto  one  was  able  to  gather  that 
the  actor  had  to  represent  a  powerful  dwarf  who  lived  in 
the  cave,  and  who  was  forging  a  sword  for  Siegfried,  whom 
he  had  reared.  One  could  tell  he  was  a  dwarf  by  the  fact 
that  the  actor  walked  all  the  time  bending  the  knees  of  his 
trico-covered  legs.  This  dwarf,  still  opening  his  mouth  in 
the  same  strange  way,  long  continued  to  sing  or  shout.  The 
music  meanwhile  runs  over  something  strange,  like  begin- 
nings which  are  not  continued  and  do  not  get  finished.  From 
the  libretto  one  could  learn  that  the  dwarf  is  telling  him- 
self about  a  ring  a  giant  had  obtained  and  which  the 
dwarf    wishes    to    procure    through    Siegfried's    aid,    while 


WHAT  IS  ART?  255 


Siegfried  wants  a  good  sword,  on  the  forging  of  which  the 
dwarf  is  occupied.  After  this  conversation  or  singing  to , 
himself  has  gone  on  rather  a  long  time,  other  sounds  are  heard 
in  the  orchestra,  also  like  something  beginning  and  not  finish-  ^ 
ing,  and  another  actor  appears  with  a  horn  slung  over  his 
shoulder  and  accompanied  by  a  man  running  on  all  fours 
dressed  up  as  a  bear,  whom  he  sets  at  the  smith-dwarf.  The 
latter  runs  away  without  unbending  the  knees  of  his  trico- 
covered  legs.  This  actor  with  the  horn  represented  the  hero, 
Siegfried.  The  sounds  which  were  emitted  in  the  orchestra  on 
the  entrance  of  this  actor  were  intended  to  represent  Siegfried's 
character  and  are  called  Siegfried's  leit-motiv.  And  these 
sounds  are  repeated  each  time  Siegfried  appears.  There  is 
one  fixed  combination  of  sounds,  or  leit-motiv,  for  each  char- 
acter, and  this  leit-motiv  is  repeated  every  time  the  person 
whom  it  represents  appears;  and  when  anyone  is  mentioned 
the  motiv  is  heard  which  relates  to  that  person.  Moreover 
each  article  also  has  its  own  leit-motiv  or  chord.  There  is 
a  motiv  of  the  ring,  a  motiv  of  the  helmet,  a  motiv  of  the 
apple,  a  motiv  of  fire,  spear,  sword,  water,  etc.;  and  as 
soon  as  the  ring,  helmet,  or  apple  is  mentioned,  the  motiv 
or  chord  of  the  ring,  helmet,  or  apple,  is  heard.  The  actor 
with  the  horn  opens  his  mouth  as  unnaturally  as  the  dwarf, 
and  long  continues  in  a  chanting  voice  to  shout  some  words, 
and  in  a  similar  chant  Mime  (that  is  the  dwarf's  name) 
makes  some  reply  to  him.  The  meaning  of  this  conversa- 
tion can  only  be  discovered  from  the  libretto;  and  it  is  that 
Siegfried  was  brought  up  by  the  dwarf  and  therefore,  for 
some  reason,  hates  him  and  always  wishes  to  kill  him.  The 
dwarf  has  forged  a  sword  for  Siegfried,  but  Siegfried  is 
dissatisfied  with  it.  From  a  ten-page  conversation  (by  the 
libretto),  lasting  half-an-hour  and  conducted  with  the  same 
strange  openings  of  the  mouth  and  chantings,  it  appears 
that  Siegfried's  mother  gave  birth  to  him  in  the  wood,  and 


256  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

that  concerning  his  father  all  that  is  known  is  that  he  had 
a  sword  which  was  broken,  the  pieces  of  which  are  in  Mime's 
possession,  and  that  Siegfried  does  not  know  fear,  and  wishes 
to  go  out  of  the  wood.  Mime  however  does  not  want  to 
let  him  go.  During  the  conversation  the  music  never  omits, 
at  the  mention  of  father,  sword,  etc.,  to  sound  the  motiv  of 
these  people  and  things.  After  these  conversations  fresh 
sounds  are  heard — those  of  the  god  Wotan — and  a  wanderer 
appears.  This  wanderer  is  the  god  Wotan.  Also  dressed 
up  in  a  wig,  and  also  in  tights,  this  god  Wotan,  standing 
in  a  stupid  pose  with  a  spear,  thinks  proper  to  recount  what 
Mime  must  have  known  before,  but  what  it  is  necessary  to 
tell  the  audience.  He  does  not  tell  it  simply,  but  in  the  form 
of  riddles  which  he  orders  himself  to  guess,  staking  his  head 
(one  does  not  know  why)  that  he  will  guess  right.  Moreover, 
whenever  the  wanderer  strikes  his  spear  on  the  ground,  fire 
comes  out  of  the  ground,  and  in  the  orchestra  the  sounds  of 
spear  and  of  fire  are  heard.  The  orchestra  accompanies  the 
conversation,  and  the  motivs  of  the  people  and  things  spoken 
of  are  always  artfully  intermingled.  Besides  this  the  music 
expresses  feelings  in  the  most  naive  manner:  the  terrible  by 
sounds  in  the  bass,  the  frivolous  by  rapid  touches  in  the 
treble,  and  so  forth. 

The  riddles  have  no  meaning  except  to  tell  the  audience 
what  the  nibelungs  are,  what  the  giants  are,  what  the  gods 
are,  and  what  has  happened  before.  This  conversation  also 
is  chanted  with  strangely  opened  mouths  and  continues  for 
eight  libretto  pages,  and  a  correspondingly  long  time  on  the 
stage.  After  this  the  wanderer  departs  and  Siegfried  returns 
and  talks  with  Mime  for  thirteen  pages  more.  There  is  not 
a  single  melody  the  whole  of  this  time,  but  merely  intertwin- 
ings  of  the  leit-motivs  of  the  people  and  things  mentioned. 
The  conversation  shows  that  Mime  wishes  to  teach  Siegfried 
fear  and  that  Siegfried  does  not  know  what  fear  is.     Having 


WHAT  IS  ART?  257 

finished  this  conversation,  Siegfried  seizes  one  of  the  pieces 
of  what  is  meant  to  represent  the  broken  sword,  saws  it  up, 
puts  it  on  what  is  meant  to  represent  the  forge,  melts  it,  and 
then  forges  it  and  sings:  "Heiho!  heiho!  heiho!  Ho!  ho! 
Aha!  oho!  aha!  Heiaho!  heiaho!  heiaho!  Ho!  ho! 
Hahei!  hoho!  hahei!"  and  Act  I  finishes. 

Upon  the  question  I  had  come  to  the  theatre  to  decide,  my 
mind  was  fully  made  up,  as  surely  as  on  the  question 
of  the  merits  of  my  lady  acquaintance's  novel  when  she  read 
me  the  scene  between  the  loose-haired  maiden  in  the  white 
dress  and  the  hero  with  two  white  dogs  and  a  hat  with  a 
feather  a  la  Guillaume  Tell. 

From  an  author  who  could  compose  such  spurious  scenes, 
outraging  all  esthetic  feeling,  as  those  which  I  had  witnessed, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  hoped;  it  may  safely  be  decided  that 
all  that  such  an  author  can  write  will  be  bad,  because  he 
evidently  does  not  know  what  a  true  work  of  art  is.  I  wished 
to  leave,  but  the  friends  I  was  with  asked  me  to  remain,  de- 
claring that  one  could  not  form  an  opinion  by  that  one  act, 
and  that  the  second  would  be  better.  So  I  stopped  for  the 
second  act. 

Act  II,  night.  Afterwards  dawn.  In  general  the  whole 
piece  is  crammed  with  lights,  clouds,  moonlight,  darkness, 
magic  fires,  thunder,  etc. 

The  scene  represents  a  wood,  and  in  the  wood  there  is  a 
cave.  At  the  entrance  to  the  cave  sits  a  fourth  actor  in  tights, 
representing  another  dwarf.  Dawn  appears.  Enter  the 
god  Wotan,  again  with  a  spear  and  again  in  the  guise  of  a 
wanderer.  Again  his  sounds,  together  with  fresh  sounds  of 
the  deepest  bass  that  can  be  produced.  These  latter  indicate 
that  the  dragon  is  speaking.  Wotan  awakens  the  dragon. 
The  same  bass  sounds  are  repeated,  growing  yet  deeper  and 
deeper.  First  the  dragon  says,  "I  want  to  sleep,"  but  after- 
wards he  crawls  out  of  the  cave.     The  dragon  is  represented 


258  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

by  two  men:  it  is  dressed  in  a  green  scaly  skin,  and  waves  a 
tail  at  one  end  while  at  the  other  it  opens  a  kind  of  croco- 
dile's jaw  that  is  fastened  on  and  from  which  flames  appear. 
The  dragon  (who  is  meant  to  be  dreadful,  and  may  appear  so 
to  five-year-old  children)  utters  some  words  in  a  terribly 
bass  voice.  This  is  all  so  stupid,  so  like  what  is  done  in  the 
booth  at  a  fair,  that  it  is  surprising  that  people  over  seven 
years  of  age  can  witness  it  seriously;  yet  thousands  of  quasi- 
cultured  people  sit  and  attentively  hear  and  see  it,  and  are 
delighted. 

Siegfried  with  his  horn  reappears,  as  does  Mime  also.  In 
the  orchestra  the  sounds  denoting  them  are  emitted,  and 
they  talk  about  whether  Siegfried  does  or  does  not  know 
fear.  Mime  goes  away,  and  a  scene  commences  which  is 
intended  to  be  most  poetic.  Siegfried,  in  his  tights,  lies 
down  in  a  would-be  beautiful  pose  and  alternately  keeps 
silent  and  talks  to  himself.  He  ponders,  listens  to  the  sing- 
ing of  birds,  and  desires  to  imitate  them.  For  this  purpose 
he  cuts  a  reed  with  his  sword  and  makes  a  pipe.  The  dawn 
grows  brighter  and  brighter;  the  birds  sing.  Siegfried  tries 
to  imitate  the  birds.  In  the  orchestra  is  heard  the  imitation 
of  birds,  alternating  with  sounds  corresponding  to  the  words 
he  speaks.  But  Siegfried  does  not  succeed  with  his  pipe- 
playing,  so  he  plays  on  his  horn  instead.  This  scene  is 
unendurable.  Of  music,  that  is,  of  art  serving  as  a  means  to 
transmit  a  state  of  mind  experienced  by  the  author,  there  is 
not  even  a  suggestion.  There  is  something  that  is  absolutely 
unintelligible  musically.  In  a  musical  sense  a  hope  contin- 
ually arises,  followed  by  disappointment,  as  if  a  musical 
thought  were  commenced  only  to  be  broken  off.  If  there  are 
something  like  musical  beginnings,  these  beginnings  are  so 
short,  so  encumbered  with  complications  of  harmony  and 
orchestration  and  with  effects  of  contrast,  are  so  obscure  and 
unfinished,  and  what  is  happening  on  the  stage  meanwhile 


WHAT  IS  ART?  259 

is  so  abnominably  false,  that  it  is  difficult  even  to  perceive 
these  musical  snatches,  let  alone  to  be  infected  by  them.  Above 
all,  from  the  very  beginning  to  the  very  end  and  in  each  note, 
the  author's  purpose  is  so  audible  and  visible  that  one  sees  and 
hears  neither  Siegfried  nor  the  birds,  but  only  a  limited  self- 
opinionated  German  of  bad  taste  and  bad  style,  who  has  a 
most  false  conception  of  poetry,  and  in  the  rudest  and  most 
primitive  manner  wishes  to  transmit  to  me  these  false  and 
mistaken  conceptions  of  his. 

Everyone  knows  the  feeling  of  distrust  and  resistance 
always  evoked  by  an  author's  evident  predetermination.  A 
narrator  need  only  to  say  in  advance,  "Prepare  to  cry,"  or  "to 
laugh,"  and  you  are  sure  neither  to  cry  nor  to  laugh.  But  -'- 
when  you  see  that  an  author  prescribes  emotion  at  what  is  not 
touching  but  only  laughable  or  disgusting,  and  when  you 
see  moreover  that  the  author  is  fully  assured  that  he  has  cap- 
tivated you,  a  painfully  tormenting  feeling  results  similar 
to  what  one  would  feel  if  an  old,  deformed  woman  put  on 
a  ball-dress  and  smilingly  coquetted  before  you,  confident  of 
your  approbation.  This  impression  was  strengthened  by  the 
fact  that  around  me  I  saw  a  crowd  of  three  thousand  people, 
who  not  only  patiently  witnessed  all  this  absurd  nonsense  but 
even  considered  it  their  duty  to  be  delighted  with  it. 

I  somehow  managed  to  sit  out  the  next  scene  also,  in 
which  the  monster  appears  to  the  accompaniment  of  his  bass 
notes  intermingled  with  the  motiv  of  Siegfried;  but  after  the 
fight  with  the  monster,  and  all  the  roars,  fires,  and  sword- 
wavings,  I  could  stand  no  more  of  it,  and  escaped  from  the 
theatre  with  a  feeling  of  repulsion  which  even  now  I  cannot 
forget. 

Listening  to  this  opera,  I  involuntarily  thought  of  a  re- 
spected, wise,  educated,  country  labourer — one,  for  instance, 
of  those  wise  and  truly  religious  men  whom  I  know  among 
the  peasants, — and  I  pictured  to  myself  the  terrible  perplex- 


260  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

ity  such  a  man  would  be  in  were  he  to  witness  what  I  was 
seeing  that  evening. 

What  would  he  think  if  he  knew  of  all  the  labour  spent 
on  such  a  performance,  and  saw  that  audience,  those  great 
ones  of  the  earth, — old,  bald-headed,  grey-bearded  men, 
whom  he  had  been  accustomed  to  respect — sit  silent  and  at- 
tentive, listening  to  and  looking  at  all  these  stupidities  for 
five  hours  on  end?  Not  to  speak  of  an  adult  labourer,  one 
can  hardly  imagine  even  a  child  of  over  seven  occupying 
himself  with  such  a  stupid,  incoherent  fairy  tale. 

And  yet  an  enormous  audience,  the  cream  of  the  cultured 
upper  classes,  sits  out  five  hours  of  this  insane  performance, 
and  goes  away  imagining  that  by  paying  tribute  to  this 
nonsense  it  has  acquired  a  fresh  right  to  esteem  itself  ad- 
vanced and  enlightened. 

I  speak  of  the  Moscow  public.  But  what  is  the  Moscow 
public?  It  is  but  a  hundredth  part  of  that  public  which 
while  considering  itself  most  highly  enlightened,  esteems  it 
a  merit  so  to  have  lost  the  capacity  of  being  infected  by  art 
that  not  only  can  it  witness  this  stupid  sham  without  being 
revolted,  but  can  even  take  delight  in  it. 

In  Bayreuth,  where  these  performances  were  first  given, 
people  who  considered  themselves  finely  cultured  assembled 
from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  spent,  say,  £100  each  to  see  this 
performance,  and  for  four  days  running  went  to  see 
and  hear  this  nonsensical  rubbish,  sitting  it  out  for  six  hours 
each  day. 

But  why  did  people  go,  and  why  do  they  still  go  to  these 
performances,  and  why  do  they  admire  them?  The  question 
naturally  presents  itself:  How  is  the  success  of  Wagner's 
works  to  be  explained? 

That  success  I  explain  to  myself  in  this  way:  thanks  to 
his  exceptional  position  in  having  at  his  disposal  the  re- 
sources of  a  king,  Wagner  was  able  to  command  all  the 


WHAT  IS  ART?  261 

methods  for  counterfeiting  art  which  have  been  developed  by 
long  usage,  and  employing  these  methods  with  great  ability 
he  produced  a  model  work  of  counterfeit  art.  The  reason 
why  I  have  selected  his  work  for  my  illustration  is,  that  in 
no  other  counterfeit  of  art  known  to  me  are  all  the  methods 
by  which  art  is  counterfeited — viz.,  borrowings,  imitations, 
dramatic  effects,  and  interest — so  ably  and  powerfully  united. 

From  the  subject  borrowed  from  antiquity,  to  the  clouds 
and  the  risings  of  the  sun  and  moon,  Wagner  in  this  work 
has  made  use  of  all  that  is  considered  poetic.  We  have 
here  the  sleeping  beauty,  and  nymphs,  and  subterranean 
fires,  and  dwarfs,  and  battles,  and  swords,  and  love,  and 
incest,  and  a  monster,  and  singing-birds:  the  whole  arsenal 
of  the  poetic  is  brought  into  action. 

Moreover  everything  is  imitative:  the  decorations  are  imi- 
tated and  the  costumes  are  imitated.  All  is  just  as,  according 
to  the  data  supplied  by  archaeology,  they  would  have  been 
in  antiquity.  The  very  sounds  are  imitative,  for  Wagner,  who 
was  not  destitute  of  musical  talent,  invented  just  such  sounds 
as  imitate  the  strokes  of  a  hammer,  the  hissing  of  molten  iron, 
the  singing  of  birds,  etc. 

Furthermore,  in  this  work  everything  is  in  the  highest 
degree  striking  in  its  effects  and  in  its  peculiarities:  its  mon- 
sters, its  magic  fires,  and  its  scenes  under  water;  the  dark- 
ness in  which  the  audience  sit,  the  invisibility  of  the  orchestra, 
and  the  hitherto  unemployed  combinations  of  harmony. 

And  besides,  it  is  all  interesting.  The  interest  lies  not 
only  in  the  question  who  will  kill  whom,  and  who  will 
marry  whom,  and  who  is  whose  son,  and  what  will  happen 
next? — the  interest  lies  also  in  the  relation  of  the  music 
to  the  text.  The  rolling  waves  of  the  Rhine — now  how 
is  that  to  be  expressed  in  music?  An  evil  dwarf  appears 
— how  is  the  music  to  express  an  evil  dwarf? — and  how 
is  it  to  express  the  sensuality  of  this  dwarf?     How  will 


262  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

bravery,  fire,  or  apples,  be  expressed  in  music?  How  are 
the  leit-motivs  of  the  people  speaking  to  be  interwoven  with 
the  leit-motivs  of  the  people  and  objects  about  whom  they 
speak?  And  the  music  has  a  further  interest.  It  diverges 
from  all  formerly  accepted  laws,  and  most  unexpected  and 
totally  new  modulations  crop  up  (as  is  not  only  possible 
but  even  easy  in  music  having  no  inner  law  of  its  being) ; 
the  dissonances  are  new,  and  are  allowed  in  a  new  way — 
and  this,  too,  is  interesting. 

And  it  is  this  poeticality,  imitativeness,  effectfulness,  and 
interestingness  which,  thanks  to  the  peculiarities  of  Wagner's 
talent  and  to  the  advantageous  position  in  which  he  was 
placed,  are  in  these  productions  carried  to  the  highest  pitch 
of  perfection,  which  so  act  on  the  spectator,  hypnotising  him 
as  one  would  be  hypnotised  who  should  listen  for  several 
consecutive  hours-  to  maniacal  ravings  pronounced  with  great 
oratorical  power. 

People  say,  "You  cannot  judge  without  having  seen 
Wagner  performed  at  Bayreuth:  in  the  dark,  where  the 
orchestra  is  out  of  sight  concealed  under  the  stage,  and  where 
the  performance  is  brought  to  the  highest  perfection."  And 
this  just  proves  that  we  have  here  no  question  of  art,  but  one 
of  hypnotism.  It  is  just  what  the  spiritualists  say.  To 
convince  you  of  the  reality  of  their  apparitions  they  usually 
say,  "You  cannot  judge;  you  must  try  it,  be  present  at  several 
seances,"  that  is,  come  and  sit  silent  in  the  dark  for  hours 
together  in  the  same  room  with  semi-sane  people  and  repeat 
this  some  ten  times  over,  and  you  shall  see  all  that  we  see. 

Yes,  naturally!  Only  place  yourself  in  such  conditions, 
and  you  may  see  what  you  will.  But  this  can  be  still  more 
quickly  attained  by  getting  drunk  or  smoking  opium.  It 
is  the  same  when  listening  to  an  opera  of  Wagner's.  Sit 
in  the  dark  for  four  days  in  company  with  people  who  are 
not  quite  normal,  and  through  the  auditory  nerves  subject 


WHAT  IS  ART?  263 


your  brain  to  the  strongest  action  of  the  sounds  best  adapted 
to  excite  it,  and  you  will  no  doubt  be  reduced  to  an  abnormal 
condition  and  be  enchanted  by  absurdities.  But  to  attain 
this  end  you  do  not  even  need  four  days;  the  five  hours 
during  which  one  "day"  is  enacted,  as  in  Moscow,  are  quite 
enough.  Nor  are  five  hours  needed;  even  one  hour  is  enough 
for  people  who  have  no  clear  conception  of  what  art  should 
be,  and  who  have  concluded  in  advance  that  what  they  are 
going  to  see  is  excellent,  and  that  indifference  or  dissatis- 
faction with  this  work  will  serve  as  a  proof  of  their  infe- 
riority and  lack  of  culture. 

I  observed  the  audience  present  at  this  representation.  The 
people  who  led  the  whole  audience  and  gave  the  tone  to  it 
were  those  who  had  previously  been  hypnotized  and  who 
again  succumbed  to  the  hypnotic  influence  to  which  they 
were  accustomed.  These  hypnotized  people,  being  in  an  ab- 
normal condition,  were  perfectly  enraptured.  Moreover  all 
the  art  critics,  who  lack  the  capacity  to  be  infected  by  art 
and  therefore  always  especially  prize  works  like  Wagner's 
opera  where  it  is  all  an  affair  of.  the  intellect,  also  with 
much  profundity  expressed  their  approval  of  a  work  afford- 
ing such  ample  material  for  ratiocination.  And  following 
these  two  groups  went  that  large  city  crowd  (indifferent  to 
art,  with  their  capacity  to  be  infected  by  it  perverted  and 
partly  atrophied),  headed  by  the  princes,  millionaires,  and 
art  patrons,  who,  like  sorry  harriers,  keep  close  to  those  who 
most  loudly  and  decidedly  express  their  opinion. 

" Oh  yes,  certainly!  What  poetry!  Marvellous!  Especi- 
ally the  birds!"  "Yes,  yes!  I  am  quite  vanquished!" 
exclaim  these  people,  repeating  in  various  tones  what  they 
have  just  heard  from  men  whose  opinion  appears  to  them 
authoritative. 

If  some  people  do  feel  insulted  by  the  absurdity  and 
spuriousness  of  the  whole  thing,  they  are  timidly  silent,  as 


264  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

sober  men  are  timid  and  silent  when  surrounded  by  tipsy 
people. 

And  thus,  thanks  to  the  masterly  skill  with  which  it  counter- 
feits art  while  having  nothing  in  common  with  it,  a  meaning- 
less, coarse,  spurious  production  finds  acceptance  all  over 
the  world,  costs  millions  of  roubles  to  produce,  and  assists 
more  and  more  to  pervert  the  taste  of  people  of  the  upper 
classes  and  their  conception  of  art. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Truths  fatal  to  preconceived  views  are  not  readily  recognised.  Proportion  of 
works  of  art  to  counterfeits.  Perversion  of  taste  and  incapacity  to  recognise)  art. 
Examples. 

I  know  that  most  men — not  only  those  considered  clever, 
but  even  those  who  are  very  clever,  and  capable  of  under- 
standing most  difficult  scientific,  mathematical,  or  philo- 
sophic problems — can  very  seldom  discern  even  the  simplest 
and  most  obvious  truth  if  it  be  such  as  to  oblige  them  to  ad- 
mit the  falsity  of  conclusions  they  have  formed,  perhaps  with 
much  difficulty — conclusions  of  which  they  are  proud,  which 
they  have  taught  to  others,  and  on  which  they  have  built 
their  lives.  And  therefore  I  have  little  hope  that  what  I  ad- 
duce as  to  the  perversion  of  art  and  taste  in  our  society  will 
be  accepted  or  even  seriously  considered.  Nevertheless,  I 
must  state  fully  the  inevitable  conclusion  to  which  my  investi- 
gation into  the  question  of  art  has  brought  me.  This  inves- 
tigation has  brought  me  to  the  conviction  that  almost  all  that 
our  society  considers  to  be  art,  good  art,  and  the  whole  of  art, 
far  from  being  real  and  good  art  and  the  whole  of  art,  is  not 
even  art  at  all,  but  only  a  counterfeit  of  it.  This  position,  I 
know,  will  seem  very  strange  and  paradoxical;  but  if  we 
once  acknowledge  art  to  be  human  activity  by  means  of  which 
some  people  transmit  their  feelings  to  others  (and  not  a  serv- 
ice of  Beauty,  or  a  manifestation  of  the  Idea,  and  so  forth), 
we  shall  inevitably  have  to  admit  this  further  conclusion 
also.  If  it  is  true  that  art  is  an  activity  by  means  of  which 
one  man  having  experienced  a  feeling  intentionally  transmits 
it  to  others,  then  we  have  inevitably  to  admit  further  that  of 
all  that  among  us  is  termed  art  (the  art  of  the  upper  classes) — 

265 


266  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

)of  all  those  novels,  stories,  dramas,  comedies,  pictures,  sculp- 
tures, symphonies,  operas,  operettas,  ballets,  etc.,  which  pro- 
I  fess  to  be  works  of  art,  scarcely  one  in  a  hundred  thousand 
/  proceeds  from  an  emotion  felt  by  its  author,  all  the  rest  being 
but  manufactured  counterfeits  of  art,  in  which  borrowing, 
imitation,  effects,  and  interest,  replace  the  contagion  of  feel- 
vjng.  That  the  proportion  of  real  productions  of  art  is  to 
the  counterfeits  as  one  to  some  hundreds  of  thousands  or  even 
more,  may  be  seen  by  the  following  calculation.  I  have  read 
somewhere  that  the  artist  painters  in  Paris  alone  number 
30,000;  there  will  probably  be  as  many  in  England,  as  many 
in  Germany,  and  as  many  in  Russia,  Italy,  and  the  smaller 
states  combined.  So  that  in  all  there  will  be  in  Europe,  say, 
120,000  painters;  and  there  are  probably  as  many  musicians 
and  as  many  literary  artists.  If  these  360,000  individuals 
produce  three  works  a  year  each  (and  many  of  them  produce 
ten  or  more),  then  each  year  yields  over  a  million  so-called 
works  of  art.  How  many  then  must  have  been  produced  in 
the  last  ten  years,  and  how  many  in  the  whole  time  since 
upper-class  art  broke  off  from  the  art  of  the  whole  people? 
Evidently  millions.  Yet  who  of  all  the  connoisseurs  of  art 
has  received  impressions  from  all  these  pseudo  works  of  art? 
Not  to  mention  all  the  labouring  classes  who  have  no  con- 
ception of  these  productions,  even  people  of  the  upper  classes 
cannot  know  one  in  a  thousand  of  them  all,  and  cannot  remem- 
ber those  they  have  known.  These  works  all  appear  under 
the  guise  of  art,  produce  no  impression  on  anyone  (except 
when  they  serve  as  pastimes  for  the  idle  crowd  of  rich  people), 
and  vanish  utterly. 

In  reply  to  this  it  is  usually  said  that  without  this  enor- 
mous number  of  unsuccessful  attempts  we  should  not  have 
the  real  works  of  art.  But  such  reasoning  is  as  though  a 
baker,  in  reply  to  a  reproach  that  his  bread  was  bad,  were 
to  say  that  if  it  were  not  for  the  hundreds  of  spoiled  loaves 


WHAT  IS  ART?  267 

there  would  not  be  any  well-baked  ones.  It  is  true  that  where 
there  is  gold  there  is  also  much  sand;  but  that  cannot  serve 
as  a  reason  for  talking  a  lot  of  nonsense  in  order  to  say 
something  wise. 

We  are  surrounded  by  productions  considered  artistic. 
Thousands  of  verses,  thousands  of  poems,  thousands  of  novels, 
thousands  of  dramas,  thousands  of  pictures,  thousands  of 
musical  pieces,  follow  one  after  another.  All  the  verses  de- 
scribe love,  or  nature,  or  the  author's  state  of  mind,  and  in  all 
of  them  rhyme  and  rhythm  are  observed.  All  the  dramas  and 
comedies  are  splendidly  mounted  and  are  performed  by  admi- 
rably trained  actors.  All  the  novels  are  divided  into  chap- 
ters; all  of  them  describe  love,  contain  effective  situations,  and 
correctly  describe  the  details  of  life.  All  the  symphonies 
contain  allegro,  andante,  scherzo,  and  finale;  all  consist  of 
modulations  and  chords,  and  are  played  by  highly-trained 
musicians.  All  the  pictures,  in  gold  frames,  saliently  depict 
faces  and  sundry  accessories.  But  among  these  productions 
in  the  various  branches  of  art  there  is  in  each  branch  one 
among  hundreds  of  thousands  not  only  somewhat  better  than 
the  rest,  but  differing  from  them  as  a  diamond  differs  from 
paste.  The  one  is  priceless,  the  others  not  only  have  no  value 
but  are  worse  than  valueless  for  they  deceive  and  pervert 
taste.  And  yet  externally  they  are,  to  a  man  of  perverted 
or  atrophied  artistic  perception,  precisely  alike. 

In  our  society  the  difficulty  of  recognising  real  works  of 
art  is  further  increased  by  the  fact  that  the  external  quality 
of  the  work  in  false  productions  is  not  only  no  worse,  but 
often  better,  than  real  ones;  the  counterfeit  is  often  more 
effective  than  the  real,  and  its  subject  more  interesting. 
How  is  one  to  discriminate?  How  is  one  to  find  a  production 
in  no  way  distinguished  in  externals  from  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  others  intentionally  made  precisely  to  imitate  it? 

For  a  country  peasant  of  unperverted  taste  this   is  as 


268  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

easy  as  it  is  for  an  animal  of  unspoilt  scent  to  follow  the 
trace  he  needs  among  a  thousand  others  in  wood  or  forest. 
The  animal  unerringly  finds  what  he  needs.  So  also  the 
man,  if  only  his  natural  qualities  have  not  been  perverted, 
will  without  fail  select  from  among  thousands  of  objects  the 
real  work  of  art  he  requires — that  infecting  him  with  the 
feeling  experienced  by  the  artist.  But  it  is  not  so  with  those 
whose  taste  has  been  perverted  by  their  education  and  life. 
The  receptive  feeling  of  these  people  is  atrophied,  and  in 
valuing  artistic  productions  they  must  be  guided  by  discussion 
and  study,  which  discussion  and  study  completely  confuse 
them.  So  that  most  people  in  our  society  are  quite  unable 
to  distinguish  a  work  of  art  from  the  grossest  counterfeit. 
People  sit  for  whole  hours  in  concert-rooms  and  theatres 
listening  to  the  new  composers,  consider  it  a  duty  to  read  the 
novels  of  the  famous  modern  novelists  and  to  look  at  pictures 
representing  either  something  incomprehensible  or  just  the 
very  things  they  see  much  better  in  real  life;  and,  above  all, 
they  consider  it  incumbent  on  them  to  be  enraptured  by 
all  this,  imagining  it  all  to  be  art,  while  at  the  same  time 
they  will  pass  real  works  of  art  by  not  only  without  atten- 
tion, but  even  with  contempt,  merely  because  in  their  circle 
these  works  are  not  included  in  the  list  of  works  of  art. 

A  few  days  ago  I  was  returning  home  from  a  walk  feeling 
depressed,  as  sometimes  happens.  On  nearing  the  house  I 
heard  the  loud  singing  of  a  large  choir  of  peasant  women. 
They  were  welcoming  my  daughter,  celebrating  her  return 
home  after  her  marriage.  In  this  singing,  with  its  cries 
and  clanging  of  scythes,  such  a  definite  feeling  of  joy 
cheerfulness  and  energy  was  expressed,  that  without  noticing 
how  it  infected  me  I  continued  on  my  way  towards  the 
house  in  a  better  mood  and  reached  home  smiling  and  quite 
in  good  spirits.  That  same  evening  a  visitor,  an  admirable 
musician  famed  for  his  execution  of  classical  music  and 


WHAT  IS  ART?  269 


particularly  of  Beethoven,  played  us  Beethoven's  sonata, 
Opus  101.  For  the  benefit  of  those  who  might  otherwise 
attribute  my  judgment  of  that  sonata  of  Beethoven  to  non- 
comprehension  of  it,  I  should  mention  that  whatever  other 
people  understand  of  that  sonata  and  of  other  productions 
of  Beethoven's  later  period,  I,  being  very  susceptible  to  music, 
understand  equally.  For  a  long  time  I  used  to  attune  my- 
self to  delight  in  those  shapeless  improvisations  which  form 
the  subject-matter  of  the  works  of  Beethoven's  later  period, 
but  I  had  only  to  consider  the  question  of  art  seriously,  and 
to  compare  the  impression  I  received  from  Beethoven's  later 
works  with  those  pleasant,  clear,  and  strong,  musical  impres- 
sions which  are  transmitted,  for  instance,  by  the  melodies  of 
Bach  (his  arias),  Haydn,  Mozart,  Chopin  (when  his  melodies 
are  not  overloaded  with  complications  and  ornamentation), 
and  of  Beethoven  himself  in  his  earlier  period,  and  above 
all,  with  the  impressions  produced  by  folk-songs, — Italian, 
Norwegian,  or  Russian, — by  the  Hungarian  csdrdtTs,  and 
other  such  simple,  clear,  and  powerful  music,  and  the  obscure, 
almost  unhealthy,  excitement  from  Beethoven's  later  pieces 
which  I  had  artificially  evoked  in  myself,  was  immediately 
destroyed. 

On  the  completion  of  the  performance  (though  it  was 
noticeable  that  everyone  had  become  dull)  those  present,  in 
the  accepted  manner,  warmly  praised  Beethoven's  profound 
production  and  did  not  forget  to  add  that  formerly  they 
had  not  been  able  to  understand  that  last  period  of  his, 
but  that  they  now  saw  he  was  really  then  at  his  very  best. 
And  when  I  ventured  to  compare  the  impression  made  on  me 
by  the  singing  of  the  peasant  women — an  impression  which 
had  been  shared  by  all  who  heard  it — with  the  effect 
of  this  sonata,  the  admirers  of  Beethoven  only  smiled  con- 
temptuously, not  considering  it  necessary  to  reply  to  such 
strange  remarks. 


270  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

But  for  all  that  the  song  of  the  peasant  women  was  real 
art  transmitting  a  definite  and  strong  feeling,  while  the 
101st  sonata  of  Beethoven  was  only  an  unsuccessful  attempt 
at  art,  containing  no  definite  feeling  and  therefore  not 
infectuous. 

For  my  work  on  art  I  have  this  winter  read  diligently, 
though  with  great  effort,  the  celebrated  novels  and  stories, 
praised  by  all  Europe,  written  by  Zola,  Bourget,  Huysmans, 
and  Kipling.  At  the  same  time  I  chanced  on  a  story  in  a 
child's  magazine,  by  a  quite  unknown  writer,  which  told 
of  the  Easter  preparations  in  a  poor  widow's  family.  The 
story  tells  how  the  mother  managed  with  difficulty  to  obtain 
some  wheat-flour,  which  she  poured  on  the  table  ready  to 
knead.  She  then  went  out  to  procure  some  yeast,  telling 
the  children  not  to  leave  the  hut  and  to  take  care  of  the 
flour.  When  the  mother  had  gone,  some  other  children  ran 
shouting  near  the  window,  calling  those  in  the  hut  to  come 
to  play.  The  children  forgot  their  mother's  warning,  ran 
into  the  street,  and  were  soon  engrossed  in  the  game.  The 
mother,  on  her  return  with  the  yeast,  finds  a  hen  on  the  table 
throwing  the  last  of  the  flour  to  her  chickens,  who  were  busily 
picking  it  out  of  the  dust  of  the  earthen  floor.  The  mother, 
in  despair,  scolds  the  children,  who  cry  bitterly.  And  the 
mother  begins  to  feel  pity  for  them — but  the  white  flour  has 
all  gone.  So  to  mend  matters  she  decides  to  make  the  Easter 
cake  with  sifted  rye-flour,  brushing  it  over  with  white  of  egg 
and  surrounding  it  with  eggs.  "Rye-bread  which  we  bake 
is  as  good  as  a  cake,"  says  the  mother,  using  a  rhyming 
proverb  to  console  the  children  for  not  having  an  Easter  cake 
made  with  white  flour.  And  the  children,  quickly  passing 
from  despair  to  rapture,  repeat  the  proverb  and  await  the 
Easter  cake  more  merrily  even  than  before. 

Well!  the  reading  of  the  novels  and  stories  by  Zola, 
Bourget,  Huysmans,  Kipling,  and  others,  handling  the  most 


"THE  DAY  OF  JUDGMENT" 

A  painting  by  V.  M.  Vasnetsov  in  Kief  Cathedral 
An  example  of  a  sort  of  picture  Tolstoy  disliked 


WHAT  IS  ART?  271 

harrowing  subjects,  did  not  touch  me  for  one  moment,  and 
I  was  provoked  with  the  authors  all  the  while  as  one  is 
provoked  with  a  man  who  considers  you  so  naive  that  he 
does  not  even  conceal  the  trick  by  which  he  intends  to  take 
you  in.  From  the  first  lines  you  see  the  intention  with 
which  the  book  is  written,  the  details  all  become  superfluous, 
and  one  feels  dull.  Above  all,  one  knows  that  the  author 
had  no  other  feeling  all  the  time  than  a  desire  to  write  a 
story  or  a  novel,  and  so  one  receives  no  artistic  impression. 
On  the  other  hand  I  could  not  tear  myself  away  from  the 
unknown  author's  tale  of  the  children  and  the  chickens, 
because  I  was  at  once  infected  by  the  feeling  the  author  had 
evidently  experienced,  re-evoked  in  himself,  and  transmitted. 

Vasnetsov  is  one  of  our  Russian  painters.  He  has  painted 
ecclesiastical  pictures  in  Kief  Cathedral,  and  everyone 
praises  him  as  the  founder  of  some  new,  elevated  kind  of 
Christian  art.  He  worked  at  those  pictures  for  ten  years, 
was  paid  tens  of  thousands  of  roubles  for  them,  and  they  are 
all  simply  bad  imitations  of  imitations  of  imitations,  destitute 
of  any  spark  of  feeling.  And  this  same  Vasnetsov  drew  a 
picture  for  Turgenev's  story  "The  Quail"  (in  which  it  is 
told  how  a  son  pitied  a  quail  that  he  had  seen  his  father  kill) 
showing  the  boy  asleep  with  pouting  upper  lip,  and  above 
him,  as  a  dream,  the  quail.  And  this  picture  is  a  true  work 
of  art. 

In  the  English  Academy  of  1897  two  pictures  were  ex- 
hibited together;  one  of  which,  by  J.  C.  Dollman,  was  the 
temptation  of  St.  Anthony.  The  Saint  is  on  his  knees  pray- 
ing. Behind  him  stands  a  naked  woman  and  animals  of 
some  kind.  It  is  apparent  that  the  naked  woman  pleased 
the  artist  very  much,  but  that  Anthony  did  not  concern  him 
at  all;  and  that  so  far  from  the  temptation  being  terrible  to 
him  (the  artist)  it  is  highly  agreeable.  And  therefore  if 
there  be  any  art  in  this  picture,  it  is  very  nasty  and  false. 


272  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Next  in  the  same  book  of  academy  pictures  comes  a  picture 
by  Langley,  showing  a  stray  beggar  boy,  who  has  evidently 
been  called  in  by  a  woman  who  has  taken  pity  on  him. 
The  boy,  pitifully  drawing  his  bare  feet  under  the  bench, 
is  eating;  the  woman  is  looking  on,  probably  considering 
whether  he  will  not  want  some  more;  and  a  girl  of  about 
seven,  leaning  on  her  arm,  is  carefully  and  seriously  looking 
on,  not  taking  her  eyes  from  the  hungry  boy  and  evidently 
understanding  for  the  first  time  what  poverty  is,  and  what 
inequality  among  people  is,  and  asking  herself  why  she  has 
everything  provided  for  her  while  this  boy  goes  barefoot 
and  hungry?  She  feels  sorry  and  yet  pleased.  And  she 
loves  both  the  boy  and  goodness.  .  .  .  And  one  feels  that 
the  artist  loved  this  girl,  and  that  she  too  loves.  And  this 
picture,  by  an  artist  who,  I  think,  is  not  very  widely  known, 
is  an  admirable  and  true  work  of  art. 

I  remember  seeing  a  performance  of  Hamlet  by  Rossi. 
Both  the  tragedy  itself  and  the  performer  who  took  the  chief 
part  are  considered  by  our  critics  to  represent  the  climax  of 
supreme  dramatic  art.  And  yet,  both  from  the  subject-matter 
of  the  drama  and  from  the  performance,  I  experienced  all  the 
time  that  peculiar  suffering  which  is  caused  by  false  imita- 
tions of  works  of  art.  And  I  lately  read  of  a  theatrical 
performance  among  a  savage  tribe — the  Voguls.  A  specta- 
tor describes  the  play.  A  big  Vogul  and  a  little  one,  both 
dressed  in  reindeer  skins,  represent  a  reindeer-doe  and  its 
young.  A  third  Vogul,  with  a  bow,  represents  a  huntsman 
on  snow-shoes,  and  a  fourth  imitates  with  his  voice  a  bird 
that  warns  the  reindeer  of  their  danger.  The  play  is  that 
the  huntsman  follows  the  track  that  the  doe  with  its  young 
one  has  travelled.  The  deer  run  off  the  scene  and  again 
reappear.  (Such  performances  take  place  in  a  small  tent- 
house.)  The  huntsman  gains  more  and  more  on  the  pursued. 
The  little  deer  is  tired  and  presses  against  its  mother.     The 


WHAT  IS  ART?  273 


doe  stops  to  draw  breath.  The  hunter  comes  up  with  them 
and  draws  his  bow.  But  just  then  the  bird  sounds  its  note, 
warning  the  deer  of  their  danger.  They  escape.  Again  there 
is  a  chase  and  again  the  hunter  gains  on  them,  catches  them, 
and  lets  fly  his  arrow.  The  arrow  strikes  the  young  deer. 
Unable  to  run,  the  little  one  presses  against  its  mother.  The 
mother  licks  its  wound.  The  hunter  draws  another  arrow. 
The  audience,  as  the  eye-witness  describes  them,  are  paralysed 
with  suspense;  deep  groans  and  even  weeping  are  heard 
among  them.  And  from  the  mere  description  I  felt  that  this 
was  a  true  work  of  art. 

What  I  am  saying  will  be  considered  irrational  paradox 
at  which  one  can  only  be  amazed;  but  for  all  that  I  must 
say  what  I  think,  namely,  that  people  of  our  circle,  of  whom 
some  compose  verses,  stories,  novels,  operas,  symphonies, 
and  sonatas,  paint  all  kinds  of  pictures  and  make  statues, 
while  others  hear  and  look  at  these  things,  and  again  others 
appraise  and  criticise  them  all:  discuss,  condemn,  triumph, 
and  generation  after  generation  raise  monuments  to  one 
another — that  all  these  people,  with  very  few  exceptions, 
artists,  and  public,  and  critics,  have  never  (except  in  child- 
hood and  earliest  youth,  before  hearing  any  discussions  on  art) 
experienced  that  simple  feeling  familiar  to  the  plainest  man 
and  even  to  a  child,  that  sense  of  infection  with  another's 
feeling — compelling  us  to  rejoice  in  another's  gladness,  to 
sorrow  at  another's  grief,  and  to  mingle  souls  with  another 
— which  is  the  very  essence  of  art.  And  therefore  these 
people  not  only  cannot  distinguish  true  works  of  art  from 
counterfeits,  but  continually  mistake  for  real  art  the  worst 
and  most  artificial,  while  they  do  not  even  perceive  works 
of  real  art,  because  the  counterfeits  are  always  more  ornate, 
while  true  art  is  modest. 


CHAPTER  XV 

The  quality  of  art,  considered  apart  from  its  subject-matter — The  sign 
of  art:  infectiousness.  Incomprehensible  to  those  whose  taste  is  perverted.  Con' 
ditions   of  infection:     Individuality;   Clearness;   Sincerity. 

Art,  in  our  society,  has  become  so  perverted  that  not  only 
has  bad  art  come  to  be  considered  good,  but  even  the  very 
perception  of  what  art  really  is  has  been  lost.  In  order  to 
be  able  to  speak  about  the  art  of  our  society  it  is,  therefore, 
first  of  all  necessary  to  distinguish  art  from  counterfeit  art. 

There  is  one  indubitable  sign  distinguishing  real  art  from 
its  counterfeit — namely,  the  infectiousness  of  art.  If  a  man, 
without  exercising  effortT  and  without  altering  his  standpoint, 
on  reading,  hearing,  or  seeing  another  man's  work  experiences 
a  mental  condition  which  unites  him  with  that  man  and  with 
other  people  who^aie  alsu  affected  by  that  work,  then  the 
object  evoking  that  condition  is  a  work  of  art.  And  however 
poetic,  realistic,  striking,  or  rnleresling,  a  woHfmay  be,  it  is 
not  a  work  of  art  if  it  does  not  evoke  that  feeling  (quite  dis- 
tinct from  all  other  feelings)  of  joy  and  of  spiritual  union  with 
another  (the  author)  and  with  others  (those  who  are  also 
infected  by  it). 

It  is  true  that  this  indication  is  an  internal  one,  and  that 
there  are  people  who  have  forgotten  what  the  action  of  real 
art  is,  who  expect  something  else  from  art  (in  our  society 
the  great  majority  are  in  this  state),  and  that  therefore  such 
people  may  mistake  for  this  esthetic  feeling  the  feeling  of 
diversion  and  a  certain  excitement  which  they  receive  from 
counterfeits  of  art.  But  though  it  is  impossible  to  undeceive 
these  people,  just  as  it  may  be  impossible  to  convince  a  man 
suffering  from  colour-blindness  that  green  is  not  red,  yet,  for 
all  that,  this  indication  remains  perfectly  definite  to  those 

274 


at 

£ 

i 


-   aq 


whose 


WHAT  IS  ART?  275 


feeling  for  art  is  neither  perverted  nor  atrophied,  and  it 
clearly  distinguishes  the  feeling  produced  by  art  from  all 
other  feelings. 

The  chief  peculiarity  of  this  feeling  is  that  the  recipient 
of  a  true  artistic  impression  is  so  united  to  the  artist  that  he 
feels  as  if  the  work  were  his  own  and  not  someone  else's — 
as  if  what  it  expresses  were  just  what  he  had  long  been 
wishing  to  express.  A  real  work  of  art  destroys,  in  the 
consciousness  of  the  recipient,  the  separation  between  him- 
self and  the  artist,  nor  that  alone,  but  also  between  himself 
and  all  whose  minds  receive  this  work  of  art.  In  this 
freeing  of  our  personality  from  its  separation  and  isolation, 
in  this  uniting  of  it  with  others,  lies  the  chief  characteristic 
and  the  great  attractive  force  of  art.  c- 

If  a  man  is  infected  by  the  author's  condition  of  soul,  if 
he  feels  this  emotion  and  this  union  with  others,  then  the 
object  which  has  effected  this  is  art;  but  if  there  be  no  such 
infection,  if  there  be  not  this  union  with  the  author  and 
with  others  who  are  moved  by  the  same  work — then  it  is  not 
art.  And  not  only  is  infection  a  sure  sign  of  art,  but  the 
degree  of  infectiousness  is  also  the  sole  measure  of  ex- 
cellence in  art. 

The  stronger  the  infection  the  better  is  the  art,  as  art, 
speaking  now  apart  from  its  subject-matter — that  is,  not  con- 
sidering the  quality  of  the  feelings  it  transmits. 

And  the  degree  of  the  infectiousness  of  art  depends  on 
three  conditions: — 

(1)  On  the  greater  or  lesser  individuality  of  the  feeling 
transmitted;  (2)  on  the  greater  or  lesser  clearness  with  which 
the  feeling  is  transmitted;  (3)  on  the  sincerity  of  the  artist, 
that  is,  on  the  greater  or  lesser  force  with  which  the  artist 
himself  feels  the  emotion  he  transmits. 

The  more  individual  the  feeling  transmitted  the  more 
strongly  does  it  act  on  the  recipient*;  the  more  individual  the 


276  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

state  of  soul  into  which  he  is  transferred  the  more  pleas- 
ure does  the  recipient  obtain  and  therefore  the  more  readily 
and  strongly  does  he  join  in  it. 

The  clearness  of  expression  assists  infection  because  the 
recipient  who  mingles  in  consciousness  with  the  author  is 
the  better  satisfied  the  more  clearly  the  feeling  is  trans- 
mitted which  as  it  seems  to  him  he  has  long  known  and 
felt  and  for  which  he  has  only  now  found  expression. 

But  most  of  all  is  the  degree  of  infectiousness  of  art  in- 
creased by  the  degree  of  sincerity  in  the  artist.  As  soon  as 
the  spectator,  hearer,  or  reader,  feels  that  the  artist  is  in- 
fected by  his  own  production  and  writes,  sings,  or  plays, 
for  himself  and  not  merely  to  act  on  others,  this  mental  con- 
dition of  the  artist  infects  the  recipient;  and,  contrariwise, 
as  soon  as  the  spectator,  reader,  or  hearer,  feels  that  the  author 
is  not  writing,  singing,  or  playing,  for  his  own  satisfaction — 
does  not  himself  feel  what  he  wishes  to  express — but  is  doing 
it  for  him,  the  recipient,  resistance  immediately  springs  up 
and  the  most  individual  and  the  newest  feelings  and  the 
cleverest  technique  not  only  fail  to  produce  any  infection 
but  actually  repel. 

I  have  mentioned  three  conditions  of  contagion  in  art,  but 
they  may  all  be  summed  up  into  one,  the  last,  sincerity,  that 
is,  that  the  artist  should  be  impelled  by  an  inner  need  to 
express  his  feeling.  That  condition  includes  the  first;  for 
if  the  artist  is  sincere  he  will  express  the  feeling  as  he  ex- 
perienced it.  And  as  each  man  is  different  from  everyone 
else,  his  feeling  will  be  individual  for  everyone  else;  and  the 
more  individual  it  is — the  more  the  artist  has  drawn  it  from 
the  depths  of  his  nature — the  more  sympathetic  and  sincere 
will  it  be.  And  this  same  sincerity  will  impel  the  artist  to 
find  a  clear  expression  of  the  feeling  which  he  wishes  to 
transmit. 

Therefore  this  third  condition — sincerity — is  the  most  im- 


WHAT  IS  ART?  277 

portant  of  the  three.  It  is  always  complied  with  in  peasant 
art,  and  this  explains  why  such  art  always  acts  so  powerfully; 
but  it  is  a  condition  almost  entirely  absent  from  our  upper- 
class  art,  which  is  continually  produced  by  artists  actuated 
by  personal  aims  of  covetousness  or  vanity. 

Such  are  the  three  conditions  which  divide  art  from  its 
counterfeits,  and  which  also  decide  the  quality  of  every  work 
of  art  considered  apart  from  its  subject-matter. 

The  absence  of  any  one  of  these  conditions  excludes  a 
work  from  the  category  of  art  and  relegates  it  to  that  of 
art's  counterfeits.  If  the  work  does  not  transmit  the  artist's 
peculiarity  of  feeling  and  is  therefore  not  individual,  if  it 
is  unintelligibly  expressed,  or  if  it  has  not  proceeded  from 
the  author's  inner  need  for  expression — it  is  not  a  work  of  art. 
If  all  these  conditions  are  present,  even  in  the  smallest 
degree,  then  the  work,  even  if  a  weak  one,  is  yet  a  work 
of  art. 

The  presence  in  various  degrees  of  these  three  conditions: 
individuality,  clearness,  and  sincerity,  decides  the  merit  of 
a  work  of  art,  as  art,  apart  from  subject-matter.  All  works 
of  art  take  rank  of  merit  according  to  the  degree  in  which 
they  fulfil  the  first,  the  second,  and  the  third  of  these  con- 
ditions. In  one  the  individuality  of  the  feeling  transmitted 
may  predominate;  in  another,  clearness  of  expression;  in  a 
third,  sincerity ;  while  a  fourth  may  have  sincerity  and  individ- 
uality but  be  deficient  in  clearness;  a  fifth,  individuality 
and  clearness,  but  less  sincerity;  and  so  forth,  in  all  possible 
degrees  and  combinations. 

Thus  is  art  divided  from  what  is  not  art,  and  thus  is  the 
quality  of  art,  as  art,  decided,  independently  of  its  subject- 
matter,  that  is  to  say,  apart  from  whether  the  feelings  it 
transmits  are  good  or  bad. 

But  how  are  we  to  define  good  and  bad  art  with  reference 
to  its  content  or  subject-matter? 


CHAPTER  XVI 

The  quality  of  art,  considered  according  to  its  subject-matter.  The  bet- 
ter the  feeling  the  better  the  art.  The  cultured  crowd.  The  religious  perception 
of  our  age.  New  ideals  put  fresh  demands  to  art.  Art  unites.  Religious 
art.  Universal  art.  Both  co-operate  to  one  result.  The  new  appraisement  of  art. 
Bad  art.     Examples  of  art.     How  to  test  a  work  claiming  to  be  art. 

How  in  art  are  we  to  decide  what  is  good  and  what  is  bad 
in  subject-matter? 

Art,  like  speech,  is  a  means  of  communication  and  there- 
fore of  progress,  that  is,  of  the  movement  of  humanity  for- 
ward towards  perfection.  Speech  renders  accessible  to  men 
of  the  latest  generations  all  the  knowledge  discovered  by  the 
experience  and  reflection  both  of  preceding  generations  and 
of  the  best  and  foremost  men  of  their  own  times ;  art  renders 
accessible  to  men  of  the  latest  generations  all  the  feelings 
experienced  by  their  predecessors,  and  those  also  which  are 
felt  by  their  best  and  foremost  contemporaries.  And  as  the 
evolution  of  knowledge  proceeds  by  truer  and  more  necessary 
knowledge  dislodging  and  replacing  what  is  mistaken  and 
unnecessary,  so  the  evolution  of  feeling  proceeds  through  art, 
— feelings  less  kind  and  less  needful  for  the  well-being  of 
mankind  being  replaced  by  others  kinder  and  more  needful 
for  that  end.  That  is  the  purpose  of  art.  And,  speaking 
now  of  its  subject-matter,  the  more  art  fulfils  that  purpose 
the  better  the  art,  and  the  less  it  fulfils  it  the  worse  the  art. 

And  the  appraisement  of  feelings  (that  is,  the  acknowledg- 
ment of  one  set  of  feelings  or  another  as  being  more  or  less 
good,  more  or  less  necessary  for  the  well-being  of  mankind) 
is  made  by  the  religious  perception  of  the  age. 

In  every  period  of  history  and  in  every  human  society 

278 


WHAT  IS  ART?  279 


there  exists  an  understanding  of  the  meaning  of  life  which 
represents  the  highest  level  to  which  men  of  that  society 
have  attained, — an  understanding  defining  the  highest  good 
at  which  that  society  aims.  This  understanding  is  the 
religious  perception  of  the  given  time  and  society.  And 
this  religious  perception  is  always  clearly  expressed  by  a  few 
advanced  men,  and  more  or  less  vividly  perceived  by  all  the 
members  of  the  society.  Such  a  religious  perception  and  its 
corresponding  expression  exists  always  in  every  society.  If 
it  appears  to  us  that  in  our  society  there  is  no  religious  per- 
ception, this  is  not  because  there  really  is  none  but  only 
because  we  do  not  want  to  see  it.  And  we  often  wish  not 
to  see  it  because  it  exposes  the  fact  that  our  life  is  incon- 
sistent with  that  religious  perception. 

Religious  perception  in  a  society  is  like  the  direction  of 
a  flowing  river.  If  the  river  flows  at  all,  it  must  have  a 
direction.  If  a  society  lives,  there  must  be  a  religious  per- 
ception indicating  the  direction  in  which,  more  or  less  con- 
sciously, all  its  members  tend. 

And  so  there  always  has  been  and  is  a  religious  percep- 
tion in  every  society.  And  it  is  by  the  standard  of  this 
religious  perception  that  the  feelings  transmitted  by  art  have 
always  been  estimated.  It  has  always  been  only  on  the  basis 
of  this  religious  perception  of  their  age  that  men  have  chosen, 
from  the  endlessly  varied  spheres  of  art,  that  art  which 
transmitted  feelings  making  religious  perception  operative  in 
actual  life.  And  such  art  has  always  been  highly  valued  and  ^ 
encouraged;  while  art  transmitting  feelings  already  outlived, 
flowing  from  the  antiquated  religious  perceptions  of  a  former 
age,  has  always  been  condemned  and  despised.  All  the  rest 
of  art,  transmitting  those  most  diverse  feelings  by  means  of 
which  people  commune  with  one  another,  was  not  condemned, 
and  was  tolerated  if  only  it  did  not  transmit  feelings  contrary 
to  religious  perception.     Thus  for  instance  among  the  Greeks, 


280  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

art  transmitting  the  feeling  of  beauty,  strength,  and  courage 
(Hesiod,  Homer,  Phidias)  was  chosen,  approved,  and  encour- 
aged; while  art  transmitting  feelings  of  rude  sensuality, 
despondency,  and  effeminacy,  was  condemned  and  despised. 
Among  the  Jews,  art  transmitting  feelings  of  devotion  and 
submission  to  the  God  of  the  Hebrews  and  to  His  will  (the 
epic  of  Genesis,  the  prophets,  the  Psalms)  was  chosen  and 
encouraged,  while  art  transmitting  feelings  of  idolatry  (the 
golden  calf)  was  condemned  and  despised.  All  the  rest  of 
art — stories,  songs,  dances,  ornamentation  of  houses,  of 
utensils,  and  of  clothes — which  was  not  contrary  to  religious 
perception,  was  neither  distinguished  nor  discussed.  Thus 
in  regard  to  its  subject-matter  has  art  been  appraised  always 
and  everywhere  and  thus  it  should  be  appraised,  for  this 
attitude  towards  art  proceeds  from  the  fundamental  charac- 
teristics of  human  nature  and  those  characteristics  do  not 
change. 

I  know  that  according  to  an  opinion  current  in  our  times 
religion  is  a  superstition  which  humanity  has  outgrown,  and 
it  is  therefore  assumed  that  no  such  thing  exists  as  a  religious 
perception  common  to  us  all  by  which  art  in  our  time  can  be 
estimated.  I  know  that  this  is  the  opinion  current  in  the 
pseudo-cultured  circles  of  to-day.  People  who  do  not  ac- 
knowledge Christianity  in  its  true  meaning  because  it  under- 
mines all  their  social  privileges,  and  who  therefore  invent  all 
kinds  of  philosophic  and  esthetic  theories  to  hide  from  them- 
selves the  meaninglessness  and  wrongness  of  their  lives, 
cannot  think  otherwise.  These  people  intentionally,  or  some- 
times unintentionally,  confuse  the  notion  of  a  religious  cult 
with  the  notion  of  religious  perception,  and  think  that  by  deny- 
ing the  cult  they  get  rid  of  religious  perception.  But  even  the 
very  attacks  on  religion,  and  the  attempts  to  establish  an  idea 
of  life  contrary  to  the  religious  perception  of  our  times,  most 
clearly    demonstrate    the    existence    of    a    religious    percep- 


WHAT  IS  ART?  281 

tion  condemning  the  lives  that  are  not  in  harmony  with  it. 

If  humanity  progresses,  that  is,  moves  forward,  there  must 
inevitably  be  a  guide  to  the  direction  of  that  movement. 
And  religions  have  always  furnished  that  guide.  All  his- 
tory shows  that  the  progress  of  humanity  is  accomplished 
no  otherwise  than  under  the  guidance  of  religion.  But  if 
the  race  cannot  progress  without  the  guidance  of  religion, 
— and  progress  is  always  going  on,  and  consequently  also 
in  our  own  times, — then  there  must  be  a  religion  of  our  times. 
So  that  whether  it  pleases  or  displeases  the  so-called  cultured 
people  of  to-day,  they  must  admit  the  existence  of  religion 
— not  of  a  religious  cult,  Catholic,  Protestant,  or  another,  but 
of  religious  perception — which  even  in  our  times  is  the  guide 
always  present  where  there  is  any  progress.  And  if  a  re- 
ligious perception  exists  amongst  us,  then  our  art  should  be 
appraised  on  the  basis  of  that  religious  perception;  and  as 
has  been  the  case  always  and  everywhere  art  transmitting 
feelings  flowing  from  the  religious  perception  of  our  time 
should  be  chosen  from  amongst  all  the  indifferent  art,  should 
be  acknowledged,  highly  valued,  and  encouraged;  while  art 
running  counter  to  that  perception  should  be  condemned  and 
despised,  and  all  the  remaining  indifferent  art  should  neither 
be  distinguished  nor  encouraged. 

The  religious  perception  of  our  time,  in  its  widest  and 
most  practical  application,  is  the  consciousness  that  our  well- 
being,  both  material  and  spiritual,  individual  and  collective, 
temporal  and  eternal,  lies  in  the  growth  of  brotherhood 
among  men — in  their  loving  harmony  with  one  another. 
This  perception  is  not  only  expressed  by  Christ  and  all  the 
best  men  of  past  ages,  it  is  not  only  repeated  in  the  most 
varied  forms  and  from  most  diverse  sides  by  the  best  men 
of  our  times,  but  it  already  serves  as  a  clue  to  all  the  complex 
labour  of  humanity,  consisting,  as  this  labour  does,  on  the 
one  hand  in  the  destruction  of  physical  and  moral  obstacles 


t/ 


282  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

to  the  union  of  men,  and  on  the  other  hand  in  establishing 
the  principles  common  to  all  men  which  can  and  should  unite 
them  in  one  universal  brotherhood.  And  it  is  on  the  basis 
of  this  perception  that  we  should  appraise  all  the  phenom- 
ena of  our  life,  and  among  the  rest  our  art  also;  choosing 
from  all  its  realms  and  highly  prizing  and  encouraging 
whatever  transmits  feelings  flowing  from  this  religious  per- 
ception, rejecting  whatever  is  contrary  to  it,  and  not  attribut- 
ing to  the  rest  of  art  an  importance  not  properly  belonging 
to  it. 

The  chief  mistake  made  by  people  of  the  upper  classes 
at  the  time  of  the  so-called  Renaissance, — a  mistake  we  still 
perpetuate, — was  not  that  they  ceased  to  value  and  to  attach 
importance  to  religious  art  (people  of  that  period  could  not 
attach  importance  to  it  because,  like  our  own  upper  classes, 
they  could  not  believe  in  what  the  majority  considered  to  be 
religion),  but  their  mistake  was  that  they  set  up  in  place 
of  religious  art  which  was  lacking,  an  insignificant  art  which 
aimed  only  at  giving  pleasure,  that  is,  they  began  to  choose, 
to  value,  and  to  encourage,  in  place  of  religious  art,  some- 
thing which  in  any  case  did  not  deserve  such  esteem  and 
encouragement. 

One  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Church  said  that  the  great 
evil  is  not  that  men  do  not  know  God,  but  that  they  have 
set  up,  instead  of  God,  that  which  is  not  God.  So  also  with 
art.  The  great  misfortune  of  the  people  of  the  upper  classes 
of  our  time  is  not  so  much  that  they  are  without  a  religious 
art,  as  that,  instead  of  a  supreme  religious  art  chosen  from 
all  the  rest  as  being  specially  important  and  valuable,  they 
have  chosen  a  most  insignificant  and,  usually,  harmful  art, 
which  aims  at  pleasing  certain  people,  and  which  therefore, 
if  only  by  its  exclusive  nature,  stands  in  contradiction  to 
that  Christian  principle  of  universal  union  which  forms  the 
religious  perception  of  our  time.     Instead  of  religious  art, 


WHAT  IS  ART?  283 

an  empty  and  often  vicious  art  is  set  up,  and  this  hides  from 
men's  notice  the  need  of  that  true  religious  art  which  should 
be  present  in  life  in  order  to  improve  it. 

It  is  true  that  art  which  satisfies  the  demands  of  the  re- 
ligious perception  of  our  time  is  quite  unlike  former  art,  but, 
notwithstanding  this  dissimilarity,  to  a  man  who  does  not 
intentionally  hide  the  truth  from  himself  what  does  form 
the  religious  art  of  our  age  is  very  clear  and  definite.  In 
former  times,  when  the  highest  religious  perception  united 
only  some  people  (who  even  if  they  formed  a  large  society 
were  yet  but  one  society  surrounded  by  others — Jews,  or 
Athenian  or  Roman  citizens),  the  feelings  transmitted  by 
the  art  of  that  time  flowed  from  a  desire  for  the  might,  great- 
ness, glory,  and  prosperity  of  that  society,  and  the  heroes 
of  art  might  be  people  who  contributed  to  that  prosperity 
by  strength,  by  craft,  by  fraud,  or  by  cruelty  (Ulysses,  Jacob, 
David,  Samson,  Hercules,  and  all  the  heroes).  But  the  re- 
ligious perception  of  our  times  does  not  select  any  one  society 
of  men;  on  the  contrary  it  demands  the  union  of  all — 
absolutely  of  all  people  without  exception — and  above  every 
other  virtue  it  sets  brotherly  love  to  all  men.  And  therefore 
the  feelings  transmitted  by  the  art  of  our  time  not  only  can- 
not coincide  with  the  feelings  transmitted  by  former  art,  but 
must  run  counter  to  them. 

Christian,  truly  Christian,  art  has  been  so  long  in  establish- 
ing itself,  and  has  not  yet  established  itself,  just  because  the 
Christian  religious  perception  was  not  one  of  those  small 
steps  by  which  humanity  advances  regularly,  but  was  an 
enormous  revolution  which,  if  it  has  not  already  altered, 
must  inevitably  alter  the  entire  life-conception  of  mankind, 
and  consequently  the  whole  internal  organisation  of  their  life. 
It  is  true  that  the  life  of  humanity,  like  that  of  an  individ- 
ual, moves  regularly;  but  in  that  regular  movement  come,  as 
it  were,  turning-points  which  sharply  divide  the  preceding 


284  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

from  the  subsequent  life.  Christianity  was  such  a  turning- 
point;  such  at  least  it  must  appear  to  us  who  live  by  the 
Christian  perception  of  life.  Christian  perception  gave  an- 
other, a  new,  direction  to  all  human  feelings,  and  therefore 
completely  altered  both  the  content  and  the  significance  of 
art.  The  Greeks  could  make  use  of  Persian  art  and  the 
Romans  could  use  Greek  art,  or,  similarly,  the  Jews  could  use 
Egyptian  art, — the  fundamental  ideals  were  one  and  the  same. 
Now  the  ideal  was  the  greatness  and  prosperity  of  the  Per- 
sians, now  the  greatness  and  prosperity  of  the  Greeks,  now 
that  of  i  the  Romans.  The  same  art  was  transferred  into 
other  conditions  and  served  new  nations.  But  the  Christian 
ideal  changed  and  reversed  everything,  so  that,  as  the  Gospel 
puts  it,  "That  which  was  exalted  among  men  has  become  an 
abomination  in  the  sight  of  God."  The  ideal  is  no  longer 
the  greatness  of  Pharaoh  or  of  a  Roman  emperor,  not  the 
beauty  of  a  Greek  nor  the  wealth  of  Phoenicia,  but  humility, 
purity,  compassion,  love.  The  hero  is  no  longer  Dives,  but 
Lazarus  the  beggar;  not  Mary  Magdalene  in  the  day  of  her 
beauty,  but  in  the  day  of  her  repentance ;  not  those  who  acquire 
wealth,  but  those  who  have  abandoned  it;  not  those  who 
dwell  in  palaces,  but  those  who  dwell  in  catacombs  and 
huts;  not  those  who  rule  over  others,  but  those  who  acknow- 
ledge no  authority  but  God's.  And  the  greatest  work  of  art  is 
no  longer  a  cathedral  of  victory  1  with  statues  of  conquerors, 
but  the  representation  of  a  human  soul  so  transformed  by  love 
that  a  man  who  is  tormented  and  murdered  yet  pities  and 
loves  his  persecutors. 

And  the  change  is  so  great  that  men  of  the  Christian  world 
find  it  difficult  to  resist  the  inertia  of  the  heathen  art  to 
which  they  have  been  accustomed  all  their  lives.  The  subject- 
matter  of  Christian  religious  art  is  so  new  to  them,  so  unlike 

1  There   is   in   Moscow   a  magnificent   "Cathedral  of  our   Saviour,"    erected  to 
commemorate  the  defeat  of  the  French  in  the  war  of  1812. — A.  M. 


I 


WHAT  IS  ART?  285 

the  subject-matter  of  former  art,  that  it  seems  to  them  as 
though  Christian  art  were  a  denial  of  art,  and  they  cling 
desperately  to  the  old  art.  But  this  old  art,  having  no  longer 
in  our  day  any  source  in  religious  perception,  has  lost  its 
meaning,  and  we  shall  have  to  abandon  it  whether  we  wish 
to  or  not. 

The  essence  of  the  Christian  perception  consists  in  the 
recognition  by  every  man  of  his  sonship  to  God,  and  of  the 
consequent  union  of  men  with  God  and  with  one  another, 
as  is.  said  in  the  Gospel  (John  xvii.  21  1).  Therefore  the 
subject-matter  of  Christian  art  is  such  feeling  as  can  unite 
men  with  God  and  with  one  another. 

The  expression  unite  men  with  God  and  with  one  another 
may  seem  obscure  to  people  accustomed  to  the  misuse  of  these 
words  which  is  so  customary,  but  the  words  have  a  perfectly 
clear  meaning  nevertheless.  They  indicate  that  the  Christian 
union  of  man  (in  contradiction  to  the  partial,  exclusive  union 
of  only  some  men)  is  that  which  unites  all  without  exception. 

Art,  all  art,  has  this  characteristic,  that  it  unites  people. 
Every  art  causes  those  to  whom  the  artist's  feeling  is  trans- 
mitted to  unite  in  soul  with  the  artist  and  also  with  all  who 
receive  the  same  impression.  But  non-Christian  art,  while 
uniting  some  people,  makes  that  very  union  a  cause  of  separa- 
tion between  these  united  people  and  others ;  so  that  union  of 
this  kind  is  often  a  source  not  only  of  division  but  even  of  en- 
mity towards  others.  Such  is  all  patriotic  art,  with  its  an- 
thems, poems,  and  monuments;  such  is  all  Church  art,  that  is, 
the  art  of  certain  cults,  with  their  images,  statues,  processions, 
and  other  local  ceremonies.  Such  art  is  belated  and  non- 
Christian,  uniting  the  people  of  one  cult,  only  to  separate 
them  yet  more  sharply  from  the  members  of  other  cults  and 
even  to  place  them  in  relations  of  hostility  to  one  another. 

luThat  they  may  be  one;  even  as  thou,  Father,  art  in  me,  and  I  in  Thee,  that 
they  also  may  be  in  us." 


286  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Christian  art  is  such  only  as  tends  to  unite  all  without  ex- 
ception, either  by  evoking  in  them  the  perception  that  each 
man  and  all  men  stand  in  like  relation  towards  God  and 
towards  their  neighbour,  or  by  evoking  in  them  identical  feel- 
ings, which  may  even  be  the  very  simplest  provided  only 
that  they  are  not  repugnant  to  Christianity  and  are  natural 
to  everyone  without  exception. 

Good  Christian  art  of  our  time  may  be  unintelligible  to 
people  because  of  imperfections  in  its  form  or  because  men 
are  inattentive  to  it,  but  it  must  be  such  that  all  men  can 
experience  the  feelings  it  transmits.  It  must  be  the  art  not 
of  some  one  group  of  people,  nor  of  one  class,  nor  of  one 
nationality,  nor  of  one  religious  cult;  that  is,  it  must  not 
transmit  feelings  which  are  accessible  only  to  a  man  edu- 
cated in  a  certain  way,  or  only  to  an  aristocrat,  or  a  merchant, 
or  only  to  a  Russian,  or  a  native  of  Japan,  or  a  Roman 
Catholic,  or  a  Buddhist,  and  so  on,  but  it  must  transmit  feel- 
ings accessible  to  everyone.  Only  art  of  this  kind  can  be 
acknowledged  in  our  time  to  be  good  art,  worthy  of  being 
chosen  out  from  all  the  rest  of  art  and  encouraged. 

Christian  art,  that  is,  the  art  of  our  time,  should  be  catholic 
in  the  original  meaning  of  the  word,  that  is,  universal,  and 
therefore  it  should  unite  all  men.  And  only  two  kinds  of 
-7  feeling  do  unite  all  men:  first,  feelings  flowing  from  the  per- 
ception of  our  sonship  to  God  and  of  the  brotherhood  of 
man;  and  next,  the  simple  feelings  of  common  life  accessible 
to  everyone  without  exception — such  as  feelings  of  merriment, 
of  pity,  of  cheerfulness,  of  tranquillity,  and  so  forth.  Only 
these  two  kinds  of  feelings  can  now  supply  material  for  art 
good  in  its  subject-matter. 

And  the  action  of  these  two  kinds  of  art,  apparently  so 
^dissimilar,  is  one  and  the  same.  The  feelings  flowing  from 
the  perception  of  our  sonship  to  God  and  of  the  brotherhood 
of  man — such  as  a  feeling  of  sureness  in  truth,  devotion  to 


WHAT  IS  ART?  287 

the  will  of  God,  self-sacrifice,  respect  for  and  love  of  man — 
evoked  by  Christian  religious  perception;  and  the  simplest 
feelings — such  as  a  softened  or  a  merry  mood  caused  by  a 
song  or  an  amusing  jest  intelligible  to  everyone,  or  by  a  touch- 
ing story,  or  a  drawing,  or  a  little  doll:  both  alike  produce 
one  and  the  same  effect,  the  loving  union  of  man  with  man.  ^ 
Sometimes  people  who  are  together,  if  not  hostile  to  one  an- 
other, are,  at  least  estranged  in  mood  and  feeling,  till  perhaps 
a  story,  a  performance,  a  picture,  or  even  a  building,  but 
oftenest  of  all  music,  unites  them  all  as  by  an  electric  flash, 
and  in  place  of  their  former  isolation  or  even  enmity  they 
are  all  conscious  of  union  and  mutual  love.  Each  is  glad 
that  another  feels  what  he  feels;  glad  of  the  communion 
established  not  only  between  him  and  all  present  but  also 
with  all  now  living  who  will  yet  share  the  same  impression; 
and,  more  than  that,  he  feels  the  mysterious  gladness  of  a 
communion  which,  reaching  beyond  the  grave,  unites  us  with 
all  men  of  the  past  who  have  been  moved  by  the  same  feel- 
ings and  with  all  men  of  the  future  who  will  yet  be  touched 
by  them.  And  this  effect  is  produced  both  by  the  religious  art 
which  transmits  feelings  of  love  to  God  and  one's  neighbour, 
and  by  universal  art  transmitting  the  very  simplest  feelings 
common  to  all  men. 

The  art  of  our  time  should  be  appraised  differently  from 
former  art  chiefly  in  this,  that  the  art  of  our  time,  that  is, 
Christian  art  (basing  itself  on  a  religious  perception  which 
demands  the  union  of  man),  excludes  from  the  domain  of 
art  good  in  its  subject-matter  everything  transmitting  exclu- 
sive feelings,  which  do  not  unite  but  divide  men.  It  rele- 
gates such  work  to  the  category  of  art  bad  in  its  subject- 
matter,  while  on  the  other  hand  it  includes  in  the  category  of 
art  good  in  subject-matter  a  section  not  formerly  admitted  a£ 
deserving  to  be  chosen  out  and  respected,  namely,  universal  art 
transmitting  even  the  most  trifling  and  simple  feelings  if  only 


288  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

they  are  accessible  to  all  men  without  exception  and  therefore 
unite  them.  Such  art  cannot,  in  our  time,  but  be  esteemed 
good,  for  it  attains  the  end  which  the  religious  perception  of 
our  time,  that  is,  Christianity,  sets  before  humanity. 

Christian  art  either  evokes  in  men  those  feelings  which, 
through  love  of  God  and  of  one's  neighbour,  draw  them  to 
closer  and  ever  closer  union  and  make  them  ready  for  and 
capable  of  such  union ;  or  evokes  in  them  those  feelings  which 
show  them  that  they  are  already  united  in  the  joys  and  sor- 
rows of  life.  And  therefore  the  Christian  art  of  our  time  can 
be  and  is  of  two  kinds:  1)  art  transmitting  feelings  flow- 
ing from  a  religious  perception  of  man's  position  in  the  world 
in  relation  to  God  and  to  his  neighbour — religious  art  in  the 
limited  meaning  of  the  term;  and  2)  art  transmitting  the 
simplest  feelings  of  common  life,  but  such,  always,  as  are  ac- 
cessible to  all  men  in  the  whole  world — the  art  of  common 
life — the  art  of  a  people — universal  art.  Only  these  two 
kinds  of  art  can  be  considered  good  art  in  our  time. 

The  first,  religious  art, — transmitting  both  positive  feel- 
ings of  love  to  God  and  one's  neighbour,  and  negative  feelings 
v;  of  indignation  and  horror  at  the  violation  of  love, — manifests 
itself  chiefly  in  the  form  of  words,  and  to  some  extent  also 
in  painting  and  sculpture:  the  second  kind,  universal  art, 
transmitting  feelings  accessible  to  all,  manifests  itself  in 
words,  in  painting,  in  sculpture,  in  dances,  in  architecture, 
and,  most  of  all,  in  music. 

If  I  were  asked  to  give  modern  examples  of  each  of  these 
kinds  of  art,  then,  as  examples  of  the  highest  art  flowing 
from  love  of  God  and  man  (both  of  the  higher,  positive  and 
of  the  lower,  negative  kind),  in  literature  I  should  name 
The  Robbers  by  Schiller;  Victor  Hugo's  Les  Pauvres  Gem 
and  Les  Miser ables;  the  novels  and  stories  of  Dickens — The 
Tale  of  Two  Cities,  The  Christmas  Carol,  The  Chimes,  and 
others;  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin:  Dostoevski's  works — especially 


A  TRIUMPHAL  PROCESSION 
A  drawing  by  I.  N.  Kramskoy 


WHAT  IS  ART?  289 

his  Memoirs  from  the  House  of  Death;  and  Adam  Bede  by 
George  Eliot. 

In  modern  painting,  strange  to  say,  works  of  this  kind, 
directly  transmitting  the  Christian  feeling  of  love  of  God  and 
of  one's  neighbour,  are  hardly  to  be  found,  especially  among 
the  works  of  the  celebrated  painters.  There  are  plenty  of 
pictures  treating  of  the  Gospel  stories;  they  however,  while 
depicting  historical  events  with  great  wealth  of  detail,  do  not, 
and  cannot,  transmit  religious  feelings  not  possessed  by  their 
painters.  There  are  many  pictures  treating  of  the  personal 
feelings  of  various  people,  but  of  pictures  representing  great 
deeds  of  self-sacrifice  and  Christian  love  there  are  very  few, 
and  what  there  are  are  principally  by  artists  who  are  not  cele- 
brated, and  are  for  the  most  part  not  pictures  but  merely 
sketches.  Such  for  instance  is  the  drawing  by  Kramskoy 
(worth  many  of  his  finished  pictures),  showing  a  drawing- 
room  with  a  balcony,  past  which  troops  are  marching  in  tri- 
umph on  their  return  from  the  war.  On  the  balcony  stands 
a  wet-nurse  holding  a  baby,  and  a  boy.  They  are  admiring 
the  procession  of  the  troops,  but  the  mother,  covering  her 
face  with  a  handkerchief,  has  fallen  back  on  the  sofa  sobbing. 
Such  also  is  the  picture  by  Walter  Langley  to  which  I  have 
already  referred,  and  such  again  is  a  picture  by  the  French 
artist  Morion,  depicting  a  lifeboat  hastening  in  a  heavy  storm 
to  the  relief  of  a  steamer  that  is  being  wrecked.  Approach- 
ing these  in  kind  are  pictures  which  represent  the  hard- 
working peasant  with  respect  and  love.  Such  are  the  pictures 
by  Millet,  and  particularly  his  drawing,  "The  Man  with  the 
Hoe,"  also  pictures  in  this  style  by  Jules  Breton,  Lhermitte, 
Defregger,  and  others.  As  examples  of  pictures  evoking  in- 
dignation and  horror  at  the  violation  of  love  to  God  and  man, 
Gay's  picture  "Judgment"  may  serve,  and  also  Leizen- 
Mayer's  "Signing  the  Death  Warrant."  But  there  are  very 
few  of  this  kind  also.     Anxiety  about  the  technique  and  the 


290  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

beauty  of  the  picture  for  the  most  part  obscures  the  feeling. 
For  instance,  Gerome's  "Pollice  Verso"  expresses,  not  so  much 
horror  at  what  is  being  perpetrated  as  attraction  by  the  beauty 
of  the  spectacle.1 

To  give  examples,  from  the  modern  art  of  our  upper  classes, 
of  art  of  the  second  kind,  good  universal  art,  or  even  of  the 
art  of  a  whole  people,  is  yet  more  difficult,  especially  in  litera- 
ture and  music.  If  there  are  some  works  which  by  their 
inner  contents  might  be  assigned  to  this  class  (such  as  Don 
Quixote,  Moliere's  comedies,  David  Copperfield  and  The 
Pickwick  Papers  by  Dickens,  Gogol's  and  Pushkin's  tales, 
and  some  things  of  Maupassant's),  these  works  for  the  most 
part — from  the  exceptional  nature  of  the  feelings  they  trans- 
mit, and  the  superfluity  of  special  details  of  time  and  locality, 
and  above  all  on  account  of  the  poverty  of  their  subject-matter 
in  comparison  with  examples  of  universal  ancient  art  (such, 
for  instance,  as  the  story  of  Joseph) — are  comprehensible 
only  to  people  of  their  own  circle.  That  Joseph's  brethren, 
being  jealous  of  his  father's  affection,  sell  him  to  the  mer- 
chants; that  Potiphar's  wife  wishes  to  tempt  the  youth;  that 
having  attained  the  highest  station  he  takes  pity  on  his 
brothers,  including  Benjamin  the  favourite, — these  and  all  the 
rest  are  feelings  accessible  alike  to  a  Russian  peasant,  a 
Chinese,  an  African,  a  child  or  an  old  man,  educated  or  un- 
educated; and  it  is  all  written  with  such  restraint,  is  so  free 
from  any  superfluous  detail,  that  the  story  may  be  told  to  any 
circle  and  will  be  equally  comprehensible  and  touching  to 
everyone.  But  not  such  are  the  feelings  of  Don  Quixote  or  of 
Moliere's  heroes  (though  Moliere  is  perhaps  the  most  uni- 
versal, and  therefore  the  most  excellent,  artist  of  modern 
times),  nor  of  Pickwick  and  his  friends.  These  feelings  are 
not  common  to  all  men  but  very  exceptional,  and  therefore  to 

1  In  this  picture  the  spectators  in  the  Roman  Amphitheatre  are  turning  down 
their  thumbs  to  show  that  they  wish  the  vanquished  gladiator  to  be  killed. — A.  M 


WHAT  IS  ART?  291 

make  them  contagious  the  authors  have  surrounded  them 
with  abundant  details  of  time  and  place.  And  this  abun- 
dance of  detail  makes  the  stories  difficult  of  comprehension 
to  all  people  not  living  within  reach  of  the  conditions  described 
by  the  author. 

The  author  of  the  novel  of  Joseph  did  not  need  to  describe 
in  detail,  as  would  be  done  nowadays,  the  blood-stained  coat 
of  Joseph,  the  dwelling  and  dress  of  Jacob,  the  pose  and  attire 
of  Potiphar's  wife,  and  how  adjusting  the  bracelet  on  her 
left  arm  she  said,  "Come  to  me,"  and  so  on,  because  the  con- 
tent of  feeling  in  this  novel  is  so  strong  that  all  details  except  *- 
the  most  essential — such  as  that  Joseph  went  out  into  another 
room  to  weep — are  superfluous  and  would  only  hinder  the 
transmission  of  emotion.  And  therefore  this  novel  is  acces- 
sible to  all  men,  touches  people  of  all  nations  and  classes, 
young  and  old,  and  has  lasted  to  our  times,  and  will  yet  last 
for  thousands  of  years  to  come.  But  strip  the  best  novels  of 
our  time  of  their  details,  and  what  will  remain? 

It  is  therefore  impossible  in  modern  literature  to  indicate 
works  fully  satisfying  the  demands  of  universality.  Such 
works  as  exist  are  to  a  great  extent  spoilt  by  what  is  usually 
called  "realism,"  but  would  be  better  termed  "provincialism," 
in  art. 

In  music  the  same  occurs  as  in  verbal  art  and  for  similar 
reasons.  In  consequence  of  the  poorness  of  the  feeling  they 
contain,  the  melodies  of  the  modern  composers  are  amazingly 
empty  and  insignificant.  And  to  strengthen  the  impression 
produced  by  these  empty  melodies,  the  new  musicians  pile 
complex  modulations  on  to  each  trivial  melody  not  only  in  j 
their  own  national  manner,  but  also  in  the  way  characteristic 
of  their  own  exclusive  circle  and  particular  musical  school. 
Melody — every  melody — is  free  and  may  be  understood  of  all 
men;  but  as  soon  as  it  is  bound  up  with  a  particular  harmony, 
it  ceases  to  be  accessible  except  to  people  trained  to  such  har- 


292  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

mony,  and  it  becomes  strange,  not  only  to  common  men  of 
another  nationality,  but  to  all  who  do  not  belong  to  the  circle 
whose  members  have  accustomed  themselves  to  certain  forms 
of  harmonisation.  So  that  music,  like  poetry,  travels  in  a 
vicious  circle.  Trivial  and  exclusive  melodies,  in  order  to 
make  them  attractive,  are  laden  with  harmonic,  rhythmic,  and 
orchestral  complications  and  thus  become  yet  more  exclusive, 
and  far  from  being  universal  are  not  even  national,  that  is, 
they  are  not  comprehensible  to  the  whole  people  but  only 
to  some  people. 

In  music,  besides  marches  and  dances  by  various  composers 
which  satisfy  the  demands  of  universal  art,  one  can  indicate 
very  few  works  of  this  class:  Bach's  famous  violin  aria, 
Chopin's  nocturne  in  E  flat  major,  and  perhaps  a  dozen  bits 
(not  whole  pieces,  but  parts)  selected  from  the  works  of 
Haydn,  Mozart,  Schubert,  Beethoven,  and  Chopin.1 

Although  in  painting  the  same  thing  is  repeated  as  in  poetry 
and  in  music — namely,  in  order  to  make  them  more  interest- 
ing, works  weak  in  conception  are  surrounded  by  minutely 
studied  accessories  of  time  and  place  which  give  them  a 
temporary  and  local  interest  but  make  them  less  universal — 
still  in  painting  more  than  in  the  other  spheres  of  art  may 

1  While  offering  as  examples  of  art  those  that  seem  to  me  the  best,  I  attach 
no  special  importance  to  my  selection;  for,  besides  being  insufficiently  informed 
in  ill  branches  of  art,  I  belong  to  the  class  of  people  whose  taste  has,  by  false 
training,  been  perverted.  And  therefore  my  old,  inured  habits  may  cause  me  to 
err,  and  I  may  mistake  for  absolute  merit  the  impression  a  work  produced  on 
me  in  my  youth.  My  only  purpose  in  mentioning  examples  of  works  of  this 
or  that  class  is  to  make  my  meaning  clearer,  and  to  show  how,  with  my  present 
views,  I  understand  excellence  in  art  in  relation  to  its  subject-matter.  I  must 
moreover  mention  that  I  consign  my  own  artistic  productions  to  the  category 
of  bad  art,  excepting  the  story  God  sees  the  Truth  but  Waits,  which  seeks  a  place 
in  the  first  class,  and  The  Prisoner  of  the  Caucasus,  which  belongs  to  the  second. 
— L.  T. 

(Both  the  stories  mentioned  are  included  in  Twenty-Three  Tales  in  the  Maude 
Tolstoy  "World's  Classics"  series.— A.  M.) 


WHAT  IS  ART?  293 

be  found  works  satisfying  the  demands  of  universal  Christian 
art;  that  is  to  say,  there  are  more  works  expressing  feelings 
in  which  all  men  may  participate. 

In  the  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture,  all  pictures  and 
statues  in  so-called  genre  style,  representations  of  animals, 
landscapes  and  caricatures  with  subjects  comprehensible  to 
everyone,  and  also  all  kinds  of  ornaments,  are  universal  in 
subject-matter.  Such  productions  in  painting  and  sculpture 
are  very  numerous  (for  instance,  china  dolls),  but  for  the 
most  part  such  objects  (for  instance,  ornaments  of  all  kinds) 
are  either  not  considered  to  be  art  or  are  considered  to  be  art 
of  a  low  quality.  In  reality  all  such  objects,  if  only  they 
transmit  a  true  feeling  experienced  by  the  artist  and  compre- 
hensible to  everyone  (however  insignificant  it  may  seem  to  us 
to  be),  are  works  of  real,  good,  Christian  art. 

I  fear  it  will  here  be  urged  against  me,  that  having  denied 
that  the  conception  of  beauty  can  supply  a  standard  for  works 
of  art,  I  contradict  myself  by  acknowledging  ornaments  to  be 
works  of  good  art.  The  reproach  is  unjust,  for  the  subject- 
matter  of  all  kinds  of  ornamentation  consists  not  in  the 
beauty  but  in  the  feeling  (of  admiration  at,  and  delight  in,  the 
combination  of  lines  and  colours)  which  the  artist  has  ex- 
perienced, and  with  which  he  infects  the  spectator.  Art  re- 
mains what  it  was  and  what  it  must  be :  nothing  but  the  infec- 
tion by  one  man  of  another  or  of  others  with  the  feelings  ex- 
perienced by  the  infector.  Among  those  feelings  is  the  feel- 
ing of  delight  at  what  pleases  the  sight.  Objects  pleasing  the 
sight  may  be  such  as  please  a  small  or  a  large  number  of  peo- 
ple, or  such  as  please  all  men.  And  ornaments  for  the  most 
part  are  of  the  latter  kind.  A  landscape  representing  a  very 
unusual  view,  or  a  genre  picture  of  a  special  subject,  may 
not  please  everyone,  but  ornaments,  from  Yakutsk  ornaments 
to   Greek  ones,   are   intelligible  to  everyone   and   evoke  a 


294  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

similar  feeling  of  admiration  in  all,  and  therefore  this  de- 
spised kind  of  art  should  in  Christian  society  be  esteemed  far 
above  exceptional  pretentious  pictures  and  sculptures. 

So  that  there  are  only  two  kinds  of  good  Christian  art:  all 
the  rest  of  art  not  comprised  in  these  two  divisions  should  be 
acknowledged  to  be  bad  art,  deserving,  not  to  be  encouraged 
but  to  be  driven  out,  denied,  and  despised,  as  being  art  not 
uniting  but  dividing  people.  Such  in  literary  art  are  all 
novels  and  poems  which  transmit  ecclesiastical  or  patriotic 
feelings  and  also  exclusive  feelings  pertaining  only  to  the 
class  of  the  idle  rich:  such  as  aristocratic  honour,  satiety, 
spleen,  pessimism,  and  refined  and  vicious  feelings  flowing 
from  sex-love — quite  incomprehensible  to  the  great  majority 
of  mankind. 

In  painting,  we  must  similarly  place  in  the  class  of  bad  art 
all  ecclesiastical,  patriotic,  and  exclusive  pictures;  all  pic- 
tures representing  the  amusements  and  allurements  of  a  rich 
and  idle  life;  all  so-called  symbolic  pictures,  in  which  the 
very  meaning  of  the  symbol  is  comprehensible  only  to  the 
people  of  a  certain  circle;  and  above  all  pictures  with  volup- 
tuous subjects — all  that  odious  female  nudity  which  fills  all 
the  exhibitions  and  galleries.  And  to  this  class  belongs 
almost  all  the  chamber  and  opera  music  of  our  times, — be- 
ginning especially  with  Beethoven  (Schumann,  Berlioz,  Liszt, 
Wagner), — by  its  subject-matter  devoted  to  the  expression  of 
feelings  accessible  only  to  people  who  have  developed  in 
themselves  an  unhealthy  nervous  irritation  evoked  by  this  ex- 
clusive, artificial,  and  complex  music. 

"What!  the  Ninth  Symphony  not  a  good  work  of  art! "  I 
hear  exclaimed  by  indignant  voices. 

And  I  reply:  Most  certainly  it  is  not.  All  that  I  have 
written  I  have  written  with  the  sole  purpose  of  finding  a  clear 
and  reasonable  criterion  by  which  to  judge  the  merits  of  works 


I 


WHAT  IS  ART?  295 


of  art.  And  this  criterion,  coinciding  with  the  indications  of 
plain  and  sane  sense,  indubitably  shows  me  that  that  sym- 
phony of  Beethoven's  is  not  a  good  work  of  art.  Of  course, 
to  people  educated  in  the  worship  of  certain  productions  and 
of  their  authors,  to  people  whose  taste  has  been  perverted  just 
by  being  educated  in  such  a  worship,  the  acknowledgment 
that  such  a  celebrated  work  is  bad  is  amazing  and  strange. 
But  how  are  we  to  escape  the  indications  of  reason  and  com- 
mon sense?    #f  *£*£""?&>   €a^*6«*        _f_i!?  " 

Beethoven's  Ninth  Symphony  is  considered  a  great  work 
of  art.  To  verify  its  claim  to  be  such  I  must  first  ask  my- 
self whether  this  work  transmits  the  highest  religious  feeling? 
I  reply  in  the  negative,  for  music  in  itself  cannot  transmit 
those  feelings;  and  therefore  I  ask  myself  next,  Since  this 
work  does  not  belong  to  the  highest  kind  of  religious  art,  has 
it  the  other  characteristic  of  the  good  art  of  our  time, — the 
quality  of  uniting  all  men  in  one  common  feeling:  does  it 
rank  as  Christian  universal  art?  And  again  I  have  no  op- 
tion but  to  reply  in  the  negative ;  for  not  only  do  I  not  see  how 
the  feelings  transmitted  by  this  work  could  unite  people  not 
specially  trained  to  submit  themselves  to  its  complex  hypno- 
tism, but  I  am  unable  to  imagine  to  myself  a  crowd  of  normal 
people  who  could  understand  anything  of  this  long,  confused, 
and  artificial  production,  except  short  snatches  which  are 
lost  in  a  sea  of  what  is  incomprehensible.  And  therefore, 
whether  I  like  it  or  not,  I  am  compelled  to  conclude  that 
this  work  belongs  to  the  rank  of  bad  art.  It  is  curious  to  note 
in  this  connection,  that  attached  to  the  end  of  this  very  sym- 
phony is  a  poem  of  Schiller's  which  (though  somewhat  ob- 
scurely) expresses  this  very  thought,  namely,  that  feeling 
(Schiller  speaks  only  of  the  feeling  of  gladness)  unites  people 
and  evokes  love  in  them.  But  though  this  poem  is  sung  at  the 
end  of  the  symphony,  the  music  does  not  accord  with  the 


296  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

thought  expressed  in  the  verses;  for  the  music  is  exclusive 
and  does  not  unite  all  men,  but  unites  only  a  few,  dividing 
them  off  from  the  rest  of  mankind. 

And  just  in  this  same  way,  in  all  branches  of  art,  many  and 
many  works  considered  great  by  the  upper  classes  of  our 
society  will  have  to  be  judged.  By  this  one  sure  criterion 
we  shall  have  to  judge  the  celebrated  Divine  Comedy  and 
Jerusalem  Delivered,  and  a  great  part  of  Shakespeare's  and 
Goethe's  work,  and  in  painting  every  representation  of  mir- 
acles, including  Raphael's  Transfiguration,  etc. 

Whatever  the  work  may  be  and  however  it  may  have  been 
extolled,  we  have  first  to  ask  whether  this  work  is  one  of  real 
art  or  a  counterfeit.  Having  acknowledged,  on  the  basis  of 
the  indication  of  its  infectiousness  even  to  a  small  class  of 
people,  that  a  certain  production  belongs  to  the  realm  of  art, 
it  is  necessary,  on  this  basis  to  decide  the  next  question,  Does 
this  work  belong  to  the  category  of  bad  exclusive  art,  opposed 
to  religious  perception,  or  to  Christian  art,  uniting  people? 
And  having  acknowledged  a  work  to  belong  to  real  Christian 
art,  we  must  then,  according  to  whether  it  transmits  the  feel- 
ings flowing  from  love  to  God  and  man  or  merely  the  simple 
feelings  uniting  all  men,  assign  it  a  place  in  the  ranks  of 
religious  art  or  in  those  of  universal  art. 

Only  on  the  basis  of  such  verification  shall  we  find  it 
possible  to  select,  from  the  whole  mass  of  what  in  our  society 
claims  to  be  art,  those  works  which  form  real,  important,  nec- 
essary spiritual  food,  and  to  separate  them  from  all  the  harm- 
ful and  useless  art  and  from  the  counterfeits  of  art  which  sur- 
round us.  Only  on  the  basis  of  such  verification  shall  we 
be  able  to  rid  ourselves  of  the  pernicious  results  of  harmful 
art  and  avail  ourselves  of  that  beneficient  action  which  is 
the  purpose  of  true  and  good  art,  and  which  is  indispensable 
for  the  spiritual  life  of  man  and  of  humanity. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Results  of  absence  of  true  art.  Results  of  perversion  of  art:  labour  and  lives 
spent  on  what  is  useless  and  harmful.  The  abnormal  life  of  the  rich.  Per- 
plexity of  children  and  plain  folk.  Confusion  of  right  and  wrong.  Nietzsche 
and  Redbeard.     Superstition,  Patriotism,  and  Sensuality. 

Art  is  one  of  two  organs  of  human  progress.  By  words 
man  interchanges  thoughts,  by  the  forms  of  art  he  interchanges 
feelings,  and  this  with  all  men  not  only  of  the  present  time  but 
also  of  the  past  and  the  future.  It  is  natural  to  human  be- 
ings to  employ  both  these  organs  of  intercommunication  and 
therefore  the  perversion  of  either  of  them  must  cause  evil  re- 
sults to  the  society  in  which  it  occurs.  And  these  results  will 
be  of  two  kinds:  first,  the  absence  in  that  society  of  the  work 
which  should  be  performed  by  the  organ,  and  secondly,  the 
harmful  activity  of  the  perverted  organ.  And  just  these  re- 
sults have  shown  themselves  in  our  society.  The  organ  of  art 
has  been  perverted,  and  therefore  the  upper  classes  of  society 
have  to  a  great  extent  been  deprived  of  the  effect  that  it  should 
have  produced.  The  diffusion  in  our  society  of  enormous 
quantities,  on  the  one  hand,  of  those  counterfeits  of  art  which 
only  serve  to  amuse  and  corrupt  people,  and  on  the  other 
hand,  of  works  of  insignificant  exclusive  art,  mistaken  for  the 
highest  art,  have  perverted  most  men's  capacity  to  be  in- 
fected by  true  works  of  art,  and  have  thus  deprived  them  of 
the  possibility  of  experiencing  the  highest  feelings  to  which 
mankind  has  attained,  which  can  only  be  transmitted  from 
man  to  man  by  art. 

All  the  best  that  has  been  done  in  art  by  man  remains 
strange  to  people  who  lack  the  capacity  to  be  infected  by 
art,  and  is  replaced  either  by  spurious  counterfeits  of  art  or 

297 


v 


298  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

by  insignificant  art,  which  they  mistake  for  real  art.  People 
of  our  time  and  of  our  society  are  delighted  with  Baudelaires, 
Verlaines,  Moreases,  Ibsens,  and  Maeterlincks,  in  poetry;  with 
Monets,  Manets,  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  Burne-Joneses,  Stucks, 
and  Bocklins  in  painting;  with  Wagners,  Liszts,  Richard 
Strausses,  in  music;  and  they  are  no  longer  capable  of  com- 
prehending either  the  highest  or  the  simplest  art. 

In  the  upper  classes,  in  consequence  of  this  loss  of  capacity 
to  be  infected  by  works  of  art,  people  grow  up,  are  edu- 
cated and  live,  lacking  the  fertilising,  improving  influence  of 
art,  and  therefore  not  only  do  not  advance  towards  perfection, 
do  not  become  kinder,  but,  on  the  contrary,  possessing  highly- 
developed  external  means  of  civilization,  they  yet  tend  to  be- 
come continually  more  savage,  more  coarse,  and  more  cruel. 

Such  is  the  result  of  the  absence  from  our  society  of  the 
activity  of  that  essential  organ — art.  But  the  consequences  of 
the  perverted  activity  of  that  organ  are  yet  more  harmful. 
And  they  are  numerous. 

The  first  consequence,  plain  for  all  to  see,  is  the  enormous 
expenditure  of  the  labour  of  working  people  on  things  which 
are  not  only  useless  but,  for  the  most  part,  are  harmful;  and 
more  than  that,  the  waste  of  priceless  human  lives  on  this 
unnecessary  and  harmful  business.  It  is  terrible  to  consider 
with  what  intensity  and  amid  what  privations,  millions  of 
people — who  lack  time  and  opportunity  to  attend  to  what  they 
and  their  families  urgently  require — labour  for  ten,  twelve  or 
fourteen  hours  on  end,  and  even  at  night,  setting  the  type  for 
pseudo-artistic  books  which  spread  vice  among  mankind,  or 
working  for  theatres,  concerts,  exhibitions,  and  picture  gal- 
leries, which  for  the  most  part  also  serve  vice;  but  it  is  yet 
more  terrible  to  reflect  that  lively,  kindly  children,  capable 
of  all  that  is  good,  are  devoted  from  their  early  years  to  such 
tasks  as  these :  that  for  six,  eight,  or  ten  hours  a  day,  and  for 
ten  or  fifteen  years,  some  of  them  should  play  scales  and  ex- 


THE  ANGELS  AT  THE  TOMB  OF  CHRIST" 

By  E.  Manet 

An  example  of  a  sort  of  picture  Tolstoy  disliked 


WHAT  IS  ART?  299 

ercises;  others  should  twist  their  limbs,  walk  on  their  toes, 
and  lift  their  legs  above  their  heads;  a  third  set  should  sing 
solfeggios ;  a  fourth  set,  showing  themselves  off  in  all  manner 
of  ways,  should  recite  verses;  a  fifth  set  should  draw  from 
busts  or  from  nude  models  and  paint  studies;  a  sixth  set 
should  write  compositions  according  to  the  rules  of  certain 
periods;  and  that  in  these  occupations,  unworthy  of  a  human 
being,  which  are  often  continued  long  after  full  maturity,  they 
should  waste  their  physical  and  mental  strength  and  lose  all 
perception  of  the  meaning  of  life.  It  is  often  said  that  it  is 
horrible  and  pitiful  to  see  little  acrobats  putting  their  legs  over 
their  necks,  but  it  is  not  less  pitiful  to  see  children  of  ten  giv- 
ing concerts,  and  it  is  still  worse  to  see  schoolboys  of  ten  who 
as  a  preparation  for  literary  work  have  learnt  by  heart  the  ex- 
ceptions to  the  Latin  grammar.  These  people  not  only  grow 
physically  and  mentally  deformed  but  also  morally  deformed, 
and  become  incapable  of  doing  anything  really  needed  by 
man.  Occupying  in  society  the  role  of  amusers  of  the  rich, 
they  lose  their  sense  of  human  dignity  and  develop  in  them- 
selves such  a  passion  for  public  applause  that  they  are  al- 
ways a  prey  to  an  inflated  and  unsatisfied  vanity  which  grows 
in  them  to  diseased  dimensions,  and  they  expend  their  mental 
strength  in  efforts  to  obtain  satisfaction  for  this  passion. 
And  what  is  most  tragic  of  all  is  that  these  people,  who  for 
the  sake  of  art  are  spoilt  for  life,  not  only  do  not  render 
service  to  this  art,  but  on  the  contrary  inflict  the  greatest  harm 
on  it.  They  are  taught  in  academies,  schools,  and  conserva- 
toires, how  to  counterfeit  art,  and  by  learning  this  they  so  per- 
vert themselves  that  they  quite  lose  the  capacity  to  produce 
works  of  real  art,  and  become  purveyors  of  that  counterfeit,  or 
trivial,  or  depraved,  art  which  floods  our  society.  This  is  the 
first  obvious  consequence  of  the  perversion  of  the  organ  of 
art. 

The  second  consequence  is  that  the  productions  of  amuse- 


300  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

ment-art,  which  are  prepared  in  such  terrific  quantities  by  the 
armies  of  professional  artists,  enable  the  rich  people  of  our 
times  to  live  the  lives  they  do,  lives  not  only  unnatural,  but  in 
contradiction  to  the  humane  principles  these  people  them- 
selves profess.  To  live  as  do  the  idle  rich  people,  especially 
the  women,  far  from  nature  and  from  animals,  in  artificial 
conditions,  with  muscles  atrophied  or  misdeveloped  by  gym- 
v  nasties,  and  with  enfeebled  vital  energy,  would  be  impossible 
were  it  not  for  what  is  called  art — for  this  occupation  and 
amusement  which  hides  from  them  the  meaninglessness  of 
their  lives  and  saves  them  from  the  dulness  that  oppresses 
them.  Take  from  all  these  people  the  theatres,  concerts,  ex- 
hibitions, piano-playing,  songs,  and  novels,  with  which  they 
now  fill  their  time  in  full  confidence  that  occupation  with  these 
things  is  a  very  refined,  esthetic,  and  therefore  good  occupa- 
tion; take  from  the  patrons  of  art  who  buy  pictures,  assist 
musicians,  and  are  acquainted  with  writers,  their  role  of  pro- 
tectors of  that  important  matter  art,  and  they  will  not  be  able 
to  continue  such  a  life,  but  will  all  be  eaten  up  by  ennui  and 
spleen,  and  will  become  conscious  of  the  meaninglessness  and 
wrongfulness  of  their  present  mode  of  life.  Only  occupation 
with  what  among  them  is  considered  art  renders  it  possible 
for  them  to  continue  to  live  on,  infringing  all  natural  con- 
ditions, without  perceiving  the  emptiness  and  cruelty  of  their 
lives.  And  this  support  afforded  to  the  false  manner  of  life 
pursued  by  the  rich  is  the  second  consequence,  and  a  serious 
one,  of  the  perversion  of  art. 

The  third  consequence  of  the  perversion  of  art  is  the  per- 
plexity produced  in  the  minds  of  children  and  plain  folk. 
Among  people  not  perverted  by  the  false  theories  of  our 
society,  among  workers  and  children,  there  exists  a  very  def- 
inite conception  of  why  people  should  be  respected  and 
praised.  In  the  minds  of  peasants  and  children  the  ground 
for  praise  or  eulogy  can  only  be  either  physical  strength: 


WHAT  IS  ART?  301 


Hercules,  the  heroes  and  conquerors;  or  moral,  spiritual, 
strength:  Sakya  Muni  giving  up  a  beautiful  wife  and  a 
kingdom  to  save  mankind,  Christ  going  to  the  cross  for  the 
truth  he  professed,  and  all  the  martyrs  and  the  saints.  Both 
are  understood  by  peasants  and  children.  They  understand 
that  physical  strength  must  be  respected,  for  it  compels 
respect;  and  the  moral  strength  of  goodness  an  unperverted 
man  cannot  fail  to  respect,  because  his  whole  spiritual  being 
draws  him  towards  it.  But  these  people,  children  and 
peasants,  suddenly  perceive  that  besides  those  praised,  re- 
spected, and  rewarded  for  physical  or  moral  strength,  there  are 
others  who  are  praised  extolled  and  rewarded  much  more 
than  the  heroes  of  strength  and  virtue,  merely  because  they 
sing  well,  compose  verses,  or  dance.  They  see  that  singers, 
composers,  painters,  ballet-dancers,  earn  millions  of  roubles 
and  receive  more  honour  than  the  saints  do:  and  peasants 
and  children  are  perplexed. 

When  fifty  years  had  elapsed  after  Pushkin's  death  and, 
simultaneously,  the  cheap  editions  of  his  works  began  to  cir- 
culate among  the  people  and  a  monument  was  erected  to  him 
in  Moscow,  I  received  more  than  a  dozen  letters  from  different 
peasants  asking  why  Pushkin  was  raised  to  such  dignity? 
And  only  the  other  day  a  literate  *  man  from  Saratov  called 
on  me  who  had  evidently  gone  out  of  his  mind  over  this  very 
question.  He  was  on  his  way  to  Moscow  to  expose  the  clergy 
for  having  taken  part  in  raising  a  monument  to  Mr.  Pushkin. 

Indeed,  one  need  only  imagine  to  oneself  what  the  state  of 
mind  of  such  a  man  of  the  people  must  be  when  he  learns 
from  such  rumours  and  newspapers  as  reach  him,  that  the 
clergy,  Government  officials,  and  all  the  best  people  in  Russia, 
are  triumphantly  unveiling  a  statue  to  a  great  man,  the  bene- 

1  In  Russian  it  is  customary  to  make  a  distinction  between  literate  and  illit- 
erate people,  that  is,  between  those  who  can  and  those  who  cannot  read.  Literate 
in  this  sense  does  not  imply  that  the  man  would  speak  or  write  correctly. — A.  M. 


302  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

factor,  the  pride  of  Russia — Pushkin,  of  whom  till  then  he 
had  never  heard.  On  all  sides  he  reads  or  hears  about  this, 
and  he  naturally  supposes  that  if  such  honours  are  rendered 
to  anyone,  then  without  doubt  he  must  have  done  something 
extraordinary — either  some  feat  of  strength  or  of  goodness. 
He  tries  to  learn  who  Pushkin  was,  and  having  discovered 
that  Pushkin  was  neither  a  hero  nor  a  general  but  a  private 
person  and  a  writer,  he  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  Pushkin 
must  have  been  a  holy  man  and  a  teacher  of  goodness,  and  he 
hastens  to  read  or  to  hear  his  life  and  works.  But  what  must 
be  his  perplexity  when  he  learns  that  Pushkin  was  a  man  of 
more  than  easy  morals,  who  was  killed  in  a  duel  when  at- 
tempting to  murder  another  man,  and  that  all  his  service  con- 
sisted in  writing  verses  about  love,  which  were  often  very 
indecent. 

That  a  hero,  or  Alexander  the  Great,  or  Genghis  Khan,  or 
Napoleon,  was  great,  he  understands,  because  any  one  of 
them  could  have  crushed  him  and  a  thousand  like  him;  that 
Buddha,  Socrates,  and  Christ,  were  great  he  also  understands, 
for  he  knows  and  feels  that  he  and  all  men  should  be  such 
as  they  were ;  but  why  a  man  should  be  great  because  he  wrote 
verses  about  the  love  of  women  he  cannot  make  out. 

A  similar  perplexity  must  trouble  the  brain  of  a  Breton  or 
Normandy  peasant  who  hears  that  a  monument,  "une  statue" 
(as  to  the  Madonna),  is  being  erected  to  Baudelaire,  and 
reads,  or  is  told,  what  the  contents  of  his  Fleurs  du  Mai  are; 
or,  more  amazing  still,  to  Verlaine,  when  he  learns  the  story 
of  that  man's  wretched,  vicious  life,  and  reads  his  verses. 
And  what  confusion  it  must  cause  in  the  brains  of  peasants 
when  they  learn  that  some  Patti  or  Taglioni  is  paid  £10,000 
for  a  season,  or  that  a  painter  gets  as  much  for  a  picture,  or 
that  authors  of  novels  describing  love-scenes  have  received 
even  more  than  that. 

And  it  is  the  same  with  children.     I  remember  how  I  passed 


WHAT  IS  ART?  303 

through  this  stage  of  amazement  and  stupefaction  and  only 
reconciled  myself  to  this  exaltation  of  artists  to  the  level 
of  heroes  and  saints  by  lowering  in  my  own  estimation  the 
importance  of  moral  excellence  and  by  attributing  a  false, 
unnatural  meaning  to  works  of  art.  And  a  similar  confusion 
must  occur  in  the  soul  of  each  child  and  each  man  of  the  peo- 
ple when  he  learns  of  the  strange  honours  and  rewards  that 
are  lavished  on  artists.  This  is  the  third  consequence  of  the 
false  relation  in  which  our  society  stands  towards  art. 

The  fourth  consequence  is  that  people  of  the  upper  classes, 
more  and  more  frequently  encountering  the  contradictions 
between  beauty  and  goodness,  put  the  ideal  of  beauty  first, 
thus  freeing  themselves  from  the  demands  of  morality. 
These  people,  reversing  the  roles,  instead  of  admitting,  as  is 
really  the  case,  that  the  art  they  serve  is  an  antiquated  affair, 
allege  that  morality  is  an  antiquated  affair  which  can  have  no 
importance  for  people  situated  on  that  high  plane  of  develop- 
ment wThich  they  opine  that  they  occupy. 

This  result  of  the  false  relation  to  art  showed  itself  in  our 
society  long  ago ;  but  recently,  with  its  prophet  Nietzsche  and 
his  adherents,  and  with  the  decadents  and  certain  English 
esthetes  who  coincide  with  him,  it  is  being  expressed  with 
especial  impudence.  The  Decadents,  and  esthetes  of  the  type 
at  one  time  represented  by  Oscar  Wilde,  select  as  a  theme  for 
their  productions  the  denial  of  morality  and  the  laudation  of 
vice. 

This  art  has  partly  generated  and  partly  coincides  with  a 
similar  philosophic  theory.  I  recently  received  from  America 
a  book  entitled  The  Survival  of  the  Fittest:  Philosophy  of 
Power,  1896,  by  Ragner  Redbeard,  Chicago.  The  substance 
of  this  book,  as  it  is  expressed  in  the  editor's  preface,  is  that 
to  measure  right  by  the  false  philosophy  of  the  Hebrew 
prophets  and  weepful  Messiahs  is  madness.  Right  is  not  the 
offspring  of  doctrine,  but  of  power.     All  laws,  command- 


304  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

ments,  or  doctrines  as  to  not  doing  to  another  what  you  do  not 
wish  done  to  you,  have  no  inherent  authority  whatever,  but 
receive  it  only  from  the  club,  the  gallows,  and  the  sword.  A 
man  truly  free  is  under  no  obligation  to  obey  any  injunction, 
human  or  divine.  Obedience  is  the  sign  of  the  degenerate. 
Disobedience  is  the  stamp  of  the  hero.  Men  should  not  be 
bound  by  moral  rules  invented  by  their  foes.  The  whole 
world  is  a  slippery  battlefield.  Ideal  justice  demands  that 
the  vanquished  should  be  exploited,  emasculated,  and  scorned. 
The  free  and  brave  may  seize  the  world.  And  therefore  there 
should  be  eternal  war  for  life,  for  land,  for  love,  for  women, 
for  power,  and  for  gold.  (Something  similar  was  said  a 
few  years  ago  by  the  celebrated  and  refined  academician,  de 
Vogue.)     The  earth  with  its  treasures  is  booty  for  the  bold. 

The  author  has  evidently  by  himself,  independently  of 
Nietzsche,  come  to  the  same  conclusions  which  are  professed 
by  the  new  artists. 

Expressed  in  the  form  of  a  doctrine  these  positions  startle 
us.  In  reality  they  are  implied  in  the  ideal  of  art  serving 
beauty.  The  art  of  our  upper  classes  has  educated  people 
in  this  ideal  of  the  superman, — which  is  in  reality  the  old 
ideal  of  Nero,  Stenka,  Razin,1  Genghis  Khan,  Robert  Ma- 
caire,2  or  Napoleon,  and  all  their  accomplices,  assistants, 

1  Stenka  Razin  was  by  origin  a  common  Cossack.  His  brother  was  hanged  for 
a  breach  of  military  discipline,  and  to  this  event  Stenka  Razin's  hatred  of  the 
governing  classes  has  been  attributed.  He  formed  a  robber  band,  and  sub- 
sequently headed  a  formidable  rebellion,  declaring  himself  in  favour  of  freedom 
for  the  serfs,  religious  toleration,  and  the  abolition  of  taxes.  Like  the  Govern- 
ment he  opposed,  he  relied  on  force,  and  though  he  used  it  largely  in  defence 
of  the  poor  against  the  rich  he  still  held  to 

"The  good  old  rule,  the  simple  plan, 
That   they   should   take   who   have   the   power, 
And  they  should  keep  who  can." 

Like  Robin  Hood  he  is  favourably  treated  in  popular  legends. — A.  M. 

2  Robert  Macaire  is  a  modern  type  of  adroit  and  audacious  rascality.  He  was 
the  hero  of  a  popular  play  produced  in  Paris  in  1834,  and  of  one  written  by 
R.  L.  Stevenson  and  W.  E.  Henley,  1897.— A.  M. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  305 

and  adulators, — and  it  supports  this  ideal  with  all  its  might. 

It  is  this  supplanting  of  the  ideal  of  what  is  right  by  the 
ideal  of  what  is  beautiful,  that  is,  of  what  is  pleasant,  that  is 
the  fourth  consequence  and  a  terrible  one  of  the  perversion 
of  art  in  our  society.  It  is  fearful  to  think  of  what  would  be- 
fall humanity  were  such  art  to  spread  among  the  masses  of 
the  people.     And  it  already  begins  to  spread. 

Finally,  the  fifth  and  chief  result  is  that  the  art  which 
flourishes  in  the  upper  classes  of  European  society  has  a 
directly  vitiating  influence,  infecting  people  with  the  worst 
feelings  and  with  those  most  harmful  to  humanity — supersti- 
tion, patriotism,  and,  above  all,  sensuality. 

Look  carefully  into  the  causes  of  the  ignorance  of  the 
masses  and  you  may  see  that  the  chief  cause  does  not  at  all 
lie  in  the  lack  of  schools  and  libraries,  as  we  are  accustomed 
to  suppose,  but  in  those  superstitions,  both  ecclesiastical  and 
patriotic,  with  which  the  people  are  saturated  and  which  are 
unceasingly  generated  by  all  the  methods  of  art.  Church 
superstitions  are  supported  and  produced  by  the  poetry  of 
prayers,  hymns,  paintings,  by  the  sculpture  of  images  and  of 
statues,  by  singing,  by  organs,  by  music,  by  architecture,  and 
even  by  dramatic  art  in  religious  ceremonies.  Patriotic 
superstitions  are  supported  and  produced  by  verses  and  stories 
(which  are  supplied  even  in  schools),  by  music,  by  songs,  by 
triumphal  processions,  by  royal  meetings,  by  martial  pictures, 
and  by  monuments. 

Were  it  not  for  this  continual  activity  in  all  departments 
of  art,  perpetuating  the  ecclesiastical  and  patriotic  intoxi- 
cation and  embitterment  of  the  people,  the  masses  would  long 
ere  this  have  attained  to  true  enlightenment. 

But  it  is  not  only  in  Church  matters  and  patriotic  matters 
that  art  depraves;  it  is  art  in  our  time  that  serves  as  the 
chief  cause  of  the  perversion  of  people  in  the  most  important 
question  of  social  life — in  their  sexual  relations.     We  nearly 


306  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

all  know  by  our  own  experience,  and  those  who  are  fathers 
and  mothers  know  in  the  case  of  their  grown-up  children 
also,  what  fearful  mental  and  physical  suffering,  what  useless 
waste  of  strength,  people  suffer  merely  as  a  consequence  of 
dissoluteness  in  sexual  desire. 

Since  the  world  began,  since  the  Trojan  war  which  sprang 
from  that  same  sexual  dissoluteness,  down  to  and  including 
the  suicides  and  murders  of  lovers  described  in  almost  every 
newspaper,  a  great  proportion  of  the  sufferings  of  the  human 
race  have  come  from  this  source. 

And  what  is  art  doing?  All  art,  real  and  counterfeit,  with 
very  few  exceptions,  is  devoted  to  describing,  depicting,  and 
inflaming,  sexual  love  in  every  shape  and  form.  If  one  re- 
members all  those  novels  and  their  lust-kindling  descriptions 
of  love,  from  the  most  refined  to  the  grossest,  with  which  the 
literature  of  our  society  overflows;  if  one  only  remembers  all 
those  pictures  and  statues  representing  women's  naked  bodies, 
and  all  sorts  of  abominations,  which  are  reproduced  in  illus- 
trations and  advertisements;  if  one  only  remembers  all  the 
filthy  operas  and  operettas,  songs  and  ballads,  with  which  our 
world  teems,  involuntarily  it  seems  as  if  existing  art  had  but 
one  definite  aim — to  disseminate  vice  as  widely  as  possible. 

Such  are  the  most  direct  though  not  all  the  consequences  of 
that  perversion  of  art  which  has  occurred  in  our  society.  So 
that  what  in  our  society  is  called  art  not  only  does  not  con- 
duce to  the  progress  of  mankind,  but  more  than  almost  any- 
thing else  hinders  the  attainment  of  goodness  in  our  lives. 

And  therefore  the  question  which  involuntarily  presents 
itself  to  every  man  free  from  artistic  activity  and  not  bound 
to  existing  art  by  self-interest,  the  question  asked  by  me  at 
the  beginning  of  this  work:  Is  it  just  that  to  what  we  call 
art,  to  a  something  possessed  by  but  a  small  section  of  society, 
should  be  offered  up  such  sacrifices  of  human  labour,  of  hu- 


WHAT  IS  ART?  307 


man  lives,  and  of  goodness,  as  are  now  being  offered  up?  re- 
ceives the  natural  reply:  No;  it  is  unjust,  and  these  things 
should  not  be!  Such  is  also  the  answer  of  sound  sense  and 
unperverted  moral  feeling.  Not  only  should  these  things  not 
be,  not  only  should  no  sacrifices  be  offered  up  to  what  among 
us  is  called  art,  but,  on  the  contrary,  the  efforts  of  those  who 
wish  to  live  rightly  should  be  directed  towards  the  destruction 
of  this  art,  for  it  is  one  of  the  most  cruel  of  the  evils  that  harass 
our  section  of  humanity.  So  that  were  the  question  put: 
Would  it  be  preferable  for  our  Christian  world  to  be  deprived 
of  all  that  is  now  esteemed  to  be  art,  and  together  with  the 
false  to  lose  all  that  is  good  in  it?  I  think  that  every  reason- 
able and  moral  man  would  again  decide  the  question  as  Plato 
decided  it  for  his  Republic,  and  as  all  the  early  Church- 
Christian  and  Mahommedan  teachers  of  mankind  decided 
it,  that  is,  would  say,  Rather  let  there  be  no  art  at  all  than 
continue  the  depraving  art,  or  simulation  of  art,  which  now 
exists.  Happily  no  one  has  to  face  this  question  and  no 
one  need  adopt  either  solution.  All  that  man  can  do,  and 
that  we — the  so-called  educated  people  who  are  so  placed  that 
we  have  the  possibility  of  understanding  the  meaning  of  the 
phenomena  of  our  life — can  and  should  do,  is  to  understand 
the  error  we  are  involved  in,  and  not  harden  our  hearts  in  it, 
out  seek  for  a  way  of  escape. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  purpose  of  human  life  is  the  brotherly  union  of  man.  Art  must  be  guided 
by  this  perception. 

The  cause  of  the  lie  into  which  the  art  of  our  society  has 
fallen  was  that  people  of  the  upper  classes,  having  ceased  to 
believe  in  the  Church  teaching  (called  Christian),  did  not  re- 
solve to  accept  true  Christian  teaching  in  its  real  and  funda- 
mental principles  of  sonship  to  God  and  brotherhood  to  man, 
but  continued  to  live  on  without  any  belief,  endeavouring  to 
make  up  for  the  absence  of  belief — some  by  hypocrisy,  pre- 
tending still  to  believe  in  the  nonsense  of  the  Church  creeds; 
others  by  boldly  asserting  their  disbelief;  others  by  refined 
agnosticism;  and  others,  again,  by  returning  to  the  Greek 
worship  of  beauty,  proclaiming  egotism  to  be  right,  and  ele- 
vating it  to  the  rank  of  a  religious  doctrine. 

The  cause  of  the  malady  was  the  non-acceptance  of  Christ's 
teaching  in  its  real,  that  is,  its  full,  meaning.  And  the  only 
cure  lies  in  acknowledging  that  teaching  in  its  full  meaning. 
Such  acknowledgement  in  our  time  is  not  only  possible  but  in- 
evitable. Already  to-day  a  man  standing  on  the  height  of 
the  knowledge  of  our  age,  whether  he  be  nominally  a  Catholic 
or  a  Protestant,  cannot  say  that  he  really  believes  in  the 
dogmas  of  the  Church :  in  God  being  a  Trinity,  in  Christ  be- 
ing God,  in  the  Scheme  of  Redemption,  and  so  forth;  nor  can 
he  satisfy  himself  by  proclaiming  his  unbelief  or  scepticism, 
nor  by  relapsing  into  the  worship  of  beauty  and  egotism. 
Above  all  he  can  no  longer  say  that  we  do  not  know  the  real 
meaning  of  Christ's  teaching.  That  meaning  has  not  only 
become  accessible  to  all  men  of  our  times,  but  the  whole  life 


WHAT  IS  ART?  309 

)f  man  to-day  is  permeated  by  the  spirit  of  that  teaching  and 
consciously  or  unconsciously  is  guided  by  it. 

However  differently  in  form  people  belonging  to  our 
Christian  world  may  define  the  destiny  of  man :  whether  they 
see  it  in  human  progress  (in  whatever  sense  of  the  words),  in 
the  union  of  all  men  in  a  socialistic  realm,  or  in  the  establish- 
ment of  a  commune;  whether  they  look  forward  to  the  union 
of  mankind  under  the  guidance  of  one  universal  Church,  or 
to  the  federation  of  the  world — however  various  in  form  their 
definitions  of  the  destination  of  human  life  may  be,  all  men 
in  our  times  already  admit  that  the  highest  well-being  attain- 
able by  men  is  to  be  reached  by  their  union  with  one  another. 

However  people  of  our  upper  classes  (feeling  that  their 
ascendency  can  only  be  maintained  as  long  as  they  separate 
themselves — the  rich  and  learned — from  the  labourers,  the 
poor,  and  the  unlearned)  may  seek  to  devise  new  conceptions 
of  life  by  which  their  privileges  may  be  perpetuated — now  the 
ideal  of  returning  to  antiquity,  now  mysticism,  now  Hellenism, 
now  the  cult  of  the  superior  person  (supermanism) — they 
have,  willingly  or  unwillingly,  to  admit  the  truth  which  is  be- 
coming clear  upon  all  sides  voluntarily  and  involuntarily, 
namely,  that  our  welfare  lies  only  in  the  union  and  brother- 
hood of  man. 

Unconsciously  this  truth  is  confirmed  by  the  construction 
of  means  of  communication, — telegraphs,  telephones,  the 
press,  and  the  ever-increasing  attainability  of  material  well- 
being  for  everyone — and  consciously  it  is  affirmed  by  the 
destruction  of  superstitions  which  divide  men,  by  the  diffusion 
of  the  truths  of  knowledge,  and  by  the  expression  of  the  ideal 
of  the  brotherhood  of  man  in  the  best  works  of  art  of  our  time. 

Art  is  a  spiritual  organ  of  human  life  which  cannot  be 
destroyed,  and  therefore,  notwithstanding  all  the  efforts  made 
by  people  of  the  upper  classes  to  conceal  the  religious  ideal  by 
which  humanity  lives,  that  ideal  is  more  and  more  clearly  rec- 


310  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

ognised  by  man,  and  even  in  our  perverted  society  is  more  and 
more  often  partially  expressed  by  science  and  by  art.  During 
the  present  century  works  of  the  higher  kind  of  religious  art, 
permeated  by  a  truly  Christian  spirit,  have  appeared  more 
and  more  frequently  both  in  literature  and  in  painting,  as 
also  works  of  the  universal  art  of  common  life  accessible  to  all. 
So  that  even  art  knows  the  true  ideal  of  our  times  and  tends 
towards  it.  On  the  one  hand,  the  best  works  of  art  of  our 
time  transmit  religious  feelings  urging  towards  the  union 
and  the  brotherhood  of  man  (such  are  the  works  of  Dickens, 
Hugo,  Dostoevski;  and,  in  painting,  of  Millet,  Bastien  Le- 
page, Jules  Breton,  Lhermitte,  and  others)  ;  on  the  other  hand, 
they  strive  towards  the  transmission,  not  of  feelings  which 
are  natural  to  people  of  the  upper  classes  only,  but  of  such 
feelings  as  may  unite  everyone  without  exception.  There 
are  as  yet  few  such  works,  but  the  need  of  them  is  already 
acknowledged.  In  recent  times  we  also  meet  more  and  more 
frequently  with  attempts  at  publications,  pictures,  concerts, 
and  theatres,  for  the  people.  All  this  is  still  very  far  from 
accomplishing  what  should  be  done,  but  already  the  direction 
in  which  good  art  instinctively  presses  forward  to  regain 
the  path  natural  to  it  can  be  discerned. 

The  religious  perception  of  our  time — which  consists  in 
acknowledging  that  the  aim  of  life  (both  collective  and  in- 
dividual) is  the  union  of  mankind — is  already  so  sufficiently 
distinct  that  people  have  now  only  to  reject  the  false  theory 
of  beauty,  according  to  which  enjoyment  is  considered  to  be 
the  purpose  of  art,  and  religious  perception  will  naturally 
take  its  place  as  the  guide  of  the  art  of  our  time. 

And  as  soon  as  this  religious  perception  which  already  un- 
consciously directs  the  life  of  man  is  consciously  acknow- 
ledged, then  immediately  and  naturally  the  division  of  art  into 
art  for  the  lower  and  art  for  the  upper  classes  will  disappear. 
There  will  be  one  common,  brotherly,  universal  art;  and  then 


WHAT  IS  ART?  311 

first,  that  art  will  naturally  be  rejected  which  transmits  feel- 
ings incompatible  with  the  religious  perception  of  our  time — 
feelings  which  do  not  unite,  but  divide  men — and  later  that 
insignificant,  exclusive  art  will  be  rejected  to  which  an  un- 
merited importance  is  now  attributed. 

And  as  soon  as  this  occurs,  art  will  immediately  cease  to 
be,  what  it  has  been  in  recent  times,  a  means  of  making  people 
coarser  and  more  vicious,  and  it  will  become  what  it  always 
used  to  be  and  should  be,  a  means  by  which  humanity  pro- 
gresses towards  unity  and  blessedness. 

Strange  as  the  comparison  may  sound,  what  has  happened 
to  the  art  of  our  circle  and  time  is  what  happens  to  a  woman 
who  sells  her  womanly  attractiveness,  intended  for  maternity, 
for  the  pleasure  of  those  who  desire  such  pleasures. 

The  art  of  our  time  and  of  our  circle  has  become  a  pros- 
titute. And  this  comparison  holds  good  even  in  minute 
details.  Like  her  it  is  not  limited  to  certain  times,  like  her 
it  is  always  adorned,  like  her  it  is  always  saleable,  and  like 
her  it  is  enticing  and  ruinous. 

A  real  work  of  art  can  only  arise  in  the  soul  of  an  artist 
occasionally,  as  the  fruit  of  the  life  he  has  lived,  just  as  a 
child  is  conceived  by  its  mother.  But  counterfeit  art  is 
produced  by  artisans  and  handicraftsmen  continually,  if  only 
consumers  can  be  found. 

Real  art,  like  the  wife  of  an  affectionate  husband,  needs 
no  ornaments.  But  counterfeit  art,  like  a  prostitute,  must 
always  be  decked  out. 

The  cause  of  the  production  of  real  art  is  the  artist's  inner 
need  to  express  a  feeling  that  has  accumulated,  just  as  for  a 
mother  the  cause  of  sexual  conception  was  love.  The  cause 
of  counterfeit  art,  as  of  prostitution,  is  gain. 

The  consequence  of  true  art  is  the  introduction  of  a  new 
feeling  into  the  intercourse  of  life,  as  the  consequence  of  a 
wife's  love  is  the  birth  of  a  new  man  into  life. 


312  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

The  consequences  of  counterfeit  art  are  the  perversion  of 
man,  pleasure  which  never  satisfies,  and  the  weakening  of 
man's  spiritual  strength. 

And  this  is  what  people  of  our  day  and  of  our  circle 
should  understand,  in  order  to  avoid  the  filthy  torrent  of 
depraved  and  prostituted  art  with  which  we  are  deluged. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The   art  of  the  future   not  the  possession  of  a  select  minority,    but   a   means 
towards  perfection  and  unity. 

People  talk  of  the  art  of  the  future,  meaning  by  art  of 
the  future  some  especially  refined  new  art  which  they  imagine 
will  be  developed  out  of  that  exclusive  art  of  one  class  which 
is  now  considered  the  highest  art.  But  no  such  new  art  of 
the  future  can  or  will  be  found.  Our  exclusive  art,  that  of 
the  upper  classes  of  Christendom,  has  found  its  way  into  a 
blind  alley.  The  direction  in  which  it  has  been  going  leads 
nowhere.  Having  once  let  go  of  that  which  is  most  essential 
for  art  (namely,  the  guidance  given  by  religious  perception), 
that  art  has  become  ever  more  and  more  exclusive  and  there- 
fore ever  more  and  more  perverted,  until  finally  it  has  come 
to  nothing.  The  art  of  the  future,  that  which  is  really  com- 
ing, will  not  be  a  development  of  present-day  art  but  will 
arise  on  completely  other  and  new  foundations  having  nothing 
in  common  with  those  by  which  our  present  art  of  the  upper 
classes  is  guided. 

Art  of  the  future,  that  is  to  say,  such  part  of  art  as  shall 
be  chosen  from  among  all  the  art  diffused  among  mankind, 
will  consist,  not  in  transmitting  feelings  accessible  only  to 
members  of  the  rich  classes  as  is  the  case  to-day,  but  in  trans- 
mitting feelings  that  embody  the  highest  religious  per- 
ception of  our  times.  Only  those  productions  will  be  con- 
sidered art  which  transmit  feelings  drawing  men  together  " 
in  brotherly  union,  or  such  universal  feelings  as  can  unite 
all  men.     Only  such  art  will  be  chosen,  tolerated,  approved, 

313 


314  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

and  diffused.  But  art  transmitting  feelings  flowing  from 
antiquated,  worn-out  religious  teaching, — ecclesiastical  art, 
patriotic  art,  voluptuous  art,  transmitting  feelings  of  super- 
stitious fear,  of  pride,  of  vanity,  of  ecstatic  admiration  of 
national  heroes, — art  exciting  exclusive  love  of  one's  own  peo- 
ple, or  sensuality,  will  be  considered  bad,  harmful  art,  and 
will  be  censured  and  despised  by  public  opinion.  All  the  rest 
of  art,  transmitting  feelings  accessible  only  to  a  section  of  peo- 
ple, will  be  considered  unimportant  and  will  be  neither 
blamed  nor  praised.  And  the  appraisement  of  art  in  general 
will  devolve,  not  as  is  now  the  case  on  a  separate  class  of  rich 
people,  but  on  the  whole  people;  so  that  for  a  work  to  be 
thought  good,  and  to  be  approved  and  diffused,  it  will 
have  to  satisfy  the  demands,  not  of  a  few  people  living  under 
similar  and  often  unnatural  conditions  but  of  all  those  great 
masses  of  people  who  undergo  the  natural  conditions  of 
laborious  life. 

Nor  will  the  artists  producing  the  art  be,  as  now,  merely  a 
few  people  selected  from  a  small  section  of  the  nation,  mem- 
bers of  the  upper  classes  or  their  hangers-on,  but  they  will 
consist  of  all  those  gifted  members  of  the  whole  people  who 
prove  capable  of,  and  have  a  leaning  towards,  artistic  activity. 

Artistic  activity  will  then  be  accessible  to  all  men.  It  will 
become  accessible  to  the  whole  people  because  (in  the  first 
place)  in  the  art  of  the  future  not  only  will  that  complex 
technique  which  deforms  the  productions  of  the  art  of  to-day 
and  requires  so  great  an  effort  and  expenditure  of  time  not  be 
demanded,  but  on  the  contrary  the  demand  will  be  for  clear- 
ness, simplicity,  and  brevity — conditions  brought  about  not  by 
mechanical  methods  but  through  the  education  of  taste.  And 
secondly,  artistic  activity  will  become  accessible  to  all  men  of 
the  people  because,  instead  of  the  present  professional  schools 
which  only  some  can  enter,  all  will  learn  music  and  graphic 
art  (singing  and  drawing)  equally  with  letters,  in  the  ele- 


WHAT  IS  ART?  315 

mentary  schools,  in  such  a  way  that  every  man,  having  re- 
ceived the  first  principles  of  drawing  and  music  and  feeling 
a  capacity  for,  and  a  call  to,  one  or  other  of  the  arts,  will  be 
able  to  perfect  himself  in  it. 

People  think  that  if  there  are  no  special  art-schools  the 
technique  of  art  will  deteriorate.  Undoubtedly  if  by  tech- 
nique we  understand  those  complexities  of  art  which  are  now 
considered  an  excellence,  it  will  deteriorate;  but  if  by  tech- 
nique is  understood  clearness,  beauty,  simplicity,  and  com- 
pression, in  works  of  art,  then  even  if  the  elements  of  draw- 
ing and  music  were  not  to  be  taught  in  the  national  schools, 
the  technique  will  not  only  not  deteriorate  but,  as  is  shown 
by  all  peasant  art,  will  be  a  hundred  times  better.  It  will  be 
improved  because  all  the  artists  of  genius  now  hidden  among 
the  masses  will  become  producers-  of  art  and  supply  models  of 
excellence  which  (as  has  always  been  the  case)  will  be  the 
best  schools  of  technique  for  their  successors.  For  every  true 
artist  even  now  learns  his  technique  chiefly,  not  in  the  schools, 
but  in  life,  from  the  examples  of  the  great  masters;  then — 
when  art  will  be  produced  by  the  best  artists  of  the  whole 
nation  and  there  will  be  more  such  examples  and  they  will 
be  more  accessible — such  part  of  school  training  as  the  future 
artist  will  lose  will  be  a  hundredfold  compensated  for  by 
the  training  he  will  receive  from  the  numerous  examples  of 
good  art  diffused  in  society. 

Such  will  be  one  difference  between  present  and  future 
art.  Another  difference  will  be  that  art  will  not  be  produced 
by  professional  artists  receiving  payment  for  their  work  and 
engaged  on  nothing  else  besides  their  art.  The  art  of  the 
future  will  be  produced  by  all  the  members  of  the  community 
who  feel  the  need  of  such  activity,  but  they  will  occupy  them- 
selves with  art  only  when  they  feel  such  need. 

In  our  society  people  think  that  an  artist  will  work  better 
and  produce  more  if  he  has  a  secured  maintenance.     And 


316  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

this  opinion  would  prove  once  more  quite  clearly,  were  such 
proof  yet  needed,  that  what  among  us  is  considered  art  is  not 
art  but  only  a  counterfeit.  It  is  quite  true  that  for  the  pro- 
duction of  boots  or  loaves  division  of  labour  is  very  advan- 
tageous, and  that  the  bootmaker  or  baker  who  need  not  pre- 
pare his  own  dinner  or  fetch  his  own  fuel  will  make  more 
boots  or  loaves  than  if  he  had  to  busy  himself  with  these 
matters.  But  art  is  not  a  handicraft ;  it  is  the  transmission  of 
feeling  the  artist  has  experienced.  And  sound  feeling  can 
only  be  engendered  in  a  man  when  he  is  living  in  all  respects  a 
life  natural  and  proper  to  man.  And  therefore  security  of 
maintenance  is  a  condition  most  harmful  to  an  artist's  true 
productiveness,  since  it  removes  him  from  the  condition 
natural  to  all  men — that  of  struggle  with  nature  for  the  main- 
tenance of  both  his  own  life  and  that  of  others — and  thus 
deprives  him  of  the  opportunity  and  the  possibility  of  ex- 
periencing the  most  important  and  most  natural  feelings  of 
man.  There  is  no  position  more  injurious  to  an  artist's  pro- 
ductiveness than  that  position  of  complete  security  and  luxury 
in  which  artists  usually  live  in  our  society. 

The  artist  of  the  future  will  live  the  common  life  of  man, 
earning  his  subsistence  by  some  kind  of  labour.  The  fruits 
of  that  highest  spiritual  strength  which  passes  through  him 
he  will  try  to  share  with  the  greatest  possible  number  of  peo- 
ple, for  in  such  transmission  to  others  of  the  feelings  that 
have  arisen  in  him  he  will  find  his  happiness  and  reward. 
The  artist  of  the  future  will  be  unable  to  understand  how  an 
artist,  whose  chief  delight  is  in  the  wide  diffusion  of  his 
works,  could  give  them  only  in  exchange  for  a  certain 
payment. 

Until  the  dealers  are  driven  out,  the  temple  of  art  will  not 
be  a  temple.     But  the  art  of  the  future  will  drive  them  out. 

And  therefore  the  subject-matter  of  the  art  of  the  future, 
as  I  imagine  it  to  myself,  will  be  totally  unlike  that  of  to-day. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  317 

It  will  consist,  not  in  the  expression  of  exclusive  feelings: 
pride,  spleen,  satiety,  and  all  possible  forms  of  voluptuous- 
ness, available  and  interesting  only  to  people  who  have  freed 
themselves  by  force  from  the  labour  natural  to  human  beings ; 
but  it  will  consist  in  the  expression  of  feelings  flowing  from 
the  religious  perception  of  our  times,  or  open  to  all  men 
without  exception  and  experienced  by  a  man  living  a  life 
natural  to  all  men. 

To  people  of  our  circle  who  do  not  know  and  cannot  or 
will  not  understand  the  feelings  which  will  form  the  subject- 
matter  of  the  art  of  the  future,  such  subject-matter  appears 
very  poor  in  comparison  with  those  subtleties  of  exclusive  art 
with  which  they  are  now  occupied.  "What  is  there  fresh  to 
be  said  about  the  Christian  feeling  of  love  to  one's  fellow- 
man?"  "The  feelings  common  to  everyone  are  so  insignifi- 
cant and  monotonous,"  think  they.  And  yet  in  our  time 
the  really  fresh  feelings  can  only  be  religious,  Christian  feel- 
ings, and  such  as  are  open  and  accessible  to  all.  The  feel- 
ings flowing  from  the  religious  perception  of  our  times,  Chris- 
tian feelings,  are  infinitely  new  and  varied,  only  not  in  the 
sense  some  people  imagine, — not  because  they  can  be  evoked 
by  depicting  Christ  and  Gospel  episodes  or  by  repeating  in 
new  forms  the  Christian  truths  of  unity,  brotherhood,  equality, 
and  love, — but  because  all  the  oldest,  commonest,  and  most 
hackneyed  phenomena  of  life  evoke  the  newest,  most  unex- 
pected and  poignant  emotions  as  soon  as  a  man  regards  them 
from  the  Christian  point  of  view. 

What  can  be  older  than  the  relations  between  married 
couples,  of  parents  to  children,  of  children  to  parents;  the  re- 
lations of  men  to  their  fellow-countrymen  and  to  foreigners, 
to  an  invasion,  to  defence,  to  property,  to  the  land,  or  to  ani- 
mals? But  as  soon  as  a  man  regards  these  matters  from  the 
Christian  point  of  view,  endlessly  varied,  fresh,  complex,  and 
strong  emotions  immediately  arise, 

u^VU  jvX-y-  V"^) 


318  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

And  in  the  same  way,  that  realm  of  subject-matter  for  the 
art  of  the  future  which  relates  to  the  simplest  feelings  of  com- 
mon life  open  to  all  will  not  be  narrowed  but  widened.  In 
our  former  art  only  the  expression  of  feelings  natural  to  peo- 
ple of  a  certain  exceptional  position  was  considered  worthy  of 
being  transmitted  by  art,  and  even  then  only  on  condition  that 
these  feelings  were  transmitted  in  a  most  refined  manner,  in- 
comprehensible to  the  majority  of  men;  all  the  immense  realm 
of  folk-art  and  children's  art — jests,  proverbs,  riddles,  songs, 
dances,  children's  games,  and  mimicry — was  not  esteemed  a 
domain  worthy  of  art. 

The  artist  of  the  future  will  understand  that  to  compose  a 
fairy-tale,  a  touching  little  song,  a  lullaby  or  an  entertaining 
riddle,  an  amusing  jest,  or  to  draw  a  sketch  which  will  delight 
dozens  of  generations  or  millions  of  children  and  adults,  is 
incomparably  more  important  and  more  fruitful  than  to  com- 
pose a  novel  or  a  symphony,  or  paint  a  picture,  which  will 
divert  some  members  of  the  wealthy  classes  for  a  short  time 
and  then  for  ever  be  forgotten.  The  region  of  this  art  of  the 
simple  feelings  accessible  to  all  is  enormous  and  it  is  as  yet 
almost  untouched. 

The  art  of  the  future  therefore  will  not  be  poorer  but  in- 
finitely richer  in  subject-matter.  And  the  form  of  the  art  of 
the  future  will  also  not  be  inferior  to  the  present  forms  but  in- 
finitely superior.  Superior,  not  in  the  sense  of  having  a  re- 
fined and  complex  technique,  but  in  the  sense  of  the  capacity 
briefly,  simply,  and  clearly  to  transmit,  without  any  super- 
fluities, the  feeling  the  artist  has  experienced  and  wishes  to 
transmit. 

I  remember  once  speaking  to  a  famous  astronomer  who 
had  given  public  lectures  on  the  spectrum  analysis  of  the  stars 
of  the  Milky  Way,  and  saying  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if, 
with  his  knowledge  and  masterly  delivery,  he  would  give  a 
lecture  merely  on  the  formation  and  movements  of  the  earth, 


WHAT  IS  ART?  319 

for  certainly  there  were  many  people  at  his  lectures  on  the 
spectrum  analysis  of  the  stars  of  the  Milky  Way,  especially 
among  the  women,  who  did  not  well  know  why  night  follows 
day  and  summer  follows  winter.  The  wise  astronomer  smiled 
as  he  answered,  "Yes,  it  would  be  a  good  thing,  but  it  would 
be  very  difficult.  To  lecture  on  the  spectrum  analysis  of  the 
Milky  Way  is  far  easier." 

And  so  it  is  in  art.  To  write  a  rhymed  poem  dealing  with 
the  times  of  Cleopatra,  or  paint  a  picture  of  Nero  burning 
Rome,  or  compose  a  symphony  in  the  manner  of  Brahms  or 
Richard  Strauss,  or  an  opera  like  Wagner's,  is  far  easier  than 
to  tell  a  simple  story  without  any  unnecessary  details  yet 
so  that  it  shall  transmit  the  feelings  of  the  narrator,  or  to 
draw  a  pencil-sketch  which  should  touch  or  amuse  the  be- 
holder, or  to  compose  four  bars  of  clear  and  simple  melody 
without  any  accompaniment,  which  should  convey  an  im- 
pression and  be  remembered  by  those  who  hear  it. 

"It  is  impossible  to  us,  with  our  culture,  to  return  to  a 
primitive  state,"  say  the  artists  of  our  time.  "It  is  impos- 
sible for  us  now  to  write  such  stories  as  that  of  Joseph  or  the 
Odyssey,  to  produce  such  statues  as  the  Venus  of  Milo,  or  to 
compose  such  music  as  the  folk-songs." 

And  indeed  for  the  artists  of  our  society  and  day  it  is  im- 
possible, but  not  for  the  future  artist  who  will  be  free  from  all 
the  perversion  of  technical  improvements  hiding  the  absence 
of  subject-matter,  and  who,  not  being  a  professional  artist, 
and  receiving  no  payment  for  his  activity,  will  only  produce 
art  when  he  feels  impelled  to  do  so  by  an  irresistible  inner 
impulse. 

The  art  of  the  future  will  thus  be  completely  distinct,  both 
in  subject-matter  and  in  form,  from  what  is  now  called  art. 
The  only  subject-matter  of  the  art  of  the  future  will  be  either 
feelings  drawing  men  towards  union,  or  such  as  already  unite 
them;  and  the  forms  of  art  will  be  such  as  will  be  open  to 


< 


320  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

everyone.  And  therefore  the  ideal  of  excellence  in  the  fu- 
ture will  not  be  exclusiveness  of  feeling,  accessible  only  to 
some,  but,  on  the  contrary,  its  universality.  And  not  bulki- 
ness,  obscurity,  and  complexity  of  form,  which  are  now  val- 
ued, but,  on  the  contrary,  brevity,  clearness,  and  simplicity 
of  expression.  Only  when  art  has  attained  to  that,  will  it 
neither  divert  nor  deprave  men  as  it  does  now,  calling  on 
them  to  expend  their  best  strength  on  it,  but  be  what  it  should 
be — a  vehicle  wherewith  to  transmit  religious,  Christian  per- 
ception from  the  realm  of  reason  and  intellect  into  that  of 
feeling,  and  really  drawing  people  in  actual  life  nearer  to 
the  perfection  and  unity  indicated  to  them  by  their  religious 
perception. 


CHAPTER  XX 

The  connection  between  science  and  art.  The  mendacious  sciences;  the  trivial 
sciences.  Science  should  deal  with  the  great  problems  of  human  life,  and  serve  as 
a  basis  for  art. 

CONCLUSION 

I  have  accomplished,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  this  work 
which  has  occupied  me  for  fifteen  years,  on  a  subject  near  to 
me — that  of  art.  By  saying  that  this  subject  has  occupied  me 
for  fifteen  years,  I  do  not  mean  that  I  have  been  writing  this 
book  fifteen  years,  but  only  that  I  began  to  write  on  art  fifteen 
years  ago,  thinking  that  when  once  I  undertook  the  task  I 
should  be  able  to  accomplish  it  without  a  break.  It  proved 
however  that  my  views  on  the  matter  then  were  so  far  from 
clear  that  I  could  not  arrange  them  in  a  way  that  satisfied 
me.  From  that  time  I  have  never  ceased  to  think  on  the 
subject,  and  I  have  recommenced  writing  on  it  six  or  seven 
times;  but  each  time,  after  writing  a  considerable  part  of  it, 
I  have  found  myself  unable  to  bring  the  work  to  a  satisfactory 
conclusion  and  have  had  to  put  it  aside.  Now  I  have  fin- 
ished it;  and  however  badly  I  may  have  performed  the  task, 
my  hope  is  that  my  fundamental  thought  on  the  false  di- 
rection the  art  of  our  society  has  taken  and  is  following,  on 
the  reasons  of  this,  and  on  the  real  destination  of  art,  is 
correct,  and  that  therefore  my  work  will  not  be  without  avail. 
But  that  this  should  come  to  pass,  and  that  art  should  really 
abandon  its  false  path  and  take  the  new  direction,  it  is  neces- 
sary that  another  equally  important  spiritual  human  activity 
— science — in  intimate  dependence  on  which  art  always  rests, 
should  abandon  the  false  path  which  it  too,  like  art,  is 
following. 

321 


322  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Science  and  art  are  as  closely  bound  together  as  the  lungs 
and  the  heart,  so  that  if  the  one  organ  is  vitiated  the  other 
cannot  act  rightly. 

True  science  investigates  and  brings  to  human  perception 
such  truths  and  such  knowledge  as  the  people  of  a  given  time 
and  society  consider  most  important.  Art  transmits  these 
truths  from  the  region  of  perception  to  the  region  of  emotion. 
If  therefore  the  path  chosen  by  science  be  false  so  also  will 
be  the  path  taken  by  art.  Science  and  art  are  like  a  certain 
kind  of  barge  with  kedge-anchors  which  used  to  ply  on  our 
rivers.  Science,  like  the  boats  which  took  the  anchors  up- 
stream and  made  them  secure,  gives  direction  to  the  forward 
movement ;  while  art,  like  the  windlass  worked  on  the  barge  to 
draw  it  towards  the  anchor,  causes  the  actual  progression. 
And  thus  a  false  activity  of  science  inevitably  causes  a  cor- 
respondingly false  activity  of  art. 

As  art  in  general  is  the  transmission  of  every  kind  of  feel- 
ing, but  in  the  limited  sense  of  the  word  we  call  nothing  art 
unless  it  transmits  feelings  acknowledged  by  us  to  be  im- 
portant, so  also  science  in  general  is  the  transmission  of  all 
possible  knowledge,  but  in  the  limited  sense  of  the  word  we 
give  the  name  of  science  to  that  which  transmits  knowledge 
admitted  by  us  to  be  important. 

And  the  degree  of  importance,  both  of  the  feelings  trans- 
mitted by  art  and  of  the  information  transmitted  by  science, 
is  decided  by  the  religious  perception  of  the  given  time  and 
society,  that  is,  by  the  common  understanding  of  the  purpose 
of  their  lives  possessed  by  the  people  of  that  time  or  society. 

What  most  of  all  contributes  to  the  fulfilment  of  that  pur- 
pose will  be  studied  most;  what  contributes  less  will  be 
studied  less;  what  does  not  contribute  at  all  to  the  fulfilment 
of  the  purpose  of  human  life  will  be  entirely  neglected  or, 
if  studied,  such  study  will  not  be  accounted  science.  So  it 
always  has  been  and  so  it  should  be  now,  for  such  is  the 


} 


WHAT  IS  ART?  323 

nature  of  human  knowledge  and  of  human  life.  But  the 
science  of  the  upper  classes  of  our  time,  which  not  only  does 
not  acknowledge  any  religion,  but  considers  every  religion  to 
be  mere  superstition,  could  not  and  cannot  make  such 
distinctions. 

Scientists  of  our  day  affirm  that  they  study  everything  im- 
partially; but  as  everything  is  too  much,  is  in  fact  an  infinite 
number  of  objects,  and  it  is  impossible  to  study  all  alike,  this 
is  only  said  in  theory,  while  in  practice  not  everything  is 
studied,  and  study  is  applied  far  from  impartially — only  that 
being  studied  which,  on  the  one  hand,  is  most  wanted  by,  and 
on  the  other  hand,  is  pleasantest  to,  those  people  who  occupy 
themselves  with  science.  And  what  the  members  of  the  up- 
per classes  who  are  occupying  themselves  with  science  most 
want  is  the  maintenance  of  the  system  under  which  those 
classes  retain  their  privileges;  and  what  is  pleasantest  are 
such  things  as  satisfy  idle  curiosity,  do  not  demand  great 
mental  effort,  and  can  be  practically  applied. 

And  therefore  one  side  of  science,  including  theology  and 
philosophy  adapted  to  the  existing  order,  as  also  history  and 
political  economy  of  the  same  sort,  are  chiefly  occupied  in 
proving  that  the  existing  order  is  the  very  one  which  ought 
to  endure;  that  it  has  come  into  existence  and  continues  to 
exist  by  the  operation  of  immutable  laws  not  amenable  to 
human  will,  and  that  all  efforts  to  change  it  are  therefore 
harmful  and  wrong.  The  other  part,  experimental  science — 
including  mathematics,  astronomy,  chemistry,  physics,  botany, 
and  all  the  natural  sciences — is  exclusively  occupied  with 
things  that  have  no  direct  relation  to  the  purpose  of  human 
life:  with  what  is  curious,  and  with  things  of  which  practical 
application  advantageous  to  people  of  the  upper  classes  can 
be  made.  And  to  justify  that  selection  of  objects  of  study 
which  (in  conformity  with  their  own  position)  the  men  of 
science  of  our  times  have  made,  they  have  devised  a  theory 


324  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

of  science  for  science's  sake,  quite  similar  to  the  theory  of  art 
for  art's  sake. 

As  by  the  theory  of  art  for  art's  sake  it  appears  that  oc- 
cupation with  all  those  things  that  please  us — is  art,  so,  by 
the  theory  of  science  for  science's  sake,  the  study  of  that  which 
interests  us — is  science. 

So  that  one  side  of  science,  instead  of  studying  how  peo- 
ple should  live  in  order  to  fulfil  their  mission  in  life,  demon- 
strates the  righteousness  and  immutability  of  the  bad  and 
false  arrangements  of  life  which  exist  around  us;  while  the 
other  part,  experimental  science,  occupies  itself  with  questions 
of  simple  curiosity  or  with  technical  improvements. 

The  first  of  these  divisions  of  science  is  harmful,  not  only 
because  it  confuses  people's  perceptions  and  gives  false  de- 
cisions, but  also  by  its  mere  existence,  occupying  the  ground 
which  should  belong  to  true  science.  It  does  this  harm,  that 
every  man,  in  order  to  approach  the  study  of  the  most  impor- 
tant questions  of  life,  must  first  refute  these  erections  of  lies 
which  have  for  ages  been  piled  around  each  of  the  most  essen- 
tial questions  of  human  life,  and  which  are  propped  up  by 
all  the  strength  of  human  ingenuity. 

The  second  division — the  one  of  which  modern  science 
is  so  particularly  proud,  and  which  is  considered  by  many 
people  to  be  the  only  real  science — is  harmful  in  that  it  di- 
verts attention  from  the  really  important  subjects  to  insignifi- 
cant subjects,  and  is  also  directly  harmful  in  that,  under  the 
evil  system  of  society  which  the  first  division  of  science  justi- 
fies and  supports,  a  great  part  of  the  technical  gains  of  sci- 
ence are  turned  not  to  the  advantage  but  to  the  injury  of 
mankind. 

Indeed,  it  is  only  to  those  who  are  devoting  their  lives  to 
such  study  that  it  seems  as  if  all  the  inventions  which  are 
made  in  the  sphere  of  natural  science  were  very  important 
and  useful  things.     And  to  these  people  it  seems  so  only 


WHAT  IS  ART?  325 

when  they  do  not  look  around  them  and  do  not  see  what  is 
really  important.  They  only  need  tear  themselves  away  from 
the  psychological  microscope  under  which  they  examine  the 
objects  of  their  study,  and  look  about  them,  in  order  to  see 
how  insignificant  is  all  that  has  afforded  them  such  naive 
pride,  all  that  knowledge  not  only  of  geometry  of  n- 
dimensions,  spectrum  analysis  of  the  Milky  Way,  form  of 
atoms,  dimensions  of  human  skulls  of  the  Stone  Age,  and 
similar  trifles,  but  even  our  knowledge  of  micro-organisms, 
X-rays,  and  so  forth,  in  comparison  with  such  knowledge  as 
we  have  thrown  aside  and  handed  over  to  the  perversions  of 
the  professors  of  theology,  jurisprudence,  political  economy, 
financial  science,  etc.  We  need  only  look  around  us  to  per- 
ceive that  the  activity  proper  to  real  science  is  not  the  study 
of  whatever  happens  to  interest  us,  but  the  study  of  how 
man's  life  should  be  established, — the  study  of  those  questions 
of  religion,  morality,  and  social  life,  without  the  solution  of 
which  all  our  knowledge  of  nature  will  be  harmful  or 
insignificant. 

We  are  highly  .delighted  and  very  proud  that  our  science 
renders  it  possible  to  utilise  the  energy  of  a  waterfall  and 
make  it  work  in  factories,  or  that  we  have  pierced  tunnels 
through  mountains,  and  so  forth.  But  the  pity  of  it  is  that 
we  make  the  force  of  the  waterfall  labour,  not  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  workmen  but  to  enrich  capitalists  who  produce  arti- 
cles of  luxury  or  weapons  of  man-destroying  war.  The  same 
dynamite  with  which  we  blast  the  mountains  to  pierce  tunnels, 
we  use  for  wars,  which  latter  we  not  only  do  not  intend  to 
abstain  from  but  consider  inevitable,  and  unceasingly  pre- 
pare for. 

If  we  are  now  able  to  inoculate  preventatively  with  diph- 
theritic microbes,  to  find  a  needle  in  a  body  by  means  of  X- 
rays,  to  straighten  a  hunchback,  cure  syphilis,  and  perform 
wonderful  operations,  we  should  not  be  proud  of  these  acqui- 


326  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

sitions  (even  were  they  all  established  beyond  dispute)  if  we 
fully  understood  the  true  purpose  of  real  science.  If  but 
one-tenth  of  the  efforts  now  spent  on  objects  of  pure  curiosity 
or  of  merely  practical  application  were  expended  on  real  sci- 
ence organising  the  life  of  man,  more  than  half  the  people  now 
sick  would  not  have  the  illnesses  from  which  a  small  minority 
of  them  get  cured  in  hospitals.  There  would  be  no  poor- 
blooded  and  deformed  children  growing  up  in  factories,  no 
death-rates,  as  now,  of  50  per  cent,  among  children,  no  de- 
terioration of  whole  generations,  no  prostitution,  no  syphilis, 
and  no  murdering  of  hundreds  of  thousands  in  wars, 
nor  those  horrors  of  folly  and  of  misery  which  our  pres- 
ent science  considers  a  necessary  condition  of  human 
life. 

We  have  so  perverted  the  conception  of  science  that  it  seems 
strange  to  men  of  our  day  to  allude  to  sciences  which  should 
prevent  the  mortality  of  children,  prostitution,  syphilis,  the 
deterioration  of  whole  generations,  and  the  wholesale  murder 
of  men.  It  seems  to  us  that  science  is  only  then  real  science 
when  a  man  in  a  laboratory  pours  liquids  from  one  jar  into 
another,  or  analyses  the  spectrum,  or  cuts  up  frogs  and  por- 
poises, or  weaves  in  a  specialised  scientific  jargon  an  obscure 
network  of  conventional  phrases — theological,  philosophical, 
historical,  juridical,  or  politico-economical — semi-intelligible 
to  the  man  himself  and  intended  to  demonstrate  that  what 
now  is,  is  what  should  be. 

But  science,  true  science, — such  science  as  would  really  de- 
serve the  respect  which  is  now  claimed  by  the  followers  of 
one  (the  least  important)  part  of  science, — is  not  at  all  of 
this  kind:  real  science  lies  in  knowing  what  we  should  and 
what  we  should  not  believe,  in  knowing  how  the  associated  life 
of  man  should  and  should  not  be  constituted:  how  to  treat 
sexual  relations,  how  to  educate  children,  how  to  use  the 
land,  how  to  cultivate  it  oneself  without  oppressing  other  peo- 


pie, 


WHAT  IS  ART?  327 


how  to  treat  foreigners,  how  to  treat  animals,  and  much 
more  that  is  important  for  the  life  of  man. 

Such  has  true  science  ever  been  and  such  it  should  be.  And 
such  science  is  springing  up  in  our  times;  but,  on  the  one 
hand,  such  true  science  is  denied  and  refuted  by  all  those 
scientific  people  who  defend  the  existing  order  of  society, 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  considered  empty,  unnecessary, 
unscientific  science  by  those  who  are  engrossed  in  experimental 
science. 

For  instance,  books  and  sermons  appear,  demonstrating 
the  antiquatedness  and  absurdity  of  Church  dogmas,  as  well 
as  the  necessity  of  making  clear  the  reasonable  religious  per- 
ception suitable  to  our  times,  and  all  the  theology  that  is 
held  to  be  real  science  is  only  engaged  in  refuting  these  works 
and  in  exercising  human  intelligence  again  and  again  upon 
finding  support  and  justification  for  superstitions  long  since 
out-lived,  which  have  now  become  quite  meaningless.  Or 
a  sermon  appears  showing  that  land  should  not  be  an  object 
of  private  possession  and  that  the  institution  of  private  prop- 
erty in  land  is  a  chief  cause  of  the  poverty  of  the  masses. 
Apparently  science,  real  science,  should  welcome  such  a  ser- 
mon and  draw  further  deductions  from  this  position.  But 
the  science  of  our  times  does  nothing  of  the  kind:  on  the 
contrary,  political  economy  demonstrates  the  opposite  position, 
namely,  that  landed  property,  like  every  other  form  of  prop- 
erty, must  be  more  and  more  concentrated  in  the  hands  of  a 
small  number  of  owners.  Again,  in  the  same  way,  one  would 
suppose  it  to  be  the  business  of  real  science  to  demonstrate 
the  irrationality,  unprofitableness,  and  immorality  of  war  and 
of  executions;  or  the  inhumanity  and  harmfulness  of  prosti- 
tution; or  the  absurdity,  harmfulness,  and  immorality  of  us- 
ing narcotics  or  of  eating  animals ;  or  the  irrationality,  harm- 
fulness, and  antiquatedness  of  patriotism.  And  such  works 
exist,  but  are  all  considered  unscientific;  while  works  to  prove 


328  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

that  all  these  things  ought  to  continue,  and  works  intended  to 
satisfy  an  idle  thirst  for  knowledge  lacking  any  relation  to 
human  life,  are  considered  to  be  scientific. 

The  deviation  of  the  science  of  our  time  from  its  true  pur- 
pose is  strikingly  illustrated  by  those  ideals  which  are  put  for- 
ward by  some  scientists,  and  are  not  denied  but  admitted  by 
the  majority  of  scientific  men. 

These  ideals  are  expressed  not  only  in  stupid,  fashionable 
books,  describing  the  world  as  it  will  be  a  thousand  or  three 
thousand  years  hence,  but  also  by  sociologists  who  consider 
themselves  serious  men  of  science.  These  ideals  are  that 
food,  instead  of  being  obtained  from  the  land  by  agriculture, 
will  be  prepared  in  laboratories  by  chemical  means,  and  that 
human  labour  will  be  almost  entirely  superseded  by  the  utili- 
sation of  natural  forces. 

Man  will  not,  as  now,  eat  an  egg  laid  by  a  hen  he  has  kept, 
or  bread  grown  on  his  field,  or  an  apple  from  a  tree  he  has 
reared  and  which  has  blossomed  and  matured  in  his  sight ;  but 
he  will  eat  tasty,  nutritious  food  prepared  in  laboratories  by 
the  conjoint  labour  of  many  people,  in  which  he  will  share  to 
a  small  extent.  Man  will  hardly  need  to  labour,  so  that  all 
men  will  be  able  to  yield  to  idleness  as  the  upper,  ruling 
classes  now  yield  to  it. 

Nothing  shows  more  plainly  than  these  ideals  to  what  a 
degree  the  science  of  our  times  has  deviated  from  the  true 
path. 

The  great  majority  of  men  in  our  times  lack  good  and  suffi- 
cient food  (as  well  as  dwellings  and  clothes  and  all  the  first 
necessities  of  life).  And  this  great  majority  of  men  is  com- 
pelled, to  the  injury  of  its  well-being,  to  labour  continually 
beyond  its  strength.  Both  these  evils  can  easily  be  removed 
by  abolishing  mutual  strife,  luxury,  and  the  unrighteous  dis- 
tribution of  wealth — in  a  word  by  the  abolition  of  a  false  and 
harmful  order  and  the  establishment  of  a  reasonable,  human 


WHAT  IS  ART?  329 

manner  of  life.  But  science  considers  the  existing  order  of 
things  to  be  as  immutable  as  the  movements  of  the  planets, 
and  therefore  assumes  that  the  purpose  of  science  is,  not  to 
elucidate  the  falseness  of  this  order  and  to  arrange  a  new, 
reasonable  way  of  life,  but,  under  the  existing  order  of  things, 
to  feed  everybody  and  enable  all  to  be  as  idle  as  the  ruling 
classes,  living  depraved  lives,  now  are. 

And,  meanwhile,  it  is  forgotten  that  nourishment  by  corn, 
vegetables,  and  fruit,  raised  from  the  soil  by  one's  own  labour, 
is  the  pleasantest,  healthiest,  easiest,  and  most  natural  nour- 
ishment, and  that  the  work  of  using  one's  muscles  is  as 
necessary  a  condition  of  life  as  is  the  oxidation  of  the  blood 
by  breathing. 

To  invent  means  whereby  people,  while  continuing  our 
false  division  of  property  and  labour,  might  be  well  nour- 
ished by  means  of  chemically-prepared  food  and  might  make 
the  forces  of  nature  work  for  them,  is  like  inventing  means 
to  pump  oxygen  into  the  lungs  of  a  man  kept  in  a  closed 
chamber  the  air  of  which  is  bad,  when  all  that  is  needed  is 
for  the  man  no  longer  to  be  confined  in  a  closed  chamber. 

In  the  vegetable  and  animal  kingdoms  a  laboratory  has 
been  arranged  for  the  production  of  food  such  as  can  be 
surpassed  by  no  professors,  and  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  this 
laboratory  and  to  participate  in  it  man  has  only  to  yield  to 
that  ever  joyful  impulse  to  labour  without  which  his  life  is 
a  torment.  And  lo  and  behold !  the  scientists  of  our  times,  in- 
stead of  employing  all  their  strength  to  abolish  whatever 
hinders  man  from  utilising  the  good  things  prepared  for 
him,  acknowledge  the  conditions  under  which  man  is  deprived 
of  these  blessings  to  be  unalterable;  and  instead  of  arrang- 
ing the  life  of  man  so  that  he  may  work  joyfully  and  be  fed 
from  the  soil,  they  devise  methods  which  will  cause  him  to 
become  an  artificial  abortion.  It  is  like  not  helping  a  man 
out  of  confinement  into  the  fresh  air,  but  devising  means, 


C 


330  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

instead,  to  pump  into  him  the  necessary  quantity  of  oxygen, 
and  arranging  so  that  he  may  live  in  a  stifling  cellar  instead 
of  living  at  home. 

Such  false  ideals  could  not  exist  if  science  were  not  on  a 
false  path. 

And  yet  the  feelings  transmitted  by  art  grow  up  on  the 
bases  supplied  by  science. 

But  what  feelings  can  such  misdirected  science  evoke? 
One  side  of  this  science  evokes  antiquated  feelings  which  hu- 
manity has  exhausted,  and  which  in  our  times  are  bad  and 
exclusive.  The  other  side,  occupied  with  the  study  of  sub- 
jects unrelated  to  the  conduct  of  human  life,  by  its  very  nature 
cannot  serve  as  a  basis  for  art. 

So  that  art  in  our  times,  to  be  art,  must  either  open  up  its 
own  road  independently  of  science,  or  must  take  direction 
from  the  unrecognised  science  which  is  denounced  by  the 
orthodox  section  of  science.  And  this  is  what  art,  when 
it  even  partially  fulfils  its  mission,  is  doing. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  work  I  have  tried  to  perform  con- 
cerning art  will  be  performed  also  for  science :  that  the  false- 
ness of  the  theory  of  science  for  science's  sake  will  be  demon- 
strated; that  the  necessity  of  acknowledging  Christian  teach- 
ing in  its  true  meaning  will  be  clearly  shown,  and  on  the  basis 
of  that  teaching  a  reappraisement  be  made  of  the  knowledge 
we  possess  and  of  which  we  are  so  proud ;  that  the  secondari- 
ness  and  insignificance  of  experimental  science,  and  the 
primacy  and  importance  of  religious,  moral,  and  social 
knowledge,  will  be  established ;  and  that  such  knowledge  will 
not,  as  now,  be  left  to  the  guidance  of  the  upper  classes  only, 
but  will  form  a  chief  interest  of  all  free,  truth-loving  men, 
such  as  those  who,  not  in  agreement  with  the  upper  classes 
but  in  their  despite,  have  always  forwarded  the  real  science 
of  life. 

Astronomical,  physical,  chemical,  and  biological  science, 


WHAT  IS  ART?  881 

as  also  technical  and  medical  science,  will  be  studied  only  in 
so  far  as  they  can  help  to  free  mankind  from  religious,  juri- 
dical, or  social  deceptions,  or  can  serve  to  promote  the  well- 
being  of  all  men  and  not  of  any  single  class. 

Only  then  will  science  cease  to  be  what  it  is  now — on  the 
one  hand  a  system  of  sophistries,  needed  for  the  maintenance 
of  the  existing  worn-out  order  of  society,  and  on  the  other 
hand  a  shapeless  mass  of  miscellaneous  knowledge,  for  the 
most  part  good  for  little  or  nothing — and  become  a  shapely 
and  organic  whole  having  a  definite  and  reasonable  purpose 
comprehensible  to  all  men,  namely,  the  purpose  of  bringing 
to  the  consciousness  of  men  the  truths  that  flow  from  the  re- 
hgious  perception  of  our  times. 

And  only  then  will  art,  which  is  always  dependent  on  sci- 
ence, be  what  it  might  and  should  be,  an  organ  co-equally 
important  with  science  for  the  life  and  progress  of  mankind.    , 

Art  is  not  a  pleasure,  a  solace,  or  an  amusement;  art  is  a' 
great  matter.  Art  is  an  organ  of  human  life  transmitting 
man's  reasonable  perception  into  feeling.  In  our  age  the 
common  religious  perception  of  men  is  the  consciousness  of 
the  brotherhood  of  man — we  know  that  the  well-being  of  man 
lies  in  union  with  his  fellow-men.  True  science  should  indi- 
cate the  various  methods  of  applying  this  consciousness  to 
life.     Art  should  transform  this  perception  into  feeling. 

The  task  of  art  is  enormous.  Through  the  influence  of  real 
art,  aided  by  science,  guided  by  religion,  that  peaceful  co- 
operation of  man  which  is  now  maintained  by  external  means, 
— by  our  law-courts,  police,  charitable  institutions,  factory 
inspection,  and  so  forth, — should  be  obtained  by  man's  free 
and  joyous  activity.  Art  should  cause  violence  to  be  set  < 
aside.1 

1  Tolstoy's  doctrine  of  Non-Resistance  to  "him  that  is  evil"  by  any  use  of  physi- 
cal force  has  caused  much  perplexity  and  is  accepted  in  its  completeness  by  but 
few  people   in  the   Western  world.    In  this  passage   however  he  states  it   in   a 


332  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

And  it  is  only  art  that  can  accomplish  this. 

All  that  now,  independently  of  the  fear  of  violence  and 
punishment,  makes  the  social  life  of  man  possible  (and  al- 
ready this  is  an  enormous  part  of  the  order  of  our  lives) — all 
this  has  been  brought  about  by  art.  If  by  art  has  been  in- 
culcated how  people  should  treat  religious  objects,  their  par- 
ents, their  children,  their  wives,  their  relations,  strangers, 
foreigners;  how  to  conduct  themselves  towards  their  elders, 
their  superiors,  towards  those  who  suffer,  towards  their  ene- 
mies, and  towards  animals;  and  if  this  has  been  obeyed 
through  generations  by  millions  of  people,  not  only  unen- 
forced by  any  violence  but  so  that  the  force  of  such  customs 
can  be  shaken  in  no  way  but  by  means  of  art:  then  by  art 
also  other  customs,  more  in  accord  with  the  religious  percep- 
tion of  our  time,  may  be  evoked.  If  art  has  been  able  to  con- 
vey the  sentiment  of  reverence  for  images,  for  the  Eucharist, 
and  for  the  king's  person;  of  shame  at  betraying  a  comrade, 
devotion  to  a  flag,  the  necessity  of  revenge  for  an  insult,  the 
need  to  sacrifice  one's  labour  for  the  erection  and  adornment 
of  churches,  the  duty  of  defending  one's  honour,  or  the  glory 
of  one's  native  land — then  that  same  art  can  also  evoke  rev- 
erence for  the  dignity  of  every  man  and  for  the  life  of  every 
animal;  can  make  men  ashamed  of  luxury,  of  violence,  of 
revenge,  or  of  using  for  their  pleasure  that  of  which  others  are 
in  need ;  can  compel  people  freely,  gladly,  and  without  notic- 
ing it,  to  sacrifice  themselves  in  the  service  of  man. 

The  task  for  art  to  accomplish  is  to  make  that  feeling  of 
brotherhood  and  love  of  one's  neighbour  now  attained  only 
by  the  best  members  of  society,  the  customary  feeling  and  the 
instinct  of  all  men.  By  evoking  under  imaginary  conditions 
the  feeling  of  brotherhood  and  love,  religious  art  will  train 

form  to  which  it  would  be  hard  to  raise  any  objection.  Never  before  had  the 
doctrine  of  Non-Resistance  been  put  so  briefly,  persuasively,  and  attractively. 
—A.  M. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  333 

men  to  experience  those  same  feelings  under  similar  circum- 
stances in  actual  life;  it  will  lay  in  the  souls  of  men  the  rails 
along  which  the  actions  of  those  whom  art  thus  educates  will 
naturally  pass.  And  universal  art,  by  uniting  the  most  dif- 
ferent people  in  one  common  feeling,  by  destroying  separa- 
tion, will  educate  people  to  union,  and  will  show  them,  not 
by  reason  but  by  life  itself,  the  joy  of  universal  union  reach- 
ing beyond  the  bounds  set  by  life. 

The  destiny  of  art  in  our  time  is  to  transmit,  from  the 
realm  of  reason  to  the  realm  of  feeling,  the  truth  that  well- 
being  for  men  consists  in  their  being  united  together,  and  to 
set  up,  in  place  of  the  existing  reign  of  force,  that  kingdom 
of  God — that  is,  of  love — which  we  all  recognise  to  be  the 
highest  aim  of  human  life. 

Possibly  in  the  future,  science  may  reveal  to  art  yet  newer 
and  higher  ideals  which  art  may  realise;  but  in  our  time  the 
destiny  of  art  is  clear  and  definite.  The  task  of  Christian 
art  is  to  establish  brotherly  union  among  men. 


APPENDICES 

APPENDIX     I 

Translations    of    French    poems    and    prose    quoted    in 
Chapter  X.1 

BAUDELAIRE'S  "FLOWERS  OF  EVIL" 

No.  XXIV 

I  adore  thee  as  much  as  the  vaults  of  night, 

0  vessel  of  grief,  taciturnity  great, 

And  I  love  thee  the  more  because  of  thy  flight. 

It  seemeth,  my  night's  beautifier,  that  you 

Still  heap  up  those  leagues — yes!  ironically  heap! — 

That  divide  from  my  arms  the  immensity  blue. 

1  advance  to  attack,  I  climb  to  assault, 

Like  a  choir  of  young  worms  at  a  corpse  in  the  vault; 

Thy  coldness,  oh  cruel,  implacable  beast! 

Yet  heightens  thy  beauty,  on  which  my  eyes  feast! 

BAUDELAIRE'S  "FLOWERS  OF  EVIL" 

No.  XXXVI 

DUELLUM 

Two  warriors  come  running,  to  fight  they  begin, 
With  gleaming  and  blood  they  bespatter  the  air; 
These  games,  and  this  clatter  of  arms,  is  the  din 
Of  youth  that's  a  prey  to  the  raging  of  love. 

The  rapiers  are  broken !  and  so  is  our  youth, 
But  the  dagger's  avenged,  dear!  and  so  is  the  sword, 
By  the  nail  that  is  steeled  and  the  hardened  tooth. 
Oh !  the  fury  of  hearts  aged  and  ulcered  by  love ! 

1  The  translation  in  Appendices  I,  II  and  IV  are  by  my  wife,  Louise  Maude. 
The  aim  of  these  renderings  has  been  to  keep  as  close  to  the  originals  as  the 
obscurity  of  meaning  allowed.  The  sense  (or  absence  of  sense)  has  therefore  been 
more  considered  than  the  form  of  the  verses. — A.  M. 

334 


WHAT  IS  ART?  335 

In  the  ditch,  where  the  ounce  and  the  pard  have  their  lair, 

Our  heroes  have  rolled  in  an  angry  embrace; 

Their  skin  blooms  on  brambles  that  erewhile  were  bare. 

That  ravine  is  a  friend-inhabited  hell! 

Then  let  us  roll  in,  oh  woman  inhuman, 

To  immortalise  hatred  that  nothing  can  quell! 


FROM  BAUDELAIRE'S  PROSE  WORK  ENTITLED 
'LITTLE  POEMS  IN  PROSE' 

THE  STRANGER 

Whom  dost  thou  love  best?  say,  enigmatical  man — thy  father,  thy 
mother,  thy  sister,  or  thy  brother  ? 

"I  have  neither  father,  nor  mother,  nor  sister,  nor  brother." 

Thy  friends? 

"There  you  use  an  expression  the  meaning  of  which  till  now  remains 
unknown  to  me." 

Thy  country? 

"I  know  not  in  what  latitude  it  is  situated." 

Beauty  ? 

"I  would  gladly  love  her,  goddess  and  immortal." 

Gold? 

"I  hate  it,  as  you  hate  God." 

Then  what  do  you  love,  extraordinary  stranger? 

"I  love  the  clouds  ...  the  clouds  that  pass  .  .  .  there  ...  the  mar- 
vellous clouds!" 

THE  SOUP  AND  THE  CLOUDS 

My  beloved  little  silly  was  giving  me  my  dinner,  and  I  was  con- 
templating, through  the  open  window  of  the  dining-room,  those  moving 
architectures  which  God  makes  out  of  vapours,  the  marvellous  con- 
structions of  the  impalpable.  And  I  said  to  myself,  amid  my  con- 
templation, All  these  phantasmagoria  are  almost  as  beautiful  as  the 
eyes  of  my  beautiful  beloved,  the  monstrous  little  silly  with  the  green 
eyes. 

Suddenly  I  felt  the  violent  blow  of  a  fist  on  my  back,  and  I  heard 


386  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

a  harsh,  charming  voice,  an  hysterical  voice,  as  it  were  hoarse  with 
brandy,  the  voice  of  my  dear  little  well-beloved,  saying,  Are  you  going 
to  eat  your  soup  soon,  you  d b of  a  dealer  in  clouds? 


THE  GALLANT  MARKSMAN 

As  the  carriage  was  passing  through  the  forest  he  ordered  it  to  be 
stopped  near  a  shooting-gallery,  saying  that  he  wished  to  shoot  off  a 
few  bullets  to  kill  Time.  To  kill  this  monster,  is  it  not  the  most 
ordinary  and  the  most  legitimate  occupation  of  everyone?  And  he 
gallantly  offered  his  arm  to  his  dear,  delicious,  and  execrable  wife — 
that  mysterious  woman  to  whom  he  owed  so  much  pleasure,  so  much 
pain,  and  perhaps  also  a  large  part  of  his  genius. 

Several  bullets  struck  far  from  the  intended  mark — one  even  pene- 
trated the  ceiling;  and  as  the  charming  creature  laughed  wildly,  mock- 
ing her  husband's  awkwardness,  he  turned  abruptly  towards  her  and 
said,  Look  at  that  doll  there  on  the  right  with  the  haughty  mien  and 
her  nose  in  the  air;  well,  dear  angel,  /  imagine  to  myself  that  it  is  you! 
And  he  closed  his  eyes  and  pulled  the  trigger.  The  doll  was  neatly 
decapitated. 

Then,  bowing  towards  his  dear  one,  his  delightful,  execrable  wife, 
his  inevitable,  pitiless  muse,  and  kissing  her  hand  respectfully,  he  added, 
Ah!  my  dear  angel,  how  I  thank  you  for  my  skill! 


VERLAINE'S  FORGOTTEN  AIRS 

No.  I 

"The   wind   in   the   plain 
Suspends   its   breath." — Favart. 

Tis  ecstasy  languishing, 
Amorous  fatigue, 
Of  woods  all  the  shudderings 
Embraced  by  the  breeze, 
Tis  the  choir  of  small  voices 
Towards  the  grey  trees. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  337 

Oh  the  frail  and  fresh  murmuring  1 
The  twitter  and  buzz, 
The  soft  cry  resembling 
Breathed  forth  by  the  grass  .  .  . 
Oh,  the  roll  of  the  pebbles 
'Neath  waters  that  pass ! 

Oh,  this  soul  that  is  groaning 
In  sleepy  complaint! 
In  us  is  it  moaning? 
In  me  and  in  you? 
Low  anthem  exhaling 
While  soft  falls  the  dew. 


VERLAINE'S  "FORGOTTEN  AIRS" 

No.  VIII 

In  the  unending 
Dulness  of  this  land, 
Uncertain  the  snow 
Is  gleaming  like  sand. 

No  kind  of  brightness 
In  copper-hued  sky, 
The  moon  you  might  see 
Now  live  and  now  die. 

Grey  float  the  oak  trees — 
Cloudlike  they  seem — 
Of  neighbouring  forests, 
Mists  in  between. 

Wolves  hungry  and  lean, 
And  famishing  crow, 
What  happens  to  you 
When  acrid  winds  blow? 

In  the  unending 
Dulness  of  this  land, 
Uncertain  the  snow 
Is  gleaming  like  sand. 


338  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

SONG  BY  MAETERLINCK 

When  he  went  away, 

(Then  I  heard  the  door) 

When  he  went  away, 

On  her  lips  a  smile  there  lay  .  . 

Back  he  came  to  her, 
(Then  I  heard  the  lamp) 
Back  he  came  to  her, 
Someone  else  was  there  .  .  . 

It  was  death  I  met, 

(And  I  heard  her  soul) 

It  was  death  I  met, 

For  her  he's  waiting  yet  .  .  . 

Someone  came  to  say, 
(Child,  I  am  afraid) 
Someone  came  to  say 
That  he  would  go  away  .  .  . 

With  my  lamp  alight, 
(Child,  I  am  afraid) 
With  my  lamp  alight, 
Approached  I  in  affright  .  .  „ 

To  one  door  I  came, 
(Child,  I  am  afraid) 
To  one  door  I  came, 
A  shudder  shook  the  flame  .  .  . 

At  the  second  door, 

(Child,  I  am  afraid) 

At  the  second  door 

Words  did  the  flame  outpour  .  . 

To  the  third  I  came, 

(Child,  I  am  afraid) 

To  the  third  I  came, 

Then  died  the  little  flame  .  .  . 


WHAT  IS  ART? 

Should  he  one  day  return, 
And  see  you  lying  dead? 
Say  I  longed  for  him 
When  on  my  dying  bed  .  .  . 

If  he  asks  for  you, 
Say  what  answer  then? 
Give  him  my  gold  ring 
And  answer  not  a  thing  .  .  . 

Should  he  question  me 
Concerning  the  last  hour? 
Say  I  smiled  for  fear 
That  he  should  shed  a  tear  .  . 

Should  he  question  more 
Without  knowing  me? 
Like  a  sister  speak; 
Suffering  he  may  be  .  .  . 

Should  he  question  why 
Empty  is  the  hall? 
Show  the  gaping  door, 
The  lamp  alight  no  more  .  . 


APPENDIX     II 

This  is  the  first  page  of  Mallarme's  book  Divagations, 
referred  to  in  Chapter  X,  page  215. 

LE  PHENOMENE  FUTUR 

Un  ciel  pale,  sur  le  monde  qui  finit  de  decrepitude,  va 
peut-etre  partir  avec  les  nuages:  les  lambeaux  de  la  pourpre 
usee  des  couchants  deteignent  dans  une  riviere  dormant  a 
Thorizon  submerge  de  rayons  et  d'eau.  Les  arbres  s'ennuient, 
et,  sous  leur  feuillage  blanchi  (de  la  poussiere  du  temps 
plutot  que  celle  des  chemins)  monte  la  maison  en  toile  de 
Montreur  de  choses  Passees:  maint  reverbere  attend  le 
crepuscule  et  ravive  les  visages  d'une  malheureuse  foule, 
vaincue  par  la  maladie  immortelle  et  le  peche  des  siecles, 
d'hommes  pres  de  leurs  chetives  complices  enceintes  des 
fruits  miserables  avec  lesquels  perira  la  terre.  Dans  le 
silence  inquiet  de  tous  les  yeux  suppliant  la-bas  le  soleil  qui, 
sous  l'eau.  s'enfonce  avec  le  desespoir  d'un  cri,  voici  le 
simple  boniment:  "Nulle  enseigne  ne  vous  regale  du 
spectacle  interieur,  car  il  n'est  pas  maintenant  un  peintre 
capable  d'en  donner  une  ombre  triste.  J'apporte,  vivante 
(et  preservee  a  travers  les  ans  par  la  science  souveraine),  une 
Femme  d'autrefois.  Quelque  folie,  originelle  et  naive,  une 
extase  d'or,  je  ne  sais  quoi!  par  elle  nomme  sa  chevelure,  se 
ploie  avec  la  grace  des  etoffes  autour  d'un  visage  qu'  eclaire 
la  nudite  sanglante  de  ses  levres.  A  la  place  du  vetement 
vain,  elle  a  un  corps;  et  les  yeux,  semblables  aux  pierres 
rares !  ne  valent  pas  ce  regard  qui  sort  de  sa  chair  heureuse : 
des  seins  leves  comme  s'ils  etaient  pleins  d'un  lait  eternel,  la 
pointe  vers  le  ciel,  les  jambes  lisses  qui  gardent  le  sel  de 

340 


. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  341 


la  mer  premiere."  Se  rappelant  leurs  pauvres  epouses, 
chauves,  morbides  et  pleines  d'horreur,  les  maris  se  pressent: 
elles  aussi  par  curiosite,  melancoliques,  veulent  voir. 

Quand  tous  auront  contemple  la  noble  creature,  vestige 
de  quelque  epoque  deja  maudite,  les  uns  indifferents,  car  ils 
n'auront  pas  eu  la  force  de  comprendre,  mais  d'autres  navres 
et  la  paupiere  humide  de  larmes  resignees,  se  regarderont; 
tandis  que  les  poetes  de  ces  temps,  sentant  se  rallumer  leur 
yeux  eteints,  s'achemineront  vers  leur  lampe,  le  cerveau  ivre 
un  instant  d'une  gloire  confuse,  hantes  du  Rythme  et  dans 
l'oubli  d'exister  a  une  epoque  qui  survit  a  la  beaute. 

THE  FUTURE  PHENOMENON— by  Mallarme 

A  pale  sky,  above  the  world  that  is  ending  through  de- 
crepitude, about  perhaps  to  pass  away  with  the  clouds:  shreds 
of  worn-out  purple  of  the  sunsets  wash  off  their  colour  in  a 
river  sleeping  on  the  horizon,  submerged  with  rays  and  water. 
The  trees  are  weary  and,  beneath  their  whitened  foliage 
(whitened  by  the  dust  of  time  rather  than  that  of  the  roads) 
rises  the  canvas  house  of  "Showman  of  Things  Past."  Many 
a  lamp  awaits  the  gloaming  and  brightens  the  faces  of  a 
miserable  crowd  vanquished  by  the  everlasting  sickness  and 
the  sin  of  ages,  of  men  by  the  sides  of  their  puny  accomplices 
pregnant  with  the  miserable  fruit  through  which  the  world  will 
perish.  In  the  anxious  silence  of  all  the  eyes  there  supplicat- 
ing the  sun,  which  sinks  under  the  water  with  the  despera- 
tion of  a  cry,  this  is  the  plain  announcement:  "No  sign- 
board regales  you  with  the  spectacle  that  is  inside,  for  there  is 
no  painter  now  capable  of  giving  even  a  sad  shadow  of  it. 
I  bring,  living  (and  preserved  by  sovereign  science  through 
the  years),  a  Woman  of  other  days.  Some  kind  of  folly, 
naive  and  original,  an  ecstasy  of  gold,  I  know  not  what,  by 
her  called  her  hair,  clings  with  the  grace  of  drapery  round  a 
face  brightened  by  the  blood-red  nudity  of  her  lips.     In  place 


342  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

of  vain  clothing,  she  has  a  body;  and  her  eyes,  resembling 
precious  stones!  are  not  worth  that  look  which  comes  from 
her  happy  flesh:  breasts  raised  as  if  full  of  eternal  milk,  the 
points  towards  the  sky;  the  smooth  legs,  that  keep  the  salt  of 
the  first  sea."  Remembering  their  poor  spouses,  bald,  mor- 
bid, and  full  of  horrors,  the  husbands  press  forward:  the 
women  too,  from  curiosity,  gloomily  wish  to  see. 

When  all  shall  have  contemplated  the  noble  creature, 
vestige  of  some  epoch  already  damned,  they  will  look  at  each 
other,  some  indifferently,  for  they  will  not  have  had  strength 
to  understand,  but  others  broken-hearted  and  with  eye-lids 
wet  with  tears  of  resignation,  while  the  poets  of  those  times, 
feeling  their  dim  eyes  rekindled,  will  make  their  way  towards 
their  lamp,  their  brain  for  an  instant  drunk  with  confused 
glory,  haunted  by  Rhythm  and  forgetful  that  they  exist  at  an 
epoch  which  has  survived  Beauty. 


APPENDIX     III 


Poems  referred  to  in  Chapter  X,  page  217. 


No.  1 


1 


The  following  verse  is  by  Henri  de  Regnier,  from  page  28 
of  a  volume  of  his  poems: — 


L'ACCUEIL 

Si  tu  veux  que  ce  soir,  a  l'atre,  je  t'accueille — 
Jette  d'abord  la  fleur,  qui  de  ta  main  s'effeuille; 
Son  cher  parfum  ferait  ma  tristesse  trop  sombre; 
Et  ne  regard  pas  derriere  toi  vers  l'ombre, 
Car  je  te  veux,  ayant  oublie  la  foret 
Et-le  vent,  et  l'echo  et  ce  qui  parlerait 
Voix  a  ta  solitude  ou  pleur  a  ta  silence! 
Et  debout,  avec  ton  ombre  qui  te  devance, 
Et  hautine  sur  mon  seuil,  et  pale,  et  venue 
Comme  si  j'etais  mort  ou  que  tu  fusses  nue! 

Henri  de  Regnier:     Les  jeux  rustiques  et  devins. 

THE  WELCOME 

If  you  want  us  to-night  by  my  fireside  to  greet — 
Drop  the  flower  you  hold  that  sheds  petals  so  sweet; 
Its  dear  scent  would  render  my  sadness  too  black; 
And  do  not  on  the  shadows  behind  you  look  back, 
For  I  want  you,  forgetful  of  forest  and  wind, 
Of  echoes  and  all  you'd  recall  to  your  mind 
Giving  voice  to  your  silence,  to  solitude  tears, 
At  my  door,  while  before  you  your  shadow  appears, 
And  haughty  and  pale  and  erect  you  stand  there — 
Just  as  if  I  were  dead,  or  that  naked  you  were. 
343 


344.  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

No.  2 

The  following  verses  are  by  Viele-Griffin,  from  page  28 
of  a  volume  of  his  poems: — 

OISEAU  BLEU  COULEUR  DU  TEMPS 


1. 

Sais-tu  l'oubli 
D'un  vain  doux  reve, 
Oiseau  moqueur 
De  la  foret? 
Le  jour  palit, 
La  nuit  se  leve, 
Et  dans  mon  cceur 
L'ombre  a  pleure; 

2. 

O  chante-moi 

Ta  folle  gamme, 

Car  j'ai  dormi 

Ce  jour  durant; 

Le  lache  emoi 

Ou  fut  mon  ame 

Sanglote  ennui 

Le  jour  mourant  .  .  . 

3. 

Sais-tu  le  chant 
De  sa  parole 
Et  de  sa  voix, 
Toi  qui  redis 
Dans  le  couchant 
Ton  air  frivole 
Comme  autrefois 
Sous  les  midis? 


WHAT  IS  ART?  345 


4. 

O,  chante  alors 
La  melodie 
De  son  amour, 
Mon  fol  espoir, 
Parmi  les  ors 
Et  l'incendie 
Du  vain  doux  jour 
Qui  meurt  ce  soir. 
Francis  Viele-Griffin  :  Poemes  et  Poesies. 

BLUE  BIRD  COLOUR  OF  THE  TIMES 
Canst  thou  forget 
In  dreams  so  vain, 
Oh,  mocking  bird 
Of  forest  deep? 
The  day  doth  set, 
Night  comes  again, 
My  heart  has  heard 
The  shadows  weep; 

2. 
Thy  tones  let  flow 
In  maddening  scale, 
For  I  have  slept 
The  livelong  day; 
Emotions  low 
In  me  now  wail, 
My  soul  they've  kept: 
Light  dies  away  .  .  . 

3. 
That  music  sweet, 
Ah,  do  you  know 
Her  voice  and  speech? 
Your  airs  so  light 
You  who  repeat 
In  sunset's  glow, 
As  you  sang,  each, 
At  noonday's  height. 


346  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 


Of  my  desire, 
My  hope  so  bold, 
Her  love — up,  sing, 
Sing  'neath  this  light, 
This  flaming  fire, 
And  all  the  gold 
The  eve  doth  bring 
Ere  comes  the  night.   • 


No.  3 

And  here  are  some  verses  by  the  esteemed  young  poet 
Verhaeren,  which  I  also  take  from  page  28  of  his  Works: — 

ATT  IRAN  CES 

Lointainement,  et  si  etrangement  pareils, 

De  grands  masques  d'argent  que  la  brume  recule, 

Vaguent,  au  jour  tombant,  autour  des  vieux  soleils. 

Les  doux  lointaines! — et  comme,  au  fond  du  crepuscule, 
lis  nous  fixent  le  cceur,  immensement  le  cceur, 
Avec  les  yeux  defunts  de  leur  visage  d'ame. 

C'est  toujours  du  silence,  a  moins,  dans  la  paleur 
Du  soir,  un  jet  de  feu  sondain,  un  cri  de  flamme, 
Un  depart  de  lumiere  inattendu  vers  Dieu. 

On  se  laisse  charmer  et  troubler  de  mystere, 
Et  Ton  dirait  des  morts  qui  taisent  un  adieu 
Trop  mystique,  pour  etre  ecoute  par  la  terre! 

Sont-ils  le  souvenir  materiel  et  clair 

Des  ephebes  chretiens  couches  aux  catacombes 

Parmi  les  lys?     Sont-ils  leur  regard  et  leur  chair? 


WHAT  IS  ART?  347 

Ou  seul,  ce  qui  survit  de  merveilleux  aux  tombes 
De  ceux  qui  sont  partis,  vers  leurs  reves,  un  soir, 
Conquerir  la  folie  a  Tassaut  des  nuees? 

Lontainement,  combien  nous  les  sentons  vouloir 
Un  peu  d'amour  pour  leurs  oeuvres  destituees, 
Pour  leur  errance  et  leur  tristesse  aux  horizons. 

Toujours!  aux  horizons  du  cceur  et  de  pensees, 
Alors  que  les  vieux  soirs  eclatent  en  blasons 
Soudains,  pour  les  gloires  noires  et  angoissees. 

£mile  Verhaeren, 
Poemes. 


ATTRACTIONS 

Large  masks  of  silver,  by  mists  drawn  away, 

So  strangely  alike,  yet  so  far  apart, 

Float  round  the  old  suns  when  faileth  the  day. 

They  transfix  our  heart,  so  immensely  our  heart, 
Those  distances  mild,  in  the  twilight  deep, 
Looking  out  of  dead  faces,  with  their  spirit  eyes. 

All  around  is  now  silence,  except  when  there  leap 
In  the  pallor  of  evening,  with  fiery  cries, 
Some  fountains  of  flame  that  Godward  do  fly. 

Mysterious  trouble  and  charms  us  enfold, 

You  might  think  that  the  dead  spoke  a  silent  good-bye, 

Oh !  too  mystical  far  on  earth  to  be  told ! 

Are  they  the  memories,  material  and  bright, 

Of  the  Christian  youths  that  in  catacombs  sleep 

'Mid  the  lilies?     Are  they  their  flesh  or  their  sight? 

Or  the  marvel  alone  that  survives,  in  the  deep, 
Of  those  that,  one  night,  returned  to  their  dreams 
Of  conquering  folly  by  assaulting  the  skies? 


348  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

For  their  destitute  works — we  feel  it,  it  seems, 

For  a  little  love  their  longing  cries 

From  horizons  far — for  their  wanderings  and  pain. 

In  horizons  ever  of  heart  and  thought, 
While  the  evenings  old  in  bright  blaze  wane 
Suddenly,  for  black  glories  anguish  fraught. 

No.  4 

And  the  following  is  a  poem  by  Moreas,  evidently  an  ad- 
mirer of  Greek  beauty.  It  is  from  page  28  of  a  volume  of 
his  poems: — 

ENONE  AU  CLAIR  VISAGE 

finone,  j'avais  cru  qu'en  aimant  ta  beaute 

Ou  l'ame  avec  le  corps  trouvent  leur  unite, 

J'allais,  m'affermissant  et  le  cceur  et  l'esprit, 

Monter  jusqu'a  cela,  qui  jamais  ne  perit, 

N'ayant  ete  cree,  qui  n'est  froidure  ou  feu, 

Qui  n'est  beau  quelque  part  et  laid  en  autre  lieu; 

Et  me  flattais  encor  d'une  belle  harmonie 

Que  j'eusse  compose  du  meilleur  et  du  pire, 

Ainsi  que  le  chanteur  qui  cherit  Polymnie, 

En  accordant  le  grave  avec  l'aigu,  retire 

Un  son  bien  eleve  sur  les  nerfs  de  sa  lyre. 

Mais  mon  courage,  helas!  se  pamant  comme  mort, 

M'enseigna  que  le  trait  qui  m'avait  fait  amant 

Ne  fut  pas  de  cet  arc  que  courbe  sans  effort 

La  Venus  qui  naquit  du  male  seulement, 

Mais  que  j'avais  souffert  cette  Venus  derniere, 

Qui  a  le  cceur  couard,  ne  d'une  faible  mere. 

Et  pourtant,  ce  mauvais  garqon,  chasseur  habile, 

Qui  charge  son  carquois  de  sagette  subtile, 

Qui  secoue  en  riant  sa  torche,  pour  un  jour, 

Qui  ne  pose  jamais  que  sur  de  tendres  fleurs, 

C'est  sur  un  teint  charmant  qu'il  essuie  les  pleurs, 

Et  c'est  encore  un  Dieu,  finone,  cet  Amour. 


WHAT  IS  ART?  349 

Mais,  laisse,  les  oiseaux  du  printemps  sont  partis, 
Et  je  vois  les  rayons  du  soleil  amortis. 
finone,  ma  douleur,  harmonieux  visage, 
Superbe  humilite,  doux-honnete  langage, 
Hier  me  remirant  dans  cet  etang  glace 
Qui  au  bout  du  jardin  se  couvre  de  feuillage, 
Sur  ma  face  je  vis  que  les  jours  ont  passe. 

Jean  Moreas:     Le  Pelerin  Passionne. 


ENONE  OF  THE  CLEAR  VISAGE 

Enone,  in  loving  thy  beauty  I  thought 

(Where  the  soul  and  the  body  to  union  are  brought) 

I  should  mount,  by  strengthening  my  heart  and  my  mind, 

Till  that  which  knows  nothing  of  Death  I  should  find: 

Uncreated,  which  is  not  here  ugly,  there  fair, 

Nor  cold  in  one  part  and  on  fire  otherwhere. 

I  flattered  myself  that  the  better  and  worse 

To  a  harmony  perfect  should  move  in  my  verse; 

As  the  poet  who  serves  Polyhymnia  can  bring 

The  grave  and  the  piercing  to  concord,  and  ring 

Notes  loftier  still  from  the  nerves  of  his  lyre. 

But  my  courage  which  now  does  but  faintly  suspire, 

Nigh  to  death,  hath  proclaimed  that  the  arrow — ah,  woe!— 

Which  pierced  me,  and  first  with  this  love  made  me  moan, 

Was  no  arrow  dispatched  from  the  easy-bent  bow 

By  a  Venus  who  sprang  from  a  father  alone. 

But  'twas  that  other  Venus  who  caused  me  to  smart, 

She,  born  of  frail  mother  with  cowardly  heart. 

Yet  this  naughty  rascal,  this  hunter  so  bold, 

Whose  quiver  does  arrows  of  subtlety  hold, 

Who,  laughing  and  shaking  his  torch   (for  a  day!), 

Never  rests  but  upon  tender  flowers  and  gay, 

And  on  a  sweet  skin  dries  his  tears  as  they  flow — 

Tis  a  God  still,  Enone,  this  Love  that  we  know. 

Let  it  pass,  for  the  birds  of  the  springtime  are  fled, 

And  I  see  the  last  rays  of  a  sun  that's  nigh  dead. 

Enone,  my  grief,  ah  harmonious  face, 


350  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Humility  grand,  words  of  virtue  and  grace, 

I  looked  yestere'en  in  the  pond  frozen  fast, 

Strewn  with  leaves  at  the  end  of  the  garden's  fair  space, 

And  I  read  in  my  face  that  those  days  are  now  past. 


No.  5 

And  this  is  also  from  page  28  of  a  thick  book,  full  of 
similar  poems,  by  M.  Montesquiou. 

BERCEUSE  D'OMBRE 

Des  formes,  des  formes,  des  formes 
Blanche,  bleue,  et  rose,  et  d'or 
Descendront  du  haut  des  ormes 
Sur  l'enfant  qui  se  rendort. 
Des  formes! 

Des  plumes,  des  plumes,  des  plumes 
Pour  composer  un  doux  nid. 
Midi  sonne:  les  enclumes 
Cessent;  la  rumeur  finit  .  .  . 
Des  plumes! 

Des  roses,  des  roses,  des  roses 
Pour  embaumer  son  sommeil, 
Vos  pet  ales  sont  moroses 
Pres  du  sourire  vermeil. 
O  roses! 

Des  ailes,  des  ailes,  des  ailes 
Pour  bourdonner  a  son  front, 
Abeilles  et  demoiselles, 
Des  rythmes  qui  berceront. 
Des  ailes! 

Des  branches,  des  branches,  des  branches 
Pour  tresser  un  pavilion, 
Par  ou  des  clartes  moins  franches 
Descendront  sur  l'oisillon. 
Des  branches! 


WHAT  IS  ART?  851 

Des  songes,  des  songes,  des  songes 
Dans  ses  pensers  entr'ouverts 
Glissez  un  peu  de  mensonges 
A  voir  le  vie  au  travers. 
Des  songes! 

Des  fees,  des  fees,  des  fees, 
Pour  filer  leurs  echeveaux 
Des  mirages,  de  bouffees 
Dans  tous  ces  petits  cerveaux. 
Des  fees. 

Des  anges,  des  anges,  des  anges 
Pour  emporter  dans  Tether 
Les  petits  enfants  etranges 
Qui  ne  veulent  pas  rester  .  .  . 
Nos  anges ! 
Comte  Robert  de  Montesquiou-Fezensac, 
Les  Hortensias  Bleues. 


THE  SHADOW  LULLABY 

Forms,  forms,  forms 
White,  blue,  and  gold,  and  red 
Descending  from  the  elm  trees, 
On  sleeping  baby's  head. 
Forms! 

Feathers,  feathers,  feathers 
To  make  a  cosy  nest. 
Twelve  striking:  stops  the  clamour; 
The  anvils  are  at  rest  .  .  . 
Oh  feathers! 

Roses,  roses,  roses 
To  scent  his  sleep  awhile, 
Pale  are  your  fragrant  petals 
Beside  his  ruby  smile. 
Oh  roses ! 


352  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Wings,  wings,  wings 
Of  bees  and  dragon-flies, 
To  hum  around  his  forehead, 
And  lull  him  with  your  sighs. 
Oh  wings! 

Branches,  branches,  branches 
A  shady  bower  to  twine, 
Through  which,  oh  daylight,  faintly 
Descend  on  birdie  mine. 
Branches ! 

Dreams,  dreams,  dreams 
Into  his  opening  mind, 
Let  in  a  little  falsehood 
With  sights  of  life  behind. 
Dreams ! 

Fairies,  fairies,  fairies, 
To  twine  and  twist  their  threads 
With  puffs  of  phantom  visions 
Into  these  little  heads. 
Fairies ! 

Angels,  angels,  angels 
To  the  ether  far  away, 
Those  children  strange  to  carry 
That  here  don't  wish  to  stay  .  .  . 
Our  angels! 


APPENDIX     IV 

These  are  the  contents  of  the  Nibelungen  Ring: 

The  first  part  tells  that  the  nymphs,  the  daughters  of  the 
Rhine,  for  some  reason  guard  gold  in  the  Rhine  and  sing: 
Weia,  Waga,  Woge  du  Welle,  Walle  zur  Wiege,  Wagala- 
weia,  Wallala,  Weila,  Weia,  and  so  forth. 

These  singing  nymphs  are  pursued  by  a  dwarf  (a  nibelung) 
who  desires  to  seize  them.  The  dwarf  cannot  catch  any  of 
them.  Then  the  nymphs  guarding  the  gold  tell  the  dwarf 
just  what  they  ought  to  keep  secret,  namely,  that  whoever 
renounces  love  will  be  able  to  steal  the  gold  they  are  guarding. 
And  the  dwarf  renounces  love  and  steals  the  gold.  This  ends 
the  first  scene. 

In  the  second  scene  a  god  and  a  goddess  lie  in  a  field  in 
sight  of  a  castle  which  giants  have  built  for  them.  Presently 
they  wake  up  and  are  pleased  with  the  castle,  and  they  relate 
that  in  payment  for  this  work  they  must  give  the  goddess 
Freia  to  the  giants.  The  giants  come  for  their  pay.  But 
the  god  Wotan  objects  to  parting  with  Freia.  The  giants 
grow  angry.  The  gods  hear  that  the  dwarf  has  stolen  the 
gold,  and  promise  to  confiscate  it  and  to  pay  the  giants  with 
it.  But  the  giants  won't  trust  them,  and  seize  the  goddess 
Freia  in  pledge. 

The  third  scene  takes  place  under  ground.  Alberich,  the 
dwarf  who  stole  the  gold,  for  some  reason  beats  another 
dwarf,  Mime,  and  takes  from  him  a  helmet  which  has  the 
power  both  of  making  people  invisible  and  of  turning  them 
into  animals.  The  gods,  Wotan  and  others,  appear  and 
quarrel  with  one  another  and  with  the  dwarfs,  and  wish  to 
take  the  gold,  but  Alberich  won't  give  it  up,  and  (like  every- 
body all  through  the  piece)  behaves  in  a  way  to  ensure  his 

353 


354  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

own  ruin.  He  puts  on  the  helmet,  and  becomes  first  a  dragon 
and  then  a  toad.  The  gods  catch  the  toad,  take  the  helmet 
off  it,  and  carry  Alberich  away  with  them. 

Scene  IV.  The  gods  bring  Alberich  to  their  home  and 
order  him  to  command  his  dwarfs  to  bring  them  all  the  gold. 
The  dwarfs  bring  it.  Alberich  gives  up  the  gold  but  keeps 
a  magic  ring.  The  gods  take  the  ring.  So  Alberich  curses 
the  ring  and  says  it  is  to  bring  misfortune  on  anyone  who  has 
it.  The  giants  appear;  they  bring  the  goddess  Freia  and 
demand  her  ransom.  They  stick  up  staves  of  Freia's  height, 
and  gold  is  poured  in  between  these  staves:  this  is  to  be  the 
ransom.  There  is  not  enough  gold,  so  the  helmet  is  thrown 
in,  and  they  demand  the  ring  also.  Wotan  refuses  to  give  it 
up,  but  the  goddess  Erda  appears  and  commands  him  to  do 
so  because  it  brings  misfortune.  Wotan  gives  it  up.  Freia 
is  released.  The  giants,  having  received  the  ring,  fight,  and 
one  of  them  kills  the  other.  This  ends  the  Prelude,  and  we 
come  to  the  First  Day. 

The  scene  shows  a  house  in  a  tree.  Siegmund  runs  in 
tired,  and  lies  down.  Sieglinda,  the  mistress  of  the  house 
(and  wife  of  Hunding),  gives  him  a  drugged  draught  and 
they  fall  in  love  with  each  other.  Sieglinda's  husband  comes 
home,  learns  that  Siegmund  belongs  to  a  hostile  race,  and 
wishes  to  fight  him  next  day;  but  Sieglinda  drugs  her  hus- 
band and  comes  to  Siegmund.  Siegmund  discovers  that 
Sieglinda  is  his  sister,  and  that  his  father  drove  a  sword  into 
the  tree  so  that  no  one  can  get  it  out.  Siegmund  pulls  the 
sword  out,  and  commits  incest  with  his  sister. 

Act  II.  Siegmund  is  to  fight  with  Hunding.  The  gods 
discuss  the  question  as  to  whom  they  shall  award  the  victory. 
Wotan,  approving  of  Siegmund's  incest  with  his  sister,  wishes 
to  spare  him,  but  under  pressure  from  his  wife,  Fricka,  he 
orders  the  Valkyrie  Briinnhilda  to  kill  Siegmund.  Sieg- 
mund goes  to  fight.     Sieglinda  faints.     Briinnhilda  appears 


WHAT  IS  ART?  355 

and  wishes  to  slay  Siegmund.  Siegmund  wishes  to  kill 
Sieglinda  also,  but  Briinnhilda  does  not  allow  it,  and  he 
fights  with  Hunding.  Briinnhilda  defends  Siegmund,  but 
Wotan  defends  Hunding.  Siegmund's  sword  breaks,  and 
he  is  killed.     Sieglinda  runs  away. 

Act  III.  The  Valkyries  (divine  Amazons)  are  on  the 
stage.  The  Valkyrie  Briinnhilda  arrives  on  horseback, 
bringing  Siegmund's  body.  She  is  flying  from  Wotan,  who 
is  chasing  her  for  her  disobedience.  Wotan  catches  her,  and 
as  a  punishment  dismisses  her  from  her  post  as  a  Valkyrie. 
He  also  casts  a  spell  on  her,  so  that  she  has  to  go  to  sleep  and 
continue  asleep  until  a  man  wakes  her.  When  someone 
wakes  her  she  will  fall  in  love  with  him.  Wotan  kisses  her; 
she  falls  asleep.     He  lets  off  fire,  which  surrounds  her. 

We  now  come  to  the  Second  Day.  The  dwarf  Mime 
forges  a  sword  in  a  wood.  Siegfried  appears.  He  is  a  son 
born  from  the  incest  of  brother  with  sister  (Siegmund  with 
Sieglinda),  and  has  been  brought  up  in  this  wood  by  the 
dwarf.  In  general  the  motives  for  the  actions  of  everybody 
in  this  production  are  quite  unintelligible.  Siegfried  learns 
his  own  origin,  and  that  the  broken  sword  was  his  father's. 
He  orders  Mime  to  re-forge  it,  and  then  goes  off.  Wotan 
comes  in  the  guise  of  a  wanderer  and  relates  what  will 
happen:  that  he  who  has  not  learnt  to  fear  will  forge  the 
sword  and  will  defeat  everybody.  The  dwarf  conjectures 
that  this  is  Siegfried,  and  wants  to  poison  him.  Siegfried 
returns,  forges  his  father's  sword,  and  runs  off,  shouting, 
"Heiho  heiho  heiho!  Ho  ho!  Aha!  oho!  aha!  Heiaho! 
heiaho!  heiaho!     Ho!  ho!     Hahei!  hoho!  hahei!" 

And  we  get  to  Act  II.  Alberich  sits  guarding  a  giant, 
who,  in  form  of  a  dragon,  guards  the  gold  he  has  received. 
Wotan  appears,  and  for  some  unknown  reason  foretells  that 
Siegfried  will  come  and  kill  the  dragon.  Alberich  wakes 
the  dragon  and  asks  him  for  the  ring,  promising  to  defend 


356  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

him  from  Siegfried.  The  dragon  won't  give  up  the  ring. 
Exit  Alberich.  Mime  and  Siegfried  appear.  Mime  hopes 
the  dragon  will  teach  Siegfried  to  fear.  But  Siegfried  does 
not  fear.  He  drives  Mime  away  and  kills  the  dragon,  after 
which  he  puts  his  finger,  smeared  with  the  dragon's  blood, 
to  his  lips.  This  enables  him  to  know  men's  secret  thoughts, 
as  well  as  the  language  of  birds.  The  birds  tell  him  where 
the  treasure  and  the  ring  are,  and  also  that  Mime  wishes  to 
poison  him.  Mime  returns  and  says  out  loud  that  he  wishes 
to  poison  Siegfried.  This  is  meant  to  signify  that  Siegfried, 
having  tasted  dragon's  blood,  understands  people's  secret 
thoughts.  Siegfried,  having  learnt  Mime's  intentions,  kills 
him.  The  birds  tell  Siegfried  where  Briinnhilda  is,  and  he 
goes  to  find  her. 

Act  III.  Wotan  calls  up  Erda.  Erda  prophesies  to 
Wotan,  and  gives  him  advice.  Siegfried  appears,  quarrels 
with  Wotan,  and  they  fight.  Suddenly  Siegfried's  sword 
breaks  Wotan's  spear,  which  had  been  more  powerful  than 
anything  else.  Siegfried  goes  into  the  fire  to  Briinnhilda  and 
kisses  her;  she  wakes  up,  abandons  her  divinity,  and  throws 
herself  into  Siegfried's  arms. 

Third  Day.  Prelude.  Three  Norns  plait  a  golden  rope 
and  talk  about  the  future.  They  go  away.  Siegfried  and 
Briinnhilda  appear.  Siegfried  takes  leave  of  her,  gives  her 
the  ring,  and  goes  away. 

Act  I.  By  the  Rhine.  A  king  wants  to  get  married  and 
also  to  give  his  sister  in  marriage.  Hagen,  the  king's  wicked 
brother,  advises  him  to  marry  Briinnhilda  and  to  give  his 
sister  to  Siegfried.  Siegfried  appears;  they  give  him  a 
drugged  draught,  which  makes  him  forget  all  the  past  and 
fall  in  love  with  the  king's  sister,  Gutrune.  So  he  rides 
off  with  Gunther,  the  king,  to  get  Briinnhilda  to  be  the  king's 
bride.  The  scene  changes.  Briinnhilda  sits  with  the  ring. 
A  Valkyrie  comes  to  her  and  tells  her  that  Wotan's  spear  is 


WHAT  IS  ART?  357 

broken,  and  advises  her  to  give  the  ring  to  the  Rhine  nymphs. 
Siegfried  comes  and  by  means  of  the  magic  helmet  turns  him- 
self into  Gunther,  demands  the  ring  from  Briinnhilda,  seizes 
it,  and  drags  her  off  to  sleep  with  him. 

Act  II.  By  the  Rhine.  Alberich  and  Hagen  discuss  how 
to  get  the  ring.  Siegfried  comes,  tells  how  he  has  obtained 
a  bride  for  Gunther  and  how  he  spent  the  night  with  her  but 
put  a  sword  between  himself  and  her.  Briinnhilda  rides  up, 
recognises  the  ring  on  Siegfried's  hand,  and  declares  that  it 
was  he,  and  not  Gunther,  who  was  with  her.  Hagen  stirs 
everybody  up  against  Siegfried,  and  decides  to  kill  him 
next  day  when  hunting. 

Act  III.  Again  the  nymphs  in  the  Rhine  relate  what  has 
happened.  Siegfried,  who  has  lost  his  way,  appears.  The 
nymphs  ask  him  for  the  ring  but  he  won't  give  it  up.  Hunters 
appear.  Siegfried  tells  the  story  of  his  life.  Hagen  then 
gives  him  a  draught  which  causes  his  memory  to  return  to 
him.  Siegfried  relates  how  he  aroused  and  obtained  Briinn- 
hilda, and  everyone  is  astonished.  Hagen  stabs  him  in  the 
back,  and  the  scene  is  changed.  Gutrune  meets  the  corpse 
of  Siegfried.  Gunther  and  Hagan  quarrel  about  the  ring, 
and  Hagan  kills  Gunther.  Briinnhilda  cries.  Hagen  wishes 
to  take  the  ring  from  Siegfried's  hand,  but  the  hand  of  the 
corpse  raises  itself  threateningly.  Briinnhilda  takes  the  ring 
from  Siegfried's  hand,  and  when  Siegfried's  corpse  is  carried 
to  the  pyre  she  gets  on  to  a  horse  and  leaps  into  the  fire.  The 
Rhine  rises,  and  the  waves  reach  the  pyre.  In  the  river  are 
three  nymphs.  Hagen  throws  himself  into  the  fire  to  get  the 
ring,  but  the  nymphs  seize  him  and  carry  him  off.  One  of 
them  holds  the  ring;  and  that  is  the  end  of  the  matter. 

The  impression  obtainable  from  my  recapitulation  is  of 
course  incomplete.  But  however  incomplete  it  may  be  it  is 
certainly  infinitely  more  favourable  than  the  impression 
which  results  from  reading  the  four  booklets  in  which  the 
work  is  printed. 


PART  XIV 
TOLSTOY'S  VIEW  OF  ART 

The  substance  of  the  following  article  appeared  in  the 
Contemporary  Review,  August  1900,  as  a  reply  to  critics  who 
had  misquoted,  misrepresented,  or  misunderstood  Tolstoy. 
Their  attacks  were  too  ephemeral  for  it  to  be  necessary  to 
reproduce  the  polemical  part  of  the  reply;  but,  as  previously 
remarked,  what  is  worth  preserving  is  an  explanation  of 
Tolstoy's  position,  which  as  it  obtained  his  unqualified  ap- 
proval is  conclusive  on  certain  matters  in  dispute.  In  order 
to  give  the  statement  in  the  words  Tolstoy  endorsed  I  have 
retained  some  passages  which  have  appeared  in  previous 
chapters  of  this  book,  and  can  only  apologize  to  my  readers 
for  these  repetitions. 

Tolstoy  had  great  difficulty  in  presenting  his  opinions  (es- 
pecially his  religious  and  philosophic  opinions)  to  the  world. 
Several  of  his  books  were  prohibited  in  Russia.  Those 
printed  in  Geneva  were  carelessly  edited,  and  (missing  the 
attention  Tolstoy  usually  gave  to  his  proof-sheets)  contained 
errors  that  tripped  up  his  translators.  Other  works  of  his, 
permitted  in  Russia,  were  tampered  with  by  the  Censor,  who 
struck  out  what  Tolstoy  wrote  and  inserted  words  he  objected 
to,  as,  for  instance,  was  the  case  in  the  Russian  edition  of 
What  is  Art? 

But,  for  non-Russian  readers,  the  heaviest  blow  to  Tolstoy's 
reputation  as  a  clear  and  sane  thinker  was  struck,  not  by  the 
Censor,  but  by  translators  who  failed  to  reproduce  his 
thought.  Versions  of  some  of  his  most  serious  works  ap- 
peared containing  much  absolute  nonsense.  They  were 
issued  at  a  time  when  readers,  surprised  that  a  novelist  should 

358 


TOLSTOYS  VIEW  OF  ART  359 

undertake  philosophic  work,  were  wondering  whether  they 
ought  to  regard  Tolstoy  seriously  in  his  new  role;  and  they 
caused  some  to  conclude  that,  as  a  philosopher,  he  need  not 
be  taken  seriously.1     Jnr***  . 

A  man  who  spoke  the  truth  as  he  saw  it  under  constant  risk 
of  persecution,  whose  works  were  suppressed  or  mutilated  at 
home  and  badly  edited  abroad,  who  was  translated  so  that  he 
was  made  to  assert  what  he  in  fact  denied,  has  a  special  claim 
to  fair  treatment  at  the  hands  of  reviewers.  But  this  claim 
was  not  always  recognized. 

His  rank  among  the  foremost  writers  of  fiction  was  not 
questioned;  but  some  of  his  philosophical  works  treating  of 
human  conduct,  activities,  institutions,  and  beliefs,  had  a 
different  fate.  When  What  is  Art?  appeared,  it  had  a  mixed 
reception,  though  some  leading  critics  saw  its  value  and  one 
of  them  hailed  it  as  "the  most  important  essay  in  pure  criti- 
cism of  recent  years,  and  destined  to  become  a  classic." 

Tolstoy  had  in  this  book  said  much  that  was  new, 
startling,  and  not  quickly  digestible;  and  he  had  expressed 
it  so  caustically,  had  been  so  severe  on  critics,  specialists, 
professional  artists,  and  art-schools,  as  well  as  on  whole 
groups  of  people  from  spiritualists  to  scientists — including 
fifty  or  more  well-known  people  then  living,  into  the  bargain 
— he  had,  in  fact,  hit  out  so  freely  and  so  hard  that  counter- 
attacks of  considerable  asperity  were  inevitable.  In  reply 
to  such  attacks  the  following  pages  were  written. 

No  department  of  science,  as  Veron  justly  remarks,  has  been 
more  generally  abandoned  to  the  dreams  of  the  metaphysi- 
cians than  esthetic  philosophy.     The  task  Tolstoy  undertook 

1  The  existence  of  such  editions  was  a  factor  in  inducing  one  hundred  and  twenty 
very  distinguished  English  and  American  writers,  dramatists,  critics,  and  pub- 
licists, to  endorse  a  letter  written  by  G.  Bernard  Shaw  to  the  press,  in  1922,  ask- 
ing the  public  to  support  the  "Maude  Tolstoys,"  in  the  Oxford  University  Press 
edition,  and  thus  make  commercially  possible  the  completion  of  a  reliable  and 
satisfactory  rendering  of  Tolstoy's  works  in  English. 


360  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

was  to  clear  up  the  "the  frightful  obscurity  which  reigns  in 
this  region  of  speculation." 

What  is  Art?  Its  manifestations  are  "bounded  on  one  side 
by  the  practically  useful  and  on  the  other  by  unsuccessful 
attempts  at  art."  But  what  working  definition  of  art  have 
we  that  would  enable  us  to  feel  sure  that  this  or  that  produc- 
tion of  human  activity  is  a  work  of  art?  The  answer  at  first 
seems  very  simple  to  those  "who  talk  without  thinking." 
They  are  accustomed  to  say  that  "Art  is  such  activity  as  pro- 
duces beauty."  But  this  only  shifts  the  matter  a  step.  We 
have  now  to  ask  for  a  working  definition  of  beauty,  and  on 
careful  examination  we  find  that  this  has  nowhere  been  given. 
Every  attempt  to  define  beauty  objectively,  as  consisting 
"either  in  utility,  or  in  adjustment  to  a  purpose,  or  in  sym- 
metry, or  in  order,  or  in  proportion,  or  in  smoothness,  or  in 
harmony  of  the  parts,  or  in  unity  amid  variety,  or  in 
various  combinations  of  these"  (p.  161),  has  broken  down 
utterly,  and  we  have  nothing  left  but  a  subjective  definition 
which  amounts  to  this,  that  beauty  is  "that  which  pleases  us" 
without  evoking  in  us  desire.  In  other  words,  "Beauty  is 
simply  a  certain  kind  of  disinterested  pleasure  received  by  us." 
This  definition  seems  clear  enough,  but  unfortunately  it  is 
inexact,  and  can  be  widened  to  include  the  pleasure  derived 
from  drink,  from  food,  from  touching  a  delicate  skin,  and  so 
forth,  as  is  done  by  Guyau,  Kralik,  and  other  estheticians. 

A  yet  more  serious  trouble  is,  that  different  things  please 
different  people.  Instead  of  getting  a  solid  basis  for  a  science, 
we  get  landed  in  confusion  arising  from  the  fact  that  tastes 
differ.  If  we  use  the  word  beauty  in  our  definition  of  art, 
and  if  beauty  means  "that  which  pleases,"  and  if  different 
things  please  different  people — our  definition  is  useless.  One 
man  will  say  a  certain  thing  is  a  work  of  art  because  it 
pleases  him,  another  will  reply  that  it  is  not  a  work  of  art 
because  he  does  not  like  it. 


TOLSTOYS  VIEW  OF  ART  361 

And  this  is  precisely  what  has  happened  and  is  happening. 
Is  Walt  Whitman  a  great  poet?  Yes,  says  A,  he  is,  because 
I  like  his  poems  and  agree  with  them.  No,  says  B,  he  is  not, 
because  I  don't  like  his  poems  and  disagree  with  them. 

Thus  the  science  of  esthetics  has  as  yet  failed  to  get  even 
a  start.  It  has  not  told  us  what  art  is,  still  less  has  it  enabled 
us  to  judge  of  the  quality  of  art.  "So  that  the  whole  exist- 
ing science  of  esthetics  fails  to  do  what  we  might  expect  from 
it,  being  a  mental  activity  calling  itself  a  science:  namely, 
it  does  not  define  the  qualities  and  laws  of  art,  or  of  the 
beautiful  (if  that  be  the  content  of  art),  or  the  nature  of 
taste  (if  taste  decides  the  question  of  art  and  its  merit),  and 
then  on  the  basis  of  such  definitions  acknowledge  as  art 
those  productions  which  correspond  to  these  laws,  and  reject 
those  which  do  not  come  under  them.  But  this  science  of 
esthetics  consists  in  first  acknowledging  a  certain  set  of  pro- 
ductions to  be  art  (because  they  please  us),  and  then  framing 
such  a  theory  of  art  that  all  these  productions  which  please  a 
certain  circle  of  people  should  fit  into  it"  (p.  164). 

Such  being  the  case,  reasonable  men  should  be  not  merely 
ready  but  anxious  to  avoid  the  use  of  the  word  beauty  in 
framing  their  definition  of  art,  and  should  select  words  which 
mean  the  same  thing  to  each  of  us  who  use  them.  Yet, 
strange  to  say,  the  estheticians,  the  specialists,  and  the  "cul- 
tured crowd,"  cling  tenaciously  and  even  fanatically  to  the  use 
of  a  word  they  cannot  define  in  a  serviceable  manner.  They 
are  as  angry  with  anyone  who  protests  against  its  use  in  a 
scientific  definition,  as  the  Scarboro'  roughs *  are  with  a 
Quaker  who  says  that  men  ought  not  to  kill  one  another. 

"As  is  always  the  case,  the  more  cloudy  and  confused  the 
conception  conveyed  by  a  word,  with  the  more  aplomb  and 
self-assurance  do  people  use  that  word,  pretending  that  what 

1  Written   soon   after   the   Rowntrees   had    been   attacked    by   a   patriotic   mob, 
whose  feelings  were  harrowed  by  an  attempt  to  hold  a  peace-meeting. 


362  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

is  understood  by  it  is  so  simple  and  clear  that  it  is  not  worth 
while  even  to  discuss  what  it  actually  means.  This  is  how 
matters  of  orthodox  religion  are  usually  dealt  with,  and  this 
is  how  people  now  deal  with  the  conception  of  beauty" 
(p.  137). 

For  his  part,  Tolstoy  prefers  to  understand,  and  to  let  other 
people  understand,  what  he  means  by  the  words  he  uses,  and 
he  has  therefore  framed  a  definition  of  art  which  avoids  all 
obscurity. 

"Art  is  a  human  activity,  consisting  in  this,  that  one  man 
consciously,  by  means  of  certain  external  signs,  hands  on  to 
others  feelings  he  has  lived  through,  and  that  other  people  are 
infected  by  these  feelings  and  also  experience  them"  (p.  173). 

Art  is  possible  because  we  share  one  common  human  nature. 
One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin.  All  who 
are  capable  of  experiencing  "that  simple  feeling  familiar  to 
the  plainest  man  and  even  to  a  child^  that  sense  of  infection 
with  another's  feeling — compelling  us  to  joy  in  another's  glad- 
ness, to  sorrow  at  another's  grief,  and  to  mingle  souls  with 
another"  (p.  273),  possess  the  mental  and  emotional  telegraph 
wires  along  which  an  artist's  influence  may  pass. 

A  common  crowd  may  be  swayed  by  an  orator,  but  not  by 
the  ablest  mathematical  lecturer;  for  whereas  thoughts  can 
only  be  transferred  to  minds  sufficiently  prepared  to  receive 
them,  the  feelings  that  are  the  birthright  of  our  common 
humanity  are  shared  by  all  normal  people.  When  an  orator 
fails  to  sway  his  audience,  we  say  the  orator  has  failed,  not 
the  audience.  But  when  a  boy  fails  to  understand  the  fifth 
proposition  because  he  has  not  understood  those  that  preceded 
it,  we  do  not  say  that  Euclid  has  failed  but  that  the  boy  has 
not  understood  him.  Science  is  a  human  activity  transmit- 
ting thoughts  from  man  to  man:  Art  is  a  human  activity 
transmitting  feelings.  They  have  some  features  in  common. 
Clearness,  simplicity,  and  compression,  are  desirable  in  both, 


TOLSTOY'S  VIEW  OF  ART  363 

and  the  same  book  or  the  same  speech  may  contain  both 
science  and  art.  It  is  desirable  to  discriminate  clearly  be- 
tween the  one  and  the  other,  though  both  alike  are  "indis- 
pensable means  of  communication,  without  which  mankind 
could  not  exist"  (pp.  175  and  321). 

Before  passing  from  definitions  to  deductions  based  on 
them,  reference  should  be  made  to  the  physiological  evolu- 
tionary definition  of  Schiller,  Darwin,  and  Herbert  Spencer, 
which  Tolstoy  sums  up  thus:  "Art  is  an  activity  arising 
even  in  the  animal  kingdom  and  'springing  from  sexual  desire 
and  the  propensity  to  play'  "  (p.  169).  This,  though  superior 
to  the  definitions  which  depend  on  the  conception  of  beauty, 
is  unsatisfactory  because,  "instead  of  speaking  about  the  ar- 
tistic activity  itself,  which  is  the  real  matter  in  hand,  it  treats 
of  the  derivation  of  art"  (p.  169). 

Accepting  Tolstoy's  definition  of  art,  we  at  once  see  that 
art  covers  a  much  wider  ground  than  we  have  been  accustomed 
to  suppose. 

"We  are  accustomed  to  understand  art  to  be  only  what  we 
hear  and  see  in  theatres,  concerts,  and  exhibitions;  together 
with  buildings,  statues,  poems,  novels.  .  .  .  But  all  this  is 
but  the  smallest  part  of  the  art  by  which  we  communicate 
with  each  other  in  life.  All  human  life  is  filled  with  works  of 
art  of  every  kind — from  cradle-song,  jest,  mimicry,  the  orna- 
mentation of  houses,  dress,  and  utensils,  up  to  church  services, 
buildings,  monuments,  and  triumphal  processions.  It  is  all 
artistic  activity"  (p.  174). 

But  we  generally  use  the  word  in  a  special  and  restricted 
sense  to  mean,  not  all  human  activity  that  deliberately  and 
with  premeditation  transmits  feelings,  "but  only  that  part 
which  we  for  some  reason  select  from  it,  and  to  which  we 
attach  special  importance"  (pp.  174-175). 

Before  considering  what  kind  of  art  deserves  to  be  thus 
specially  selected  for  our  highest  esteem,  we  must  clearly 


364  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

distinguish  between  two  different  things:  the  subject-matter 
of  art  and  the  form  of  art  apart  from  its  subject-matter.  This 
distinction  is  fundamentally  important  and,  as  soon  as  it  is 
made,  the  vexed  question  of  the  relation  of  art  to  morality 
solves  itself  easily  and  inevitably. 

Let  us  take  art  apart  from  its  subject-matter  first. 

"There  is  one  indubitable  sign  distinguishing  real  art 
from  its  counterfeit — namely,  the  infectiousness  of  art.  If 
a  man  without  exercising  effort,  and  without  altering  his 
standpoint,  on  reading,  hearing,  or  seeing,  another  man's 
work  experiences  a  mental  condition  which  unites  him  with 
that  man  and  with  other  people  who  also  partake  of  that 
work,  then  the  object  evoking  that  condition  is  a  work  of 
art"  (p.  274). 

"And  not  only  is  infection  a  sure  sign  of  art,  but  the  de- 
gree of  infectiousness  is  also  the  sole  measure  of  excellence 
in  art." 

"The  stronger  the  infection  the  better  is  the  art,  as  art, 
speaking  now  apart  from  its  subject-matter — that  is,  not  con- 
sidering the  quality  of  the  feelings  it  transmits"  (p.  275). 

From  this  point  of  view,  art  has  really  nothing  to  do  with 
morality.  The  feelings  transmitted  may  be  good  or  bad 
feelings,  and  may  produce  the  best  or  the  worst  results  on 
those  who  are  influenced  by  them,  yet  in  either  case  the  man 
who  transmits  them  is  an  artist. 

"The  feelings  with  which  the  artist  infects  others  may  be 
most  various — very  strong  or  very  weak,  very  important  or 
very  insignificant,  very  bad  or  very  good:  feelings  of  love 
for  native  land,  self-devotion  and  submission  to  fate  or  to 
God  expressed  in  a  drama,  raptures  of  lovers  described  in 
a  novel,  feelings  of  voluptuousness  expressed  in  a  picture, 
courage  expressed  in  a  triumphal  march,  merriment  evoked 
by  a  dance,  humor  evoked  by  a  funny  story,  the  feeling  of 


TOLSTOY'S  VIEW  OF  ART  365 

quietness  transmitted  by  an  evening  landscape  or  by  a  lull- 
aby, or  the  feeling  of  admiration  evoked  by  a  beautiful  ara- 
besque—it is  all  art"  (pp.  172-173). 

If  you  have  not  lost  the  capacity — usually  possessed  by 
people  leading  a  sane  and  natural  life — to  share  the  feelings 
expressed  by  others,  you  may  try  the  quality  of  a  production 
first  of  all  by  this  internal  test:  Does  it  unite  you  in  feeling 
with  its  author  and  with  others  who  are  exposed  to  its  in- 
fluence? Only  if  it  does  this,  have  you  any  right  to  testify 
to  its  being  a  work  of  art. 

If  you  are  infected  by  the  work,  and  are  therefore  sure 
that  it  is  a  work  of  art,  the  next  question  is  whether  it  is  a 
weak  work  of  "exclusive"  art,  or  a  great  work  of  "universal" 
art.  It  may  influence  you — who  have,  perhaps,  been  spe- 
cially trained  and  accustomed  to  that  kind  of  art,  or  who  share 
the  prepossessions  of  the  artist  and  belong  to  his  set,  class, 
school,  sect,  or  race, — but  is  it  capable  of  influencing  men 
of  other  classes,  races,  and  ages?  Here  the  primary  internal 
test  is  supplemented  by  an  external  one.  There  are  works 
of  "universal"  art  (using  the  word,  of  course,  in  a  compara- 
tive and  not  in  an  absolute  sense).  The  Iliad,  the  Odyssey, 
the  story  of  Joseph,  the  Psalms,  the  Gospel  parables,  the  story 
of  Sakya  Muni,  the  hymns  of  the  Vedas,  the  best  folk-legends, 
fairy-tales,  and  folk-songs,  are  understood  by  all.  If  only 
they  are  adequately  rendered,  and  are  received  not  supersti- 
tiously  but  with  an  open  mind,  they  are  "quite  comprehensible 
now  to  us,  educated  or  uneducated,  as  they  were  comprehen- 
sible to  the  men  of  those  times,  long  ago,  who  were  even  less 
educated  than  our  labourers"  (p.  126). 

Even  a  strictly  national  art,  such  as  Japanese  decorative 
art,  may  be  admirable  and  "universal."  "The  feeling  (of 
admiration  at,  and  delight  in,  the  combination  of  lines  and 
colours)  which  the  artist  has  experienced,  and  with  which  he 


366  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

infects  the  spectator"  (p.  295),  may  be  so  sincere  that  it  acts 
on  men  of  other  races  without  demanding  from  them  any 
laborious  preparation  before  they  can  enjoy  it. 

When  we  find  ourselves  admiring  "exclusive  art,"  we 
must  beware  of  flattering  ourselves  with  the  supposition 
that  great  masses  of  people  do  not  like  what  we  consider  un- 
doubtedly good — because  they  are  not  sufficiently  developed, 
while  we  are  very  superior  people.  Perhaps  we  admire  and 
enjoy  these  things,  not  because  they  are  very  good  but  merely 
because  we  have  trained  ourselves  to  admire  them  and  have 
got  into  the  habit  of  doing  so.  But  "people  may  habituate 
themselves  to  anything,  even  to  the  very  worst  things.  As 
people  may  habituate  themselves  to  bad  food,  to  spirits,  to- 
bacco, and  opium,  just  in  the  same  way  they  may  habituate 
themselves  to  bad  art — and  that  is  exactly  what  is  being 
done"  (p.  224). 

Nor  should  we  let  our  self-sufficiency  blind  us  to  the  ob- 
vious lesson  of  history:  "we  know  that  the  majority  of  the 
productions  of  the  art  of  the  upper  classes,  such  as  various 
odes,  poems,  dramas,  cantatas,  pastorals,  pictures,  and  so 
forth,  which  delighted  people  of  the  upper  classes  when  they 
were  produced,  never  were  afterwards  either  understood  or 
valued  by  the  great  masses  of  mankind,  but  have  remained 
what  they  were  at  first,  a  mere  pastime  for  the  rich  people  of 
their  time,  for  whom  alone  they  ever  were  of  any  impor- 
tance" (pp.  194-5) 

"Art  is  a  human  activity,"  and,  consequently,  does  not  exist 
for  its  own  sake,  but  is  valuable  or  objectionable  in  propor- 
tion to  the  benefit  or  the  harm  it  brings  to  mankind.  Its 
subject-matter  consists  of  feelings  which  are  contagious  or 
infectious — that  is,  which  can  spread  from  man  to  man.  Is 
it  not  supremely  important  what  feelings  spread  among  us  ? 

From  this  point  of  view  the  connection  between  morality 


TOLSTOY'S  VIEW  OF  ART  367 

and  art  is  intimate  and  inevitable.  It  is  a  fact  of  human  life 
from  which  we  can  no  more  escape  than  we  can  from 
gravitation. 

Art  unites  men;  and  the  better  the  feelings  in  which  it 
unites  them  the  better  it  will  be  for  humanity. 

But  which  are  the  best  and  highest  feelings?  How  are 
we  to  discern  or  to  define  them?  They  have  differed,  and 
men's  definitions  of  them  have  differed,  from  age  to  age; 
but,  as  Tolstoy  explains,  each  age  has  had  its  dominant  view 
of  life,  which  may  be  called  its  "religious  perception."  Hu- 
manity progresses,  and  our  view  of  life,  our  religious  per- 
ception, is  in  many  things  different  from  that,  say,  of  the 
ancient  Greeks.  In  relation  not  to  the  forms  of  art  but  to  its 
subject-matter  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose  "that  the 
very  best  that  can  be  done  by  the  art  of  nations  after  nineteen 
hundred  years  of  Christian  teaching,  is  to  choose  as  the  ideal 
of  their  life  the  ideal  that  was  held  by  a  small,  semi-savage, 
slave-holding  people  who  lived  two  thousand  years  ago,  who 
imitated  the  nude  human  body  extremely  well,  and  erected 
buildings  pleasant  to  look  at"  (pp.  188-189). 

And  Tolstoy,  having  begun  by  giving  us  his  definition  of 
art,  concludes  by  giving  us  a  statement  of  the  view  of  life  he 
has  accepted  and  which  he  believes  is  influencing  us  all 
whether  we  know  it  or  not.  It  is,  he  says,  Christ's  teach- 
ing in  its  real — and  not  in  its  customary  and  perverted — 
meaning. 

"That  meaning  has  not  only  become  accessible  to  all  men 
of  our  times,  but  the  whole  life  of  man  to-day  is  permeated  by 
the  spirit  of  that  teaching,  and  consciously  or  unconsciously 
is  guided  by  it"  (pp.  308-309). 

"The  religious  perception  of  our  time  in  its  widest  and 
most  practical  application  is  the  consciousness  that  our  well- 
being,  both  material  and  spiritual,  individual  and  collective, 


368  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

temporal  and  eternal,  lies  in  the  growth  of  brotherhood 
among  men — in  their  loving  harmony  with  one  another" 
(p.  281). 

And  whether  we  accept  this  view  of  life  or  some  other, 
it  is  certain  that  the  view  we  hold  will  influence  our  ap- 
proval or  disapproval  of  the  various  feelings  transmitted  by 
art. 

Accepting  Tolstoy's  standpoint,  we  should  allow  the  highest 
honour  to  "positive  feelings  of  love  to  God  and  one's  neigh- 
bour, and  negative  feelings  of  indignation  and  horror  at  the 
violation  of  love";  but  the  realm  of  subject-matter  for  good 
art  includes  much  more  than  that. 

"The  artist  of  the  future  will  understand  that  to  com- 
pose a  fairy-tale,  a  touching  little  song,  a  lullaby  or  an 
entertaining  riddle,  an  amusing  jest,  or  to  draw  a  sketch  in 
such  a  way  that  it  will  delight  dozens  of  generations  or 
millions  of  children  and  adults,  is  incomparably  more  im- 
portant and  more  fruitful  than  to  compose  a  novel  or  a 
symphony,  or  paint  a  picture,  of  the  kind  which  will  divert 
some  members  of  the  wealthy  classes  for  a  short  time  and 
then  for  ever  be  forgotten.  The  region  of  this  art  of  the 
simple  feelings  accessible  to  all  is  enormous  and  it  is  as  yet 
almost  untouched"  (p.  318). 

The  artist  should  know  that  this  art  of  the  simple  feelings 
of  common  life,  like  the  highest  religious  art,  tends  to  unite 
us  all  and  to  exclude  none,  as  in  the  example  Tolstoy  gives  on 
p.  287  of  the  effect  of  music. 

Thus,  apart  from  subject-matter,  the  best  art  is  that  which 
best  accomplishes  its  purpose  of  infecting  others  with  the 
feelings  the  artist  wishes  to  impart.  And  the  best  subject- 
matter  is  that  which,  directly  or  indirectly,  tends  to  forward 
brotherly  union  among  all  men. 

The  good  art  of  the  future  should  be  superior  to  our 
present  art  in  "clearness,  beauty,  simplicity,  and  compres- 


TOLSTOY'S  VIEW  OF  ART  369 

sion,"  for  one  penalty  of  forgetting  the  primary  aim  of  art  is 
that  we  greatly  lose  that  which  is  a  natural  accompaniment 
of  art — the  pleasure  given  by  beauty.  We  are  like  men  who, 
living  to  eat,  eventually  lose  even  the  natural  pleasure  food 
affords  to  those  who  eat  to  live. 

Such,  in  brief  outline,  are  Tolstoy's  essential  views  of  art. 
Even  so  bare  and  incomplete  a  recapitulation,  stripped  as 
it  is  of  the  convincing  arguments,  the  brilliant  examples, 
and  the  masterly  support  and  elucidation  which  are  crammed 
into  the  pages  of  his  remarkable  book  may  suffice  to  show 
that  it  is  a  work  deserving  careful  consideration. 

To  the  above,  written  soon  after  What  is  Art?  was  first 
published,  I  should  like  now,  in  1924,  to  add  a  few  words. 

The  chief  idea  in  What  is  Art?  besides  its  definition  of 
art,  is  Tolstoy's  insistence  on  the  need  to  discriminate  between 
the  form  and  the  content  of  art.  For  its  full  assimilation 
this  requires  reflection,  which — either  because  the  philosophy 
of  art  does  not  interest  them,  or  because  they  are  satisfied 
with  previously  adopted  opinions  they  do  not  wish  to  disturb 
— not  all  are  willing  to  accord  to  it.  But  the  test  of  a 
great  philosophy,  I  once  heard  Tolstoy  say,  is  that  the  idea  it 
generalizes  can  be  so  simply  stated  that  an  intelligent  boy 
of  twelve  approaching  the  subject  free  from  prejudice  can 
understand  it  in  half-an-hour :  and  I  think  both  Tolstoy's 
definition,  and  his  explanation  of  the  need  to  consider  the 
form  of  art  as  a  matter  distinct  from  our  approval  and  dis- 
approval of  the  feeling  the  artist  transmits,  will  stand  that 
crucial  test.  They  can  be  put  so  simply  that  an  unprejudiced 
boy  of  twelve  can  readily  understand  them. 

One  must  however  be  on  one's  guard  against  confusing 
the  subject  treated  of  (a  particular  event:  a  murder,  a  seduc- 
tion, a  marriage — or  an  object,  such  as  the  sea,  the  sky,  a 
house,  a  tiger,  or  a  baby)  with  the  subject-matter  of  feeling, 
which  is  the  real  content  of  a  work  of  art.     In  Tolstoy's 


370  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

definition  it  is  a  feeling  or  feelings,  and  their  transitions,  that 
when  expressed  by  an  artist,  form  the  subject-matter  of  art. 
The  events  treated  of — in  a  book,  a  play,  a  picture,  or  song 
— are  merely  material  used  in  expressing  that  feeling,  and 
must  not  themselves  be  thought  of  as  the  subject-matter. 
The  affection  of  a  child  for  its  mother  or  its  dog  may 
be  the  subject-matter  of  a  work  of  art,  so  may  an  apprecia- 
tion of  the  effect  of  certain  arrangements  of  colours  and 
shapes,  the  mirth  and  jollity  expressed  and  inspired  by  a 
dance-tune  or  by  the  movements  of  a  dance,  the  feelings  of 
awe  produced  by  the  representation  of  a  terrible  storm,  or  any 
other  possible  feelings  or  transitions  of  feeling:  the  rage  of 
an  excited  crowd,  the  triumph  of  a  victorious  nation,  the 
despair  of  a  man  ruined  or  betrayed,  or  feelings  evoked  by 
the  play  of  light  and  shade,  by  the  delicate  bloom  of  a  flower, 
or  by  the  graceful  tracery  of  a  tree  seen  against  a  winter  sky. 
When  asking  oneself  whether  a  certain  production  is  a  work 
of  art,  ^  one  has  to  consider  whether  we  feel  something  the 
artist  has  felt  and  caused  us  to  share.  If  one  feels  that,  it 
is  evident  that  we  have  before  us  a  work  of  art — our  own 
feelings  witness  to  the  artist's  achievement.  Sometimes 
however  the  pleasure  this  union  of  feeling  with  the  artist — 
and  perhaps  with  many  spectators,  auditors  or  readers — 
would  naturally  produce,  is  infringed  by  a  consciousness  that 
one  disapproves  of,  or  disagrees  with,  the  feelings  that  for 
the  moment  have  infected  us. 

For  instance,  many  Irishmen  are  born  orators,  and  oratory 
is  an  art.  Suppose  one  went  to  two  great  public  meetings, 
addressed  by  two  really  first-rate  speakers.  Each  of  these 
is  moved  by  a  genuine  and  passionate  feeling.  Each  has 
the  gift  of  arranging  his  matter  admirably  and  expressing 
it  forcibly  and  eloquently,  and  possesses  an  excellent  voice. 
Each  sways  his  audience  to  laughter  and  tears,  and  plays  on 
their  emotions  as  on  an  organ,  compelling  them  to  sympathize 


TOLSTOYS  VIEW  OF  ART  371 

with  his  detestation  for  what  he  abhors  and  his  enthusiasm 
for  what  he  prizes.  We  may  feel  that  we  have  heard  great 
orations  admirably  delivered,  but  the  feelings  underlying 
these  speeches  have  clashed  with  one  another.  One  of  the 
speakers  was  moved  by  ardent  desire  to  maintain  and  inten- 
sify an  age-long  struggle,  and  repudiates  with  contumely 
any  idea  of  union  with  a  section  of  the  population  that  he 
hates  and  despises.  He  was  genuinely  moved  by  the  recol- 
lection of  racial  wrongs  and  sincerely  devoted  to  leaders  he 
regarded  as  heroes  and  martyrs;  but  animosity,  hatred,  and 
revenge,  possessed  his  soul.  The  other  orator  was  moved 
by  a  desire  to  bind  up  the  nation's  wounds,  to  forgive  and 
forget  past  wrongs,  and  to  see  a  neighbouring  people  become 
a  united  and  peaceful  nation  at  harmony  with  itself  and  its 
neighbours.  One  might  sympathize  with  either  tendency,  but 
it  is  impossible  to  sympathize  equally  with  them  both,  or  to 
close  one's  eyes  to  the  fact  that  the  welfare  of  human  beings 
will  be  influenced  by  whichever  feeling  prevails.  Tolstoy  ex- 
plains that  when  we  judge  whether  a  certain  production  (such 
as  one  of  these  speeches)  is  a  work  of  art,  we  must  remember 
that  our  approval  or  disapproval  of  a  man's  purpose  or  aspira- 
tion must  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  our  estimation  of 
the  excellence  of  the  form  in  which  he  presents  his  subject- 
matter.  To  that  extent  art  "has  nothing  to  do  with  morality." 
The  best  and  the  worst  emotions  may  alike  be  conveyed  with 
great  artistic  power  and  be  great  works  of  art,  and  that  is 
just  why  art,  besides  being  vastly  important,  can  also  be  very 
dangerous. 

But  when  we  have  seen  that  a  certain  production  is  artistic, 
and  have  even  perhaps  ourselves  been  touched  by  it, 
the  question  arises  whether  the  "content"  (the  subject-matter 
of  feeling)  dealt  with  is  good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  The 
actions  of  men  flow  from  their  feelings.  Their  feelings  are 
formed,  nurtured,  and  swayed,  by  the  art  they  enjoy  and 


372  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

partake  of,  so  that  there  was  much  reason  for  Fletcher  of 
Saltoun  to  say,  "Let  me  make  a  nation's  songs,  and  who  will 
may  make  its  laws." 

We  live  in  a  world  in  which  sane  human  beings  cannot 
but  distinguish  between  what  appears  to  them  abominable 
and  what  appears  to  them  admirable.  When  therefore  we 
are  moved  by  our  artists  we  cannot  be  indifferent  to  the 
effect  their  works  produce. 

If  art  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  feelings  of  men  it  would 
be  an  empty  and  insignificant  amusement;  but  all  that  in- 
fluences man's  feelings  affects  his  work,  his  conduct,  and  the 
society  to  which  he  belongs.  Yet,  obviously,  to  say  that  the 
morality  of  an  artist's  aim  decides  the  artistic  merit  of  his 
work,  and  that,  for  instance,  a  novel  must  be  a  fine  one  be- 
cause it  advocates  temperance  principles,  though  people  can 
only  be  got  to  read  it  if  they  are  forced  to  do  so,  would  show 
that  the  speaker  had  never  thought  about  the  matter,  or  that 
his  artistic  perceptions  were  atrophied. 

But  we  are  still  not  at  the  end  of  the  matter.  Who  is  to 
decide  what  is  good  and  what  is  bad  in  the  feeling  which 
forms  the  subject-matter  of  art?  Such  judgment  must  vary 
from  age  to  age,  from  land  to  land,  and  even  from  man  to 
man;  for  while  all  sane  human  beings  have  their  approvals 
and  disapprovals,  the  outlook  on  life  (or  what  Tolstoy  calls 
"the  religious  perceptions")  guiding  such  approvals  and  dis- 
approvals vary  greatly. 

It  comes  to  this,  that  the  subject-matter  of  feeling  trans- 
mitted by  artists  to  those  who  receive  their  art  is  of  necessity 
appraised  by  us  in  accordance  with  our  own  outlook  on  life. 
Tolstoy  rightly  points  out  this  inevitable  contact  of  art  with 
ethics,  but  his  own  ethical  standards,  his  "religious  per- 
ceptions" are  not  those  generally  accepted  among  us.  A 
discussion  of  his  ethics  would  be  out  of  place  here.  Else- 
where I  have  ventured  to  join  issue  with  him  on  some  mat- 


TOLSTOY'S  VIEW  OF  ART  373 

ters,  while  on  others  it  seems  to  me  that  he  made  straight 
the  pathway  of  the  Lord. 

Now  obviously  when — passing  from  the  acknowledgment 
of  various  productions  as  works  of  art  because  their  form  is 
adequate  and  they  achieve  their  purpose  of  infecting  us  with 
the  feelings  their  creators  had  experienced — Tolstoy  dis- 
cusses, as  a  separate  matter,  whether  certain  feelings  these 
artists  transmitted  are  beneficial  or  otherwise,  it  is  inevitable 
that  those  who  differ  from  his  ethical  views  should  disagree 
with  his  conclusions.  But  this  difference  as  to  ethics  should 
not  hinder  an  appreciation  of  the  importance  of  his  under- 
standing of  art !  He  was  a  great  artist,  a  first-class  novelist, 
dramatist,  and  story-writer,  besides  being  an  amateur 
musician,  keenly  interested  in  painting,  sculpture,  and  other 
forms  of  art,  and  he  was  also  well  acquainted  with  artists  of 
all  kinds  and  with  the  whole  literature  of  art.  Is  it  not  worth 
our  while  to  understand  his  message  and  grasp  his  meaning 
clearly  before  attempting  to  answer  him? 

As  an  example  of  criticism  tending  to  confuse  matters,  I 
will  instance  this  case:  after  making  the  broad  distinction 
between  the  form  of  art  and  its  subject-matter,  Tolstoy  passes 
on  to  the  totally  different  question  of  what  feelings  com- 
mended themselves  to  him.  He  says  he  attaches  no  special 
importance  to  the  examples  he  cites  but  offers  them  merely  to 
elucidate  his  meaning.  Among  books  expressing  feelings  of 
which  he  approved,  he  instances  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  and 
immediately  certain  critics  pounced  upon  this,  and  say  that  as 
Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe  did  not  write  as  well  as  someone  else 
whom  they  mentioned,  Tolstoy's  example  shows  that  he  was 
incapable  of  judging  about  art!  Such  criticism  shows  a 
curious  incapacity  to  understand  what  is  being  discussed. 
Similarly  objections  to  pictures  mentioned  by  Tolstoy  as 
good  in  subject-matter — on  the  ground  of  alleged  defects  in 
form — miss  the  point  of  the  discussion. 


374  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

When  a  book  deals  frankly  and  plainly  with  an  important 
subject  it  is  strange  that  anyone,  instead  of  seeking  the  gold 
in  the  mine,  should  prefer  to  search  for  obscurity,  contradic- 
tion, over-emphasis,  or  any  ill-advised  examples  that  can 
be  detected;  and  that  some  critics  should  go  the  length  of 
asserting  that  the  author  meant  the  opposite  of  what  he 
plainly  says. 

I  do  not  see  why  anyone  should  object  to,  or  disagree  with, 
Tolstoy's  explanation  of  art  and  of  its  influence  on  life;  nor 
with  his  assertion  that  when  we  pass  from  a  consideration 
of  the  form  of  works  of  art  to  a  consideration  of  the  value  of 
the  feelings  they  convey,  our  appraisement  of  these  latter  is 
inevitably  influenced  by  our  outlook  on  life.  But  an  impor- 
tant reservation  must  be  made  when  we  come  to  his  assurance 
that  "the  religious  perception  of  our  time,  in  its  widest  and 
most  practical  application,  is  the  consciousness  that  our  well- 
being  both  material  and  spiritual,  individual  and  collective, 
temporal  and  eternal,  lies  in  the  growth  of  brotherhood 
among  all  men,  in  their  loving  harmony  with  one  another," 
and  that  "all  men  of  our  times  already  admit  that  the  highest 
well-being  attainable  by  men  is  to  be  reached  by  their  union 
with  one  another." 

If  all  men  had  such  a  religious  perception,  there  would  be 
a  much  greater  consensus  of  opinion  concerning  the  value 
of  feelings  transmitted  by  art.  But  it  is  just  here,  it  seems 
to  me,  that  the  real  clash  of  opinion  and  feeling  comes  in. 
There  are  among  us  many  worshippers  of  Mars,  Mammon, 
Venus  and  Bacchus  (under  whatever  disguises),  and  though 
they  may  not  publicly  proclaim  or  explain  their  religious  per- 
ceptions, it  is  impossible  for  them  honestly  to  sympathize 
with  what  Tolstoy  wishes  them  to  approve  of.  During  the 
last  thirty  years  of  his  life  Tolstoy  disapproved  of  patriotism 
and  of  private  property.  Rudyard  Kipling  approves  of 
both.     Each  of  these  men  was  an  artist  in  words.     The 


TOLSTOYS  VIEW  OF  ART  375 

divergence  of  their  estimates  of  what  is  good  and  what  is  bad 
did  not  prevent  them  from  producing  works  of  art ;  but  neither 
of  them  could  think  that  all  the  feelings  with  which  the  other 
infected  his  readers  were  desirable.  Before  considering  the 
matter,  people  are  sometimes  apt  to  resent  the  idea  that  ethical 
standards  vary  from  place  to  place  or  from  time  to  time; 
or,  on  realizing  that  such  is  the  fact,  they  try  to  think  that 
it  is  possible  for  a  sane  man  to  cease  to  approve  or  disapprove 
of  anything.  It  does  not  however  need  much  experience  to 
perceive  that  men  cannot  live  in  the  chaos  that  results  when 
they  have  no  sort  of  chart  or  guide  by  which  to  steer  their 
course  through  life.  In  other  words  whether  a  man  is  a 
materialist  or  a  spiritualist,  and  whatever  his  aspirations 
may  be,  he  always,  more  or  less  consciously  and  definitely, 
has  what  Tolstoy  calls  "a  religious  perception." 

In  an  interesting  essay  on  Religion  and  Morality  1  (1894) 
Tolstoy  classified  existing  "religious  perceptions"  in  three 
groups :  ( 1 )  Selfishness — the  religion,  for  instance,  of  all 
the  babies  who  desire  as  much  milk  and  warmth  for  them- 
selves  as  possible,  and  do  not  care  what  happens  to  the  rest 
of  the  world;  (2)  Patriotism — the  religion  of  all  who  make 
the  welfare  of  their  family,  clan,  group,  or  nation  (or  even, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  Positivists,  the  whole  of  humanity)  the 
chief  aim  of  their  life;  and  (3)  those  who  recognize  some 
supreme  Lord  or  Law,  whose  service  transcends  any  calcu- 
lable advantage  accruing  to  themselves  or  to  their  group. 

There  is  truth  in  that  classification,  but  one  need  only 
admit  it,  to  realize  that  appreciation  of  the  feelings  conveyed 
by  art  must  differ  among  us  according  to  whether  we  adhere 
to  the  first,  the  second,  or  the  third  of  those  groups. 

This  divergence  relating  to  feelings  which  are  the  subject- 
matter  of.  art,  should  not  extend  to  what  Tolstoy  says  about 
the  form  of  art,  or  its  interrelation  with  the  rest  of  life. 

1  Essays  and  Letters,  "World's  Classics"  series. 


376  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Whatever  God  one  worships  can  be  greatly  served  by  means 
of  art. 

In  an  admirable  little  article  on  How  to  Read  the  Gospels 
(1896)  1  Tolstoy  says: 

"To  understand  Christ's  real  teaching  the  chief  thing  is  not  to  inter- 
pret the  Gospels,  but  to  understand  them  as  they  are  written.  And  there- 
fore, to  the  question  how  Christ's  teaching  should  be  understood,  I  reply: 
If  you  wish  to  understand  it  read  the  Gospels.  Read  them,  putting  aside 
all  foregone  conclusions;  read  them  with  the  sole  desire  to  understand 
what  is  said  there.  But  read  them  considerately,  reasonably,  and  with 
discernment,  and  not  haphazard  or  mechanically,  as  though  all  the  words 
were  of  equal  weight. 

"To  understand  any  book  one  must  choose  out  the  parts  that  are  quite 
clear,  dividing  them  from  what  is  obscure  or  confused.  And  from  what 
is  clear  we  must  form  our  idea  of  the  drift  and  spirit  of  the  whole  work. 
Then,  on  the  basis  of  what  we  have  understood,  we  may  proceed  to  make 
out  what  is  confused  or  not  quite  intelligible.  That  is  how  we  read  all 
kinds  of  books. 

"Therefore  we  must  first  of  all  separate  what  is  quite  simple  and  in- 
telligible from  what  is  confused  and  unintelligible  and  must  afterwards 
read  this  clear  and  intelligible  part  several  times  over,  trying  fully  to 
assimilate  it.  Then,  helped  by  the  comprehension  of  the  general  mean- 
ing, we  can  try  to  explain  to  ourselves  the  drift  of  the  parts  which  seemed 
involved  and  obscure.  That  was  how  I  read  the  Gospels,  and  the  mean- 
ing of  Christ's  teaching  became  so  clear  to  me  that  it  was  impossible  to 
have  any  doubts  about  it.  And  I  advise  everyone  who  wishes  to  under- 
stand the  true  meaning  of  Christ's  teaching  to  follow  the  same  plan." 

This  advice,  showing  how  "all  kinds  of  books"  should  be 
read,  is  particularly  applicable  to  the  reading  of  Tolstoy's 
What  is  Art?  The  views  there  expressed  are  those  of  a 
man  born  nearly  a  century  ago,  who  differed  widely  from 
ourselves  in  race,  nationality,  up-bringing,  circumstances, 
and  class, — for  he  was  a  Russian  nobleman  of  the  old  regime. 
That  some  of  his  feelings  and  ideas  should  differ  from  our 
own  was  inevitable,  but  the  really  remarkable  thing  is  that 

1  Essays  and  Letters,  "World's  Classics"  series. 


TOLSTOY'S  VIEW  OF  ART  377 

so  much  of  what  he  says  makes  us  conscious  of  oneness  with 
him.  He  was  accustomed  to  express  himself  strongly,  and 
assumed  that  those  who  read  his  works  would  wish  to 
understand  them  and  would  not  desire  to  twist  his  meaning. 
Those  who  deal  with  his  work  in  the  way  he  advised  can 
certainly  obtain  a  clear  view  of  the  subject,  as  he  understood 
it.  If  what  he  has  said  is  true,  in  whole  or  in  part,  it  is 
desirable  to  grasp  that  truth  arid,  even  if  he  be  in  error,  it  is 
desirable  to  understand  his  meaning  before  attempting  any 
refutation. 

In  What  is  Art?  Tolstoy  says: 

"I  have  accomplished  to  the  best  of  my  ability  this  work  which  has 
occupied  me  for  fifteen  years,  on  a  subject  near  to  me — that  of  art.  .  .  . 
I  began  to  write  on  art  fifteen  years  ago  thinking  that  when  once  I  under- 
took the  task  I  should  be  able  to  accomplish  it  without  a  break.  It 
proved  however  that  my  views  on  the  matter  were  so  far  from  clear  that 
I  could  not  arrange  them  in  a  way  that  satisfied  me.  From  that  time  I 
have  never  ceased  to  think  on  the  subject,  and  I  have  recommenced 
writing  on  it  six  or  seven  times ;  but  each  time,  after  writing  a  considerable 
part  of  it,  I  have  found  myself  unable  to  bring  the  work  to  a  satisfactory 
conclusion,  and  have  had  to  put  it  aside."     (p.  321) 

That  was  written  in  1897,  and  the  fifteen  years  mentioned 
bring  us  nearly  back  to  the  time  when  his  Confession  was 
written,  and  the  statement  indicates  that  all  the  earlier  essays 
in  this  book,  while  expressing  some  part  of  his  thought,  fail 
to  elucidate  the  matter  as  he  desired,  and  it  is  only  in  What 
is  Art?  that  we  must  look  for  the  final  conclusions  that  solved 
the  matter  to  his  satisfaction. 


PART  XV 

PREFACE  TO  POLENZ'S  NOVEL 
"DER  BUTTNERBAUER" 

W.  von  Polenz  was  born  in  1861  and  died  in  1903.  His 
novels,  Der  Pfarrer  von  Breitendorf  (1893),  Der  Buttner- 
bauer  (1895),  are  descriptions  of  village  life.  His  Graben- 
hdger,  Thekla  Ludekind  and  Liebe  ist  ewig  (1900)  describe 
the  life  of  the  landowning  and  town  classes.  Wurzellocker 
(1902)  describes  a  literary  society. 

Note  by  A.  M. 


"For  you  will  find,  if  you  think  deeply  of  it,  that  the  chief  of  all  the 
curses  of  this  unhappy  age  is  the  universal  gabble  of  its  fools,  and  of  the 
flocks  that  follow  them,  rendering  the  quiet  voices  of  the  wise  men  of  all 
past  time  inaudible.  This  is,  first,  the  result  of  the  invention  of  printing, 
and  of  the  easy  power  and  extreme  pleasure  to  vain  persons  of  seeing 
themselves  in  print.  When  it  took  a  twelvemonth's  hard  work  to  make 
a  single  volume  legible,  men  considered  a  little  the  difference  between  one 
book  and  another;  but  now,  when  not  only  anybody  can  get  themselves 
made  legible  through  any  quantity  of  volumes,  in  a  week,  but  the  doing 
so  becomes  a  means  of  living  to  them,  and  they  can  fill  their  stomachs 
with  the  foolish  foam  of  their  lips,  the  universal  pestilence  of  falsehood 
fills  the  mind  of  the  world  as  cicadas  do  olive-leaves,  and  the  first  neces- 
sity for  our  mental  government  is  to  extricate  from  among  the  insectile 
noise,  the  few  books  and  words  that  are  Divine." 

Ruskin,  in  Fors  Clavigera,  Letter  81. 

Last  year  a  friend  of  mine,  in  whose  taste  I  have  confi- 
dence, gave  me  a  German  novel,  Der  Buttnerbauer,  by  von 
Polenz  to  read.  I  read  it  and  was  astonished  that  such  a 
work,  which  appeared  a  couple  of  years  ago,  was  hardly 
known  by  anyone. 

378 


"DER  BUTTNERBAUER"  379 

This  novel  is  not  one  of  those  works  of  imitation-art  that 
are  produced  in  such  enormous  quantities  in  our  time,  but 
a  really  artistic  production.  It  is  not  one  of  those  descrip- 
tions of  events  and  of  people,  destitute  of  all  interest,  which 
are  artificially  put  together  merely  because  the  author,  hav- 
ing learned  the  technique  of  artistic  descriptions,  wants  to 
write  a  new  novel;  nor  is  it  one  of  those  dissertations  on  a 
given  theme  set  in  the  form  of  a  drama  or  novel,  which  also 
in  our  day  pass  as  artistic  productions:  nor  does  it  belong 
to  the  class  of  works  called  "decadent, "which  particularly 
please  the  modern  public  just  because,  resembling  the  ravings 
of  a  madman,  they  present  something  of  the  nature  of  re- 
buses, the  guessing  of  which  forms  a  pleasant  occupation, 
besides  being  considered  a  sign  of  refinement. 

This  novel  belongs  neither  to  the  first,  nor  to  the  second, 
nor  to  the  third,  of  these  categories,  but  is  a  real  work  of 
art,  in  which  the  author  says  what  he  feels  he  must  say  be- 
cause he  loves  what  he  is  speaking  about,  and  says  it  not 
by  reflections  or  hazy  allegories  but  in  the  one  manner  by 
which  an  artistic  content  can  be  conveyed,  by  poetic  images, 
not  fantastic  extraordinary  unintelligible  images  with  no  es- 
sential inner  connexion  one  with  another,  but  by  the  pre- 
sentation of  the  most  ordinary  simple  persons  and  events 
united  one  with  another  by  an  inner  artistic  necessity. 

But  not  only  is  this  novel  a  genuine  work  of  art,  it  is  also 
an  admirable  work  of  art,  uniting  in  a  high  degree  all  the 
three  chief  conditions  of  really  good  artistic  production. 

In  the  first  place,  its  content  is  important,  relating  as  it 
does  to  the  life  of  the  peasantry — that  is,  to  the  majority  of 
mankind,  who  stand  at  the  basis  of  every  social  structure  and 
in  our  day,  not  only  in  Germany  but  in  all  European  coun- 
tries, are  enduring  trying  alterations  of  their  ancient,  age- 
long condition.  (It  is  remarkable  that  almost  simultane- 
ously with  Der  Biittnerbauer  there  has  appeared  a  French 


380  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

novel,  Rene  Bazin's  La  Terre  qui  meurt,  which  is  not  at  all 
bad,  though  far  less  artistic.) 

In  the  second  place,  this  novel  is  written  with  great 
mastery,  in  admirable  German,  particularly  forcible  when 
the  author  makes  his  characters  speak  the  coarse  peasant- 
labourer's  Plattdeutsch. 

In  the  third  place,  this  novel  is  thoroughly  indued  with 
love  of  these  people  whom  the  author  sets  before  us. 

In  one  of  the  chapters,  for  instance,  there  is  a  description 
of  how  after  a  night  passed  in  drunkenness  with  his  com- 
rades, the  husband,  when  it  is  already  morning,  returns  home 
and  knocks  at  the  door.  The  wife  looks  out  of  the  window 
and  recognizes  him;  she  loads  him  with  abuse  and  is  pur- 
posely slow  about  letting  him  in.  When  at  last  she  opens 
the  door  for  him,  the  husband  tumbles  in  and  wants  to  go 
into  the  large  living-room,  but  the  wife  does  not  let  him, 
lest  the  children  should  see  their  father  drunk,  and  she  pushes 
him  back.  But  he  catches  hold  of  the  lintel  of  the  door 
and  struggles  with  her.  Usually  a  mild  man,  he  suddenly 
becomes  terribly  exasperated  (the  cause  of  his  exasperation 
is  that,  the  day  before,  she  had  taken  out  of  his  pocket  some 
money  his  master  had  given  him,  and  had  hidden  it)  and 
in  his  rage  he  flings  himself  upon  her,  seizes  her  by  the  hair, 
and  demands  his  money. 

"I  won't  give  it  up,  I  won't  give  it  up  for  anything!" 
says  she  in  reply  to  his  demands,  trying  to  free  herself  from 
him. 

Then  he,  forgetting  himself  in  his  anger,  strikes  her  where 
and  as  he  can. 

"Ill  die  before  I'll  give  it  up!"  says  she. 

"You  won't  give  it  up!"  he  answers,  knocking  her  off  her 
feet  and  falling  on  her  himself,  while  continuing  to  demand 
his  money.     Not  receiving  a  reply  he,  in  his  mad  drunken 


"DER  BUTTNERBAUER"  381 

anger,  wants  to  throttle  her.  But  the  sight  of  blood  which 
trickles  from  under  her  hair  and  flows  over  her  forehead  and 
nose,  causes  him  to  stop.  He  becomes  frightened  at  what  he 
has  done  and,  letting  go  of  her,  staggers  and  falls  down  on 
his  bed. 

The  scene  is  truthful  and  terrible.  But  the  author  loves 
his  protagonists  and  adds  one  small  detail  which  suddenly 
illuminates  everything  with  such  a  vivid  ray  as  compels  the 
reader  not  only  to  pity,  but  also  to  love  these  people,  despite 
their  coarseness  and  cruelty.  The  wife  who  has  been  beaten 
comes  to  herself,  rises  from  the  floor,  wipes  her  bleeding 
head  with  the  hem  of  her  skirt,  feels  her  limbs  and,  opening 
the  door  leading  to  the  crying  children,  quiets  them,  and 
then  seeks  her  husband  with  her  eyes.  He  is  lying  on  the 
bed  as  he  has  fallen,  but  his  head  has  slipped  from  the 
pillow.  The  wife  walks  over  to  him,  carefully  raises  his  head 
on  the  pillow,  and  after  that  adjusts  her  dress  and  picks 
off  some  of  her  hair  that  had  been  pulled  out. 

Dozens  of  pages  of  discussions  would  not  have  said  all 
that  is  said  by  this  detail.  Here  at  once  the  reader  is  shown 
the  consciousness,  educated  by  tradition,  of  conjugal  duty  and 
the  triumph  of  a  decision  maintained — not  to  give  up  the 
money  needed,  not  for  herself  but  for  the  family;  here  also 
is  the  offence,  forgiveness  of  the  beating,  and  pity,  and  if 
not  love,  at  least  the  memory  of  love  for  her  husband,  the 
father  of  her  children.  Nor  is  that  all.  Such  a  detail, 
illuminating  the  inner  life  of  this  woman  and  this  man,  lights 
up  for  the  reader  the  inner  life  of  millions  of  such  husbands 
and  wives  who  have  lived  or  are  now  living,  and  not  only 
teaches  respect  and  love  for  these  people  who  are  crushed 
by  toil,  but  compels  us  to  consider  why  and  wherefore  they, 
strong  in  soul  and  body,  with  such  possibilities  in  them  of 
good  loving  life,  are  so  neglected,  crushed,  and  ignorant. 


382  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

And  such  truly  artistic  traits,  which  are  revealed  only  by 
love  of  what  the  author  describes,  are  met  with  in  every 
chapter  of  this  novel. 

It  is  undoubtedly  a  beautiful  work  of  art,  as  all  who  read 
it  will  agree.  And  yet  it  appeared  three  years  ago,  and, 
though  translated  into  Russian  in  the  Messenger  of  Europe, 
has  passed  unnoticed  both  in  Russia  and  in  Germany. 
I  have  asked  several  literary  Germans  whom  I  have  met  re- 
cently about  this  novel — they  had  heard  Polenz's  name  but 
had  not  read  his  book,  though  they  had  all  read  the  last 
novels  of  Zola,  the  last  stories  by  Kipling,  and  the  plays  of 
Ibsen,  d'Annunzio,  and  even  of  Maeterlinck. 

Some  twenty  years  ago  Matthew  Arnold  wrote  an  admi- 
rable article  on  the  purpose  of  criticism.1  In  his  opinion 
the  purpose  of  criticism  is  to  find  among  all  that  has  been 
written,  whenever  and  wherever  it  may  be,  that  which  is  most 
important  and  good,  and  to  direct  the  attention  of  readers  to 
this  that  is  important  and  good. 

In  our  time,  when  readers  are  deluged  with  newspapers, 
periodicals,  books,  and  by  the  profusion  of  advertisements, 
not  only  does  such  criticism  seem  to  me  essential,  but  the 
whole  future  culture  of  the  educated  class  of  our  European 
world  depends  on  whether  such  criticism  appears  and  ac- 
quires authority. 

The  over-production  of  any  kind  of  article  is  harmful;  but 
the  over-production  of  articles  which  are  not  an  aim  but  a 
means  is  particularly  harmful  when  people  consider  this 
means  to  be  an  aim. 

Horses  and  carriages  as  means  of  conveyance,  clothing  and 
houses  as  means  of  protection  against  changes  of  weather, 
good  food  to  maintain  the  strength  of  one's  organism,  are 
very  useful.  But  as  soon  as  men  begin  to  regard  the  pos- 
session of  means  as  an  end  in  itself,  considering  it  good  to 

1  The  Function  of  Criticism  at  the  Present  Time,  in  Essays  in  Criticism. 


"DER  BUTTNERBAUER"  383 

have  as  many  horses,  clothes,  and  houses,  and  as  much  food  as 
possible,  such  articles  become  not  only  useless  but  simply 
harmful.  And  this  has  come  about  with  book-production 
among  the  well-to-do  circle  of  people  of  our  European 
society.  Printing,  which  is  undoubtedly  useful  for  the  great 
masses  of  uneducated  people,  among  well-to-do  people  has 
long  ago  become  the  chief  organ  for  the  dissemination  of 
ignorance  and  not  of  enlightenment. 

It  is  easy  to  convince  oneself  of  this.  Books,  periodicals, 
and  especially  newspapers,  have  become  in  our  time  great 
financial  undertakings  for  the  success  of  which  the  largest 
possible  number  of  purchasers  is  required.  But  the  interests 
and  tastes  of  the  largest  number  of  purchasers  are  always 
low  and  vulgar,  and  so  for  the  success  of  the  productions 
of  the  press  it  is  necessary  that  these  productions  should  cor- 
respond to  the  demands  of  this  great  mass  of  purchasers, 
that  is,  that  they  should  treat  of  mean  interests  and  corres- 
pond to  vulgar  tastes.  And  the  press  fully  satisfies  these  de- 
mands, having  ample  opportunity  of  doing  so  since  among 
those  who  work  for  the  press  there  are  many  more  with  the 
same  mean  interests  and  coarse  tastes  as  the  public  than 
there  are  men  with  lofty  interests  and  refined  taste.  And 
since  with  the  diffusion  of  printing  and  the  commercial 
methods  applied  to  newspapers,  periodicals,  and  books,  these 
people  receive  good  pay  for  matter  that  they  supply  cor- 
responding to  the  demands  of  the  masses,  there  appears  that 
terrible  ever  increasing  and  increasing  deluge  of  printed 
paper,  which  by  its  quantity  alone,  not  to  speak  of  the  harm- 
fulness  of  its  contents,  forms  a  vast  obstacle  to  enlighten- 
ment. 

If  in  our  day  a  clever  young  man  of  the  people,  wishing 
to  educate  himself,  is  given  access  to  all  books,  period- 
icals, and  newspapers,  and  the  choice  of  his  reading  is  left 
to  himself,  he  will,  if  he  reads  for  ten  years  assiduously  every 


384.  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

day,  in  all  probability  read  nothing  but  stupid  and  immoral 
books.  It  is  as  improbable  that  he  will  strike  on  a  good  book 
as  it  would  be  that  he  should  find  a  marked  pea  in  a  bushel 
of  peas.  What  is  worst  of  all  is  that,  continually  reading 
bad  books,  he  will  more  and  more  pervert  his  understanding 
and  his  taste,  so  that  when  he  does  come  on  a  good  work  he 
will  either  be  quite  unable  to  understand  it  or  will  understand 
it  perversely. 

Besides  this,  thanks  to  accident  or  to  masterly  advertise- 
ment, some  bad  works,  such,  for  instance,  as  The  Christian 
by  Hall  Caine,  a  novel  false  in  its  content  and  inartistic, 
which  has  been  sold  to  the  extent  of  a  million  copies,  obtains, 
like  Odol  or  Pears'  Soap,  a  great  notoriety  not  justified  by 
its  merits.  And  this  great  publicity  causes  an  ever  greater 
and  greater  number  of  people  to  read  such  books,  and  the 
fame  of  an  insignificant,  or  often  harmful,  book  grows  and 
grows  like  a  snowball,  and  in  the  heads  of  the  great  majority 
of  men  an  ever  greater  and  greater  confusion  of  ideas  forms, 
also  like  a  snowball,  involving  complete  incapacity  to  under- 
stand the  qualities  of  literary  productions.  And  therefore  in 
proportion  to  the  greater  and  greater  diffusion  of  newspapers, 
periodicals,  books,  and  printing  in  general,  the  level  of  the 
quality  of  what  is  printed  falls  lower  and  lower,  and  the  great 
mass  of  the  so-called  educated  public  is  ever  more  and  more 
immersed  in  the  most  hopeless,  self-satisfied,  and  therefore 
incurable,  ignorance. 

[Within  my  own  memory,  during  the  last  fifty  years,  this 
striking  debasement  of  the  taste  and  common  sense  of  the 
reading  public  has  occurred.  One  may  trace  this  debasement 
in  all  branches  of  literature,  but  I  will  indicate  only  some 
notable  instances  best  known  to  me.  In  Russian  poetry, 
for  instance,  after  Pushkin  and  Lermontov  (Tyvitchev  is  gen- 
erally forgotten)  poetic  fame  passes  first  to  the  very  doubtful 


"DER  BUTTNERBAUER"  385 

poets,  Maykov,  Polonski,  and  Fet,  then  to  Nekrasov,  who 
was  quite  destitute  of  the  poetic  gift,  then  to  the  artificial 
and  prosaic  versifier,  Alexey  Tolstoy,  then  to  the  monotonous 
and  weak  Nadson,  then  to  the  quite  ungifted  Apukhtin,  and 
after  that  everything  becomes  confused  and  versifiers  appear 
whose  name  is  legion,  who  do  not  even  know  what  poetry  is, 
or  the  meaning  of  what  they  write,  or  why  they  write. 

Another  astonishing  example  is  that  of  the  English  prose 
writers.  From  the  great  Dickens  we  descend,  first  to  George 
Eliot,  then  to  Thackeray,  from  Thackeray  to  Trollope,  and 
then  already  there  begin  the  indifferent  fabrications  of  Kipling, 
Hall  Caine,  Rider  Haggard,  and  so  forth.  The  same  thing 
is  yet  more  striking  in  American  literature.  After  the  great 
galaxy  of  Emerson,  Thoreau,  Lowell,  Whittier  and  others, 
suddenly  everything  crumbles  and  there  appear  beautiful  pub- 
lications with  beautiful  illustrations,  but  with  stories  and 
novels  it  is  impossible  to  read  because  of  their  lack  of  any 
content. 

In  our  time  the  ignorance  of  the  educated  crowd  has  reached 
such  a  pass  that  all  the  really  great  thinkers,  poets,  and 
prose  writers,  both  of  ancient  times  and  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  are  considered  obsolete,  and  no  longer  satisfy  the 
lofty  and  refined  demands  of  the  new  men;  it  is  all  regarded 
with  contempt  or  with  a  smile  of  condescension.  The  im- 
moral, coarse,  inflated,  disconnected  babble  of  Nietzsche  is 
recognised  as  the  last  word  of  the  philosophy  of  our  day, 
and  the  senseless  artificial  arrangements  of  words  in  various 
decadent  poems  united  by  measure  and  rhythm,  is  regarded 
as  poetry  of  the  highest  order.  In  all  the  theatres  pieces 
are  given  the  meaning  of  which  is  unknown  to  anyone,  even 
to  the  authors,  and  novels  that  have  no  content  and  no  art- 
istic merit  are  printed  and  circulated  by  millions,  under  the 
guise  of  artistic  productions, 


386  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

"What  shall  I  read  to  supplement  my  education?"  asks  a 
young  man  or  girl  who  has  finished  his  or  her  studies  at  the 
high-school. 

The  same  question  is  put  by  a  man  of  the  people  who  has 
learned  to  read  and  to  understand  what  he  reads,  and  is  seek- 
ing true  enlightenment. 

To  answer  such  questions  the  naive  attempts  made  to  inter- 
rogate prominent  men  as  to  which  they  consider  to  be  the  best 
hundred  books  is  of  course  insufficient. 

Nor  is  the  matter  helped  by  the  classification  existing  in  our 
European  society,  and  tacitly  accepted  by  all,  which  divides 
writers  into  first,  second,  and  third  class,  and  so  on — into 
those  of  genius,  those  who  are  very  talented,  and  those  simply 
good.  Such  a  division,  far  from  helping  a  true  understanding 
of  the  excellences  of  literature,  and  the  search  for  what  is 
good  amid  the  sea  of  what  is  bad,  still  more  confuses  this 
aim.  To  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  this  division  into  classes 
is  often  incorrect  and  maintained  only  because  it  was  made 
long  ago  and  is  accepted  by  everybody,  such  a  division  is 
harmful,  because  writers  acknowledged  to  be  first-class  have 
written  some  very  bad  things,  and  writers  of  the  lowest  class 
have  produced  some  excellent  things.  So  that  a  man  who  be- 
lieves in  the  division  of  writers  into  classes,  and  thinks  every- 
thing by  first-class  writers  to  be  admirable,  and  everything 
by  writers  of  the  lower  class  or  those  quite  unknown,  to  be 
weak,  will  only  become  confused,  and  deprive  himself  of  much 
that  is  useful  and  truly  enlightening. 

Only  real  criticism  can  reply  to  that  most  important  ques- 
tion of  our  day,  put  by  the  youth  of  the  educated  class  who 
seeks  education,  and  by  the  man  of  the  people  who  seeks  en- 
lightment — not  such  criticism  as  now  exists,  which  sets  itself 
the  task  of  praising  such  works  as  have  obtained  notoriety, 
and  devising  foggy  philosophic-esthetic  theories  to  justify 
them;    and   not   criticism   that  makes   it  its  task  more   or 


"DER  BUTTNERBAUER"  387 

less  wittily  to  ridicule  bad  works  or  works  proceeding  from  a 
different  camp;  still  less  such  criticism  as  has  functioned  and 
still  functions  in  Russia,  and  sets  itself  the  aim  of  deducing 
the  direction  of  the  movement  of  our  whole  society  from  some 
types  depicted  by  certain  writers,  or  in  general  of  finding 
opportunities  to  express  particular  economic  and  political 
opinions  under  guise  of  discussing  literary  productions. 

To  that  enormously  important  question,  "What,  of  all  that 
has  been  written,  is  one  to  read?"  only  real  criticism  can  fur- 
nish a  reply:  criticism  which,  as  Matthew  Arnold  says,  sets 
itself  the  task  of  bringing  to  the  front  and  pointing  out  to 
people  all  that  is  best  both  in  former  and  in  contemporary 
writers. 

On  whether  such  disinterested  criticism,  which  understands 
and  loves  art  and  is  independent  of  any  party,  makes  its  ap- 
pearance or  not,  and  on  whether  its  authority  becomes  suf- 
ficiently established  for  it  to  be  stronger  than  mercenary  ad- 
vertisement, depends,  in  my  opinion,  the  decision  of  the  ques- 
tion whether  the  last  rays  of  enlightenment  are  to  perish  in 
our  so-called  educated  European  society  without  having 
reached  the  masses  of  the  people,  or  whether  they  will  revive, 
as  they  did  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  reach  the  great  mass  of 
the  people  who  are  now  without  any  enlightenment. 

The  fact  that  the  mass  of  the  public  do  not  know  of  this 
admirable  novel  of  Polenz's  any  more  than  they  do  of  many 
other  admirable  works  which  are  drowned  in  the  sea  of  printed 
rubbish,  while  senseless,  insignificant,  and  even  simply  nasty, 
literary  productions  are  discussed  from  every  aspect,  invaria- 
bly praised,  and  sold  by  millions  of  copies,  has  evoked  in  me 
these  thoughts,  and  I  avail  myself  of  the  opportunity,  which 
will  hardly  present  itself  to  me  again,  of  expressing  them, 
though  it  be  but  briefly. 

1902, 


PART  XVI 

AN  AFTERWORD,  BY  TOLSTOY,  TO  CHEKHOV'S 
STORY,  "DARLING" 

There  is  profound  meaning  in  the  story  in  the  Book  of 
Numbers,  which  tells  how  Balak,  king  of  the  Moabites,  sent 
for  Balaam  to  curse  the  people  of  Israel  who  had  come  to 
his  borders.  Balak  promised  Balaam  many  gifts  for  his 
service;  and  Balaam,  being  tempted,  went  to  Balak,  but  was 
stopped  on  the  way  by  an  angel  who  was  seen  by  his  ass  but 
whom  Balaam  did  not  see.  In  spite  of  this  Balaam  went 
on  to  Balak  and  went  with  him  up  a  mountain,  where  an  altar 
had  been  prepared  with  calves  and  lambs  slaughtered  in 
readiness  for  the  imprecation.  Balak  waited  for  the  curse 
to  be  pronounced,  but  instead  of  cursing  them  Balaam 
blessed  the  people  of  Israel. 

Ch.  XXIII,  v.  11.  "And  Balak  said  unto  Balaam,  What 
hast  thou  done  unto  me?  I  took  thee  to  curse  mine  enemies, 
and,  behold,  thou  hast  blessed  them  altogether. 

v.  12.  "And  he  answered  and  said,  Must  I  not  take  heed 
to  speak  that  which  the  Lord  putteth  in  my  mouth? 

v.  13.  "And  Balak  said  unto  him,  Come  with  me  unto  an- 
other place  .  .  .  and  curse  me  them  from  thence." 

And  he  took  him  to  another  place,  where  also  altars  had 
been  prepared. 

But  again  Balaam,  instead  of  cursing,  blessed  them. 

And  so  it  was  a  third  time. 

Chapter  XXIV,  v.  10.  "And  Balak's  anger  was  kindled 
against  Balaam,  and  he  smote  his  hands  together;  and  Balak 
said  unto  Balaam,  I  called  thee  to  curse  mine  enemies,  and 

388 


AN  AFTERWORD  TO  "DARLING"      389 

thou  hast  blessed  them  these  three  times.  Therefore  now  flee 
thou  to  thy  place:  I  thought  to  promote  thee  unto  great  hon- 
our; and,  lo,  the  Lord  hath  kept  thee  back  from  honour." 
And  so  Balaam  departed  without  receiving  the  gifts,  because 
instead  of  cursing  Balak's  enemies  he  had  blessed  them. 

What  happened  to  Balaam  very  often  happens  to  true 
poets  and  artists.  Tempted  by  Balak's  promises  of  popu- 
larity, or  by  false  views  suggested  to  them,  the  poet  does  not 
even  see  the  angel  that  bars  his  way  whom  the  ass  sees,  and 
he  wishes  to  curse  but  yet  he  blesses. 

This  is  just  what  happened  with  the  true  poet  and  artist 
Chekhov  when  he  wrote  his  charming  story,  Darling. 

The  author  evidently  wanted  to  laugh  at  this  pitiful  crea- 
ture— as  he  judged  her  with  his  intellect,  not  with  his  heart — 
this  "Darling,"  who,  after  sharing  Kukin's  troubles  about  his 
theatre,  and  then  immersing  herself  in  the  interests  of  the  tim- 
ber business,  under  the  influence  of  the  veterinary  surgeon  con- 
siders the  struggle  against  bovine  tuberculosis  to  be  the  most 
important  matter  in  the  world,  and  is  finally  absorbed  in 
questions  of  grammar  and  the  interests  of  the  little  school- 
boy in  the  big  cap.  Kukin's  name  is  ridiculous,  and  so  even 
is  his  illness  and  the  telegram  announcing  his  death.  The 
timber-dealer  with  his  sedateness  is  ridiculous,  and  the  vet- 
erinary surgeon  and  the  boy  are  ridiculous;  but  the  soul  of 
"Darling,"  with  her  capacity  to  devote  herself  with  her  whole 
being  to  the  one  she  loves,  is  not  ridiculous  but  wonderful 
and  holy. 

I  think  that  in  the  mind  though  not  in  the  heart  of  the 
author  when  he  wrote  Darling,  there  was  a  dim  idea  of  the 
new  woman,  of  her  equality  of  rights  with  man;  of  woman, 
developed,  learned,  working  independently,  as  well  as  man 
if  not  better,  for  the  benefit  of  society ;  of  the  woman  who  has 
raised  and  insists  upon  the  woman  question;  and  in  be- 
ginning to  write  Darling  he  wanted  to  show  what  woman 


390  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

ought  not  to  be.  The  Balak  of  public  opinon  invited 
Chekhov  to  curse  the  weak,  submissive,  undeveloped  woman, 
devoted  to  man,  and  Chekhov  ascended  the  mountain,  and  the 
calves  and  sheep  were  laid  upon  the  altar,  but  when  he  began 
to  speak,  the  author  blessed  what  he  had  meant  to  curse.  I, 
at  any  rate,  despite  the  wonderful  gay  humour  of  the  whole 
work,  cannot  read  without  tears  some  passages  of  this  beauti- 
ful story.  I  am  touched  by  the  description  of  the  complete 
devotion  with  which  she  loved  Kukin  and  all  that  he  cared 
for,  and  also  the  timber-dealer,  and  also  the  veterinary 
surgeon,  and  yet  more  by  her  sufferings  when  she  was  left 
alone  and  had  no  one  to  love,  and  by  the  account  of  how 
finally  with  all  the  strength  of  her  womanly  and  motherly 
feeling  (which  she  had  never  had  the  opportunity  to  expend 
on  children  of  her  own)  she  devoted  her  unbounded  love  to  the 
future  man,  the  school-boy  in  the  big  cap. 

The  author  makes  her  love  the  ridiculous  Kukin,  the  in- 
significant timber-dealer,  and  the  unpleasant  veterinary 
surgeon;  but  love  is  not  less  sacred  whether  its  object  be  a 
Kukin  or  a  Spinoza,  a  Pascal  or  a  Schiller,  whether  its  object 
changes  as  rapidly  as  in  the  case  of  Darling,  or  remains  the 
same  for  a  whole  lifetime. 

I  happened  long  ago  to  read  in  the  Novoe  Vremya  an  ex- 
cellent feuilleton  by  M.  Ata  about  women.  In  this  feuilleton 
the  author  expressed  a  remarkably  wise  and  profound 
thought.  "Women,"  he  says,  "try  to  prove  to  us  that  they 
can  do  everything  we  men  can  do.  I  not  only  do  not  dis- 
pute this,  but  am  ready  to  agree  that  women  can  do  all  that 
men  do  and  perhaps  even  do  it  better,  but  the  trouble 
is  that  men  cannot  do  anything  even  approximately  approach- 
ing what  women  can  accomplish." 

Yes,  that  is  certainly  so,  and  it  is  true  not  only  of  the 
bearing,  nursing,  and  early  education  of  children,  but  men 
cannot  do  what  is  loftiest,  best,  and  brings  man  nearest  to 


AN  AFTERWORD  TO  "DARLING"      391 

God — the  work  of  loving,  of  complete  devotion  to  the  beloved, 
which  has  been  so  well  and  naturally  done,  and  is  done,  and 
will  be  done,  by  good  women.  What  would  become  of  the 
world,  what  would  become  of  us  men,  if  women  had  not  that 
faculty  and  did  not  exercise  it?  Without  women  doctors, 
women  telegraphists,  women  lawyers  and  scientists  and  au- 
thoresses, we  might  get  on,  but  without  mothers,  helpers, 
friends,  comforters,  who  love  in  man  all  that  is  best  in  him — 
without  such  women  it  would  be  hard  to  live  in  the  world. 
Christ  would  be  without  Mary  or  Magdalene,  Francis  of 
Assisi  would  have  lacked  Claire,  there  would  have  been  no 
wives  of  the  Decembrists  in  their  exile,  nor  would  the  Douk- 
hobors  have  had  their  wives,  who  did  not  restrain  their  hus- 
bands but  supported  them  in  their  martyrdom  for  truth 
There  would  not  have  been  those  thousands  and  thousands  of 
unknown  women — the  very  best  (as  the  unknown  generally 
are) — comforters  of  the  drunken,  the  weak,  and  the  disso- 
lute, who  more  than  anyone  else  need  the  consolation  of  love. 
In  that  love,  whether  directed  to  Kukin  or  to  Christ,  is  the 
chief,  grand  strength  of  women,  irreplaceable  by  anything 
else. 

What  a  wonderful  misconception  is  the  whole  so-called 
woman's  question,  which  has  obsessed  (as  is  natural  with 
every  empty  idea)  the  majority  of  women  and  even  of  men! 

" Woman  wants  to  improve  herself!"  What  can  be  more 
legitimate  or  more  just  than  that? 

But  the  business  of  a  woman  by  her  very  vocation  is  dif- 
ferent from  a  man's.  And  therefore  the  ideal  of  perfection 
for  a  woman  cannot  be  the  same  as  the  ideal  for  a  man.  Let 
us  grant  that  we  do  not  know  in  what  that  ideal  consists,  but 
in  any  case  it  is  certainly  not  the  ideal  of  perfection  for  a 
man.  And  yet  to  the  attainment  of  that  masculine  ideal  all 
the  absurd  and  unwholesome  activity  of  the  fashionable  wom- 
an's movement,  which  now  so  confuses  women,  is  directed. 


392  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

I  am  afraid  that  Chekhov  when  writing  Darling  was  under 
the  influence  of  this  misunderstanding. 

He,  like  Balaam,  intended  to  curse,  but  the  God  of  poetry 
forbade  him  to  do  so  and  commanded  him  to  bless,  and  he 
blessed,  and  involuntarily  clothed  that  sweet  creature  in  such 
a  wonderful  radiance  that  she  will  alwavs  remain  a  type  of 
what  woman  can  be  in  order  to  be  happy  herself  and  to  cause 
the  happiness  of  those  with  whom  her  fate  is  united. 

This  story  is  so  excellent  because  its  effect  was  uninten- 
tional. 

I  learned  to  ride  a  bicycle  in  the  great  Moscow  riding- 
school,  in  which  army-divisions  are  reviewed.  At  the  other 
end  of  the  riding-school  a  lady  was  learning  to  ride.  I 
thought  of  how  to  avoid  incommoding  that  lady  and  began 
looking  at  her.  And,  looking  at  her,  I  began  involuntarily 
to  draw  nearer  and  nearer  to  her,  and  although  she,  noticing 
the  danger,  hastened  to  get  out  of  the  way,  I  rode  against  her 
and  upset  her,  that  is  to  say,  I  did  exactly  the  opposite  of 
what  I  wished  to  do,  simply  because  I  had  concentrated  my 
attention  upon  her. 

The  same  thing  has  happened  with  Chekhov,  but  in  an  in- 
verse sense:  he  wanted  to  knock  down  "Darling,"  and  direct- 
ing the  close  attention  of  a  poet  upon  her,  he  has  exalted  her. 


PART  XVII 
SHAKESPEARE  AND  THE  DRAMA 


An  article  by  Ernest  Howard  Crosby  1  on  Shakespeare's  at- 
titude towards  the  people  has  suggested  to  me  the  idea  of  ex- 
pressing the  opinion  I  formed  long  ago  about  Shakespeare's 
works,  an  opinion  quite  contrary  to  that  established  through- 
out the  European  world.  Recalling  the  struggle  with  doubts, 
the  pretences,  and  the  efforts  to  attune  myself  to  Shakespeare, 
that  I  went  through  owing  to  my  complete  disagreement  with 
the  general  adulation,  and  supposing  that  many  people  have 
experienced  and  are  experiencing  the  same  perplexity,  I 
think  it  may  be  of  some  use  definitely  and  frankly  to  express 
this  disagreement  of  mine  with  the  opinion  held  by  the 
majority,  especially  as  the  conclusions  I  came  to  on  examining 
the  causes  of  my  disagreement  are,  it  seems  to  me,  not  devoid 
of  interest  and  significance. 

My  disagreement  with  the  established  opinion  about 
Shakespeare  is  not  the  result  of  a  casual  mood  or  of  a  light- 
hearted  attitude  towards  the  subject,  but  it  is  the  result  of  re- 
peated and  strenuous  efforts,  extending  over  many  years,  to 
harmonise  my  views  with  the  opinions  about  Shakespeare 
accepted  throughout  the  whole  educated  Christian  world. 

1 E.  H.  Crosby  was  for  some  time  a  member  of  the  New  York  State  Legislature ; 
subsequently  he  went  to  Egypt  as  a  judge  in  the  Mixed  Tribunals.  While  there 
he  began  reading  the  works  of  Tolstoy,  which  had  a  great  influence  upon  him. 
He  visited  Tolstoy,  and  afterwards  co-operated  with  him  in  various  ways.  In 
a  remarkable  essay  on  "Shakespeare  and  the  Working  Classes"  E.  H.  Crosby 
drew  attention  to  the  consistently  anti-democratic  tendency  of  that  poet's  plays. 
It  is  to  this  essay  that  Tolstoy  here  refers. — A.  M. 

393 


394  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

I  remember  the  astonishment  I  felt  when  I  first  read 
Shakespeare.  I  had  expected  to  receive  a  great  esthetic  pleas- 
ure, but  on  reading,  one  after  another,  the  works  regarded 
as  his  best,  King  Lear,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Hamlet,  and  Mac- 
beth, not  only  did  I  not  experience  pleasure  but  I  felt  an  in- 
superable repulsion  and  tedium,  and  a  doubt  whether  I  lacked 
sense,  since  I  considered  works  insignificant  and  simply  bad, 
which  are  regarded  as  the  summit  of  perfection  by  the 
whole  educated  world;  or  whether  the  importance  that  edu- 
cated world  attributed  to  Shakespeare's  works  lacks  sense. 
My  perplexity  was  increased  by  the  fact  that  I  have  always 
keenly  felt  the  beauties  of  poetry  in  all  its  forms:  why  then 
did  Shakespeare's  works,  recognised  by  the  whole  world  as 
works  of  artistic  genius,  not  only  fail  to  please  me,  but  even 
seem  detestable?  I  long  distrusted  my  judgment,  and  to  check 
my  conclusions,  during  fifty  years  I  repeatedly  set  to  work  to 
read  Shakespeare  in  all  possible  forms — in  Russian,  in 
English,  and  in  German  in  Schlegel's  translation,  as  I  was 
advised  to.  I  read  the  tragedies,  comedies,  and  historical 
plays,  several  times  over,  and  I  invariably  experienced  the 
same  feelings — repulsion,  weariness,  and  bewilderment. 
Now,  before  writing  this  article,  as  an  old  man  of  75,1  wish- 
ing once  more  to  check  my  conclusions,  I  have  again  read  the 
whole  of  Shakespeare,  including  the  historical  plays,  the 
Henrys,  Troilus  and  Cressida,  The  Tempest,  and  Cymbeline, 
etc.,  and  have  experienced  the  same  feeling  still  more  strongly, 
no  longer  with  perplexity  but  with  a  firm  indubitable  convic- 
tion that  the  undisputed  fame  Shakespeare  enjoys  as  a  great 
genius,  which  makes  writers  of  our  time  imitate  him  and 
readers  and  spectators,  distorting  their  esthetic  and  ethical 
sense,  seek  non-existent  qualities  in  him,  is  a  great  evil — as 
every  falsehood  is. 

1  Tolstoy  was  born   in   1828.    This  essay   appeared  in   1906,   so  that   Tolstoy 
began  his  re-reading  of  Shakespeare  three  years  before  he  published  the  article 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  395 

Although  I  know  that  the  majority  of  people  have  such  faith 
in  Shakespeare's  greatness  that  on  reading  this  opinion  of 
mine  they  will  not  even  admit  the  possibility  of  its  being  cor- 
rect, and  will  not  pay  any  attention  to  it,  I  shall  nevertheless 
try  as  best  I  can  to  show  why  I  think  Shakespeare  cannot  be 
admitted  to  be  either  a  great  writer  of  genius,  or  even  an 
average  one. 

For  this  purpose  I  will  take  one  of  the  most  admired  of 
Shakespeare's  dramas — King  Lear,  in  enthusiastic  praise  of 
which  most  of  the  critics  agree. 

"The  tragedy  of  Lear  is  deservedly  celebrated  among  the 
dramas  of  Shakespeare,"  says  Dr.  Johnson.  "There  is  per- 
haps no  play  which  keeps  the  attention  so  strongly  fixed, 
which  so  much  agitates  our  passions  and  interests  our 
curiosity." 

"We  wish  that  we  could  pass  this  play  over  and  say  noth- 
ing about  it,"  says  Hazlitt.  "All  that  we  can  say  must  fall 
far  short  of  the  subject,  or  even  of  what  we  ourselves  conceive 
of  it.  To  attempt  to  give  a  description  of  the  play  itself 
or  of  its  effects  upon  the  mind  is  mere  impertinence;  yet  we 
must  say  something.  It  is  then  the  best  of  Shakespeare's 
plays,  for  it  is  the  one  in  which  he  was  most  in  earnest." 

"If  the  originality  of  invention  did  not  so  much  stamp  al- 
most every  play  of  Shakespeare,"  says  Hallam,  "that  to  name 
one  as  the  most  original  seems  a  disparagement  to  others,  we 
might  say  that  this  great  prerogative  of  genius  was  exercised 
above  all  in  Lear.  It  diverges  more  from  the  model  of  reg- 
ular tragedy  than  Macbeth  or  Othello,  or  even  more  than 
Hamlet,  but  the  fable  is  better  constructed  than  in  the  last 
of  these  and  it  displays  full  as  much  of  the  almost  super- 
human inspiration  of  the  poet  as  the  other  two." 

"King  Lear  may  be  recognised  as  the  perfect  model  of  the 
dramatic  art  of  the  whole  world,"  says  Shelley. 

"I  am  not  minded  to  say  much  of  Shakespeare's  Arthur"; 


396  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

says  Swinburne.  "There  are  one  or  two  figures  in  the  world 
of  his  work  of  which  there  are  no  words  that  would  be  fit  or 
good  to  say.  Another  of  these  is  Cordelia.  The  place  they 
have  in  our  lives  and  thoughts  is  not  one  for  talk.  The  niche 
set  apart  for  them  to  inhabit  in  our  secret  hearts  is  not  pene- 
trable by  the  lights  and  noises  of  common  day.  There  are 
chapels  in  the  cathedral  of  man's  highest  art,  as  in  that  of 
his  inmost  life,  not  made  to  be  set  open  to  the  eyes  and  feet 
of  the  world.  Love  and  Death  and  Memory  keep  charge  for 
us  in  silence  of  some  beloved  names.  It  is  the  crowning  glory 
of  genius,  the  final  miracle  and  transcendant  gift  of  poetry 
that  it  can  add  to  the  number  of  these  and  engrave  on  the 
very  heart  of  our  remembrance  fresh  names  and  memories  of 
its  own  creation." 

"Lear,  c'est  l'occasion  de  Cordelia,"  says  Victor  Hugo. 
"La  maternite  de  la  fille  sur  le  pere;  sujet  profonde;  la 
maternite  venerable  entre  toutes,  si  admirablement  traduite 
par  la  legend  de  cette  romaine,  nourrice,  au  fond  d'un  cachot, 
de  son  pere  veillard.  La  jeune  mammelle  pres  de  la  barbe 
blanche,  il  n'est  point  de  spectacle  plus  sacre.  Cette  mam- 
melle filiale  c'est  Cordelia. 

"Une  fois  cette  figure  revee  et  trouvee  Shakespeare  a  cree 
son  drame.  .  .  .  Shakespeare,  portant  Cordelia  dans  sa  pen- 
see,  a  cree  cette  tragedie  comme  un  dieu,  qui  ayant  une  aurore 
a  placer,  ferait  tout  expres  un  monde  pour  l'y  mettre."  1 

"In  Lear  Shakespeare's  vision  sounded  the  abyss  of  horror 
to  its  very  depths,  and  his  spirit  showed  neither  fear,  nor 
giddiness,  nor  faintness  at  the  sight,"  says  Brandes.     "On  the 

1  "Lear  is  the  occasion  for  Cordelia.  The  daughter's  maternity  towards  the 
father;  profound  subject;  maternity  venerable  among  all  other  maternities,  so 
admirably  rendered  by  the  legend  of  that  Roman  girl,  nurse,  in  the  depths  of 
a  prison,  of  her  old  father.  The  young  breast  near  the  white  beard,  there  is 
no  spectacle  more  holy.     That  filial  breast  is  Cordelia. 

"Once  this  figure  was  dreamed  and  found  Shakespeare  created  his  drama  .  .  . 
Shakespeare  carrying  Cordelia  in  his  thoughts,  created  that  tragedy  as  a  god, 
who  having  an  aurora  to  place  makes  a  world  expressly  for  it." 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  397 

threshold  of  this  work,  a  feeling  of  awe  comes  over  one,  as 
on  the  threshold  of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  with  its  ceiling- 
frescoes  by  Michael  Angelo,  only  that  the  suffering  here  is  far 
more  intense,  the  wail  wilder,  the  harmonies  of  beauty  more 
definitely  shattered  by  the  discords  of  despair." 

Such  are  the  judgments  of  the  critics  on  this  drama,  and 
therefore,  I  think  I  am  justified  in  choosing  it  as  an  example 
of  Shakespeare's  best  plays. 

I  will  try  as  impartially  as  possible  to  give  the  contents 
of  the  play,  and  then  show  why  it  is  not  the  height  of  per- 
fection, as  it  is  said  to  be  by  the  learned  critics,  but  is  some- 
thing quite  different. 

II 

The  tragedy  of  Lear  begins  with  a  scene  in  which  two  cour- 
tiers, Kent  and  Gloucester,  are  talking.  Kent,  pointing  to  a 
young  man  who  is  present,  asks  Gloucester  whether  that  is  his 
son.  Gloucester  says  that  he  has  often  blushed  to  acknowl- 
edge the  young  man  as  his  son,  but  has  now  ceased  to  do  so. 
Kent  says:  "I  cannot  conceive  you."  Then  Gloucester,  in 
the  presence  of  his  son,  says:  "Sir,  this  young  fellow's  mother 
could;  whereupon  she  grew  round-wombed,  and  had,  indeed, 
sir,  a  son  for  her  cradle  ere  she  had  a  husband  for  her 
bed.  ..."  He  goes  on  to  say  that  he  had  another  son  who 
was  legitimate,  but  "though  this  knave  came  somewhat  saucily 
before  he  was  sent  for,  yet  was  his  mother  fair,  there  was  good 
sport  at  his  making,  and  the  whoreson  must  be  acknowledged." 

Such  is  the  introduction.  Not  to  speak  of  the  vulgarity  of 
these  words  of  Gloucester,  they  are  also  out  of  place  in  the 
mouth  of  a  man  whom  it  is  intended  to  represent  as  a  noble 
character.  It  is  impossible  to  agree  with  the  opinion  of  some 
critics  that  these  words  are  put  into  Gloucester's  mouth  to  in- 
dicate the  contempt  for  illegitimacy  from  which  Edmund  suf- 
fered.    Were  that  so,  it  would  in  the  first  place  have  been  nee- 


398  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

essary  to  make  the  father  express  the  contempt  felt  by  people 
in  general,  and  secondly  Edmund,  in  his  monologue  about 
the  injustice  of  those  who  despise  him  for  his  birth,  should 
have  referred  to  his  father's  words.  But  this  is  not  done,  and 
therefore  these  words  of  Gloucester's  at  the  very  beginning  of 
the  piece,  were  merely  for  the  purpose  of  informing  the  public 
in  an  amusing  way  of  the  fact  that  Gloucester  has  a  legitimate 
and  an  illegitimate  son. 

After  this  trumpets  are  blown,  King  Lear  enters  with  his 
daughters  and  sons-in-law  and  make  a  speech  about  being 
aged  and  wishing  to  stand  aside  from  affairs  and  divide  his 
kingdom  between  his  daughters.  In  order  to  know  how  much 
he  should  give  to  each  daughter,  he  announces  that  to  the 
daughter  who  tells  him  she  loves  him  most  he  will  give  most. 
The  eldest  daughter,  Goneril,  says  that  there  are  no  words  to 
express  her  love,  that  she  loves  him  "dearer  than  eyesight, 
space,  and  liberty,"  and  she  loves  him  so  much  that  it  "makes 
her  breath  poor."  King  Lear  immediately  allots  on  the  map  to 
this  daughter  her  share,  with  fields,  woods,  rivers  and  mead- 
ows, and  puts  the  same  question  to  his  second  daughter.  The 
second  daughter,  Regan,  says  that  her  sister  has  correctly  ex- 
pressed her  own  feelings,  but  insufficiently.  She,  Regan, 
loves  her  father  so  that  everything  is  abhorrent  to  her  except 
his  love.  The  king  rewards  this  daughter  also,  and  asks  his 
youngest,  favourite  daughter,  in  whom,  according  to  his 
expression,  "the  wine  of  France  and  milk  of  Burgundy  strive 
to  be  interess'd" — that  is,  who  is  courted  by  the  King  of 
France  and  the  Duke  of  Burgundy — asks  Cordelia  how  she 
loves  him.  Cordelia,  who  personifies  all  the  virtues  as  the 
two  elder  sisters  personify  all  the  vices,  says  quite  inap- 
propriately, as  if  on  purpose  to  vex  her  father,  that  though 
she  loves  and  honours  him  and  is  grateful  to  him,  yet,  if  she 
marries,  her  love  will  not  all  belong  to  him,  but  she  will  love 
her  husband  also. 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  399 

On  hearing  these  words  the  king  is  beside  himself,  and  im- 
mediately curses  his  favourite  daughter  with  most  terrible  and 
strange  maledictions,  saying,  for  instance,  that  he  will  love  a 
man  who  eats  his  own  children  as  much  as  he  now  loves  her 
who  was  once  his  daughter. 

The  barbarous  Scythian, 
Or  he  that  makes  his  generation  messes 
To  gorge  his  appetite,  shall  to  my  bosom 
Be  as  well  neighbour'd,  pitied,  and  reliev'd, 
As  thou,  my  sometime  daughter. 

The  courtier,  Kent,  takes  Cordelia's  part,  and,  wishing  to 
bring  the  king  to  reason,  upbraids  him  with  his  injustice  and 
speaks  reasonably  about  the  evil  of  flattery.  Lear,  without 
attending  to  Kent,  banishes  him  under  threat  of  death,  and 
calling  to  him  Cordelia's  two  suitors,  the  King  of  France  and 
the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  proposes  to  each  in  turn  to  take  Cor- 
delia without  a  dowry.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy  says  plainly 
that  he  will  not  take  Cordelia  without  a  dowry,  but  the 
King  of  France  takes  her  without  dowry,  and  leads  her  away. 
After  this  the  elder  sisters,  there  and  then  conversing  with  one 
another,  prepare  to  offend  their  father  who  had  endowed 
them.     So  ends  the  first  scene. 

Not  to  mention  the  inflated,  characterless  style  in  which 
King  Lear — like  all  Shakespeare's  kings — talks,  the  reader  or 
spectator  cannot  believe  that  a  king,  however  old  and  stupid, 
could  believe  the  words  of  the  wicked  daughters  with  whom 
he  had  lived  all  their  lives,  and  not  trust  his  favourite  daugh- 
ter, but  curse  and  banish  her;  therefore  the  reader  or  specta- 
tor cannot  share  the  feeling  of  the  persons  who  take  part  in 
this  unnatural  scene. 

Scene  II  begins  with  Edmund,  Gloucester's  illegitimate 
son,  soliloquising  on  the  injustice  of  men  who  concede  rights 
and  respect  to  a  legitimate  son  but  deny  them  to  an  illegiti- 


400  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

mate  son,  and  he  determines  to  ruin  Edgar  and  usurp  his 
place.  For  this  purpose  he  forges  a  letter  to  himself,  as  from 
Edgar,  in  which  the  latter  is  made  to  appear  to  wish  to  kill 
his  father.  Having  waited  till  Gloucester  appears,  Edmund, 
as  if  against  his  own  desire,  shows  him  this  letter,  and  the 
father  immediately  believes  that  his  son  Edgar,  whom  he 
tenderly  loves,  wishes  to  kill  him.  The  father  goes  away, 
Edgar  enters,  and  Edmund  suggests  to  him  that  his  father  for 
some  reason  wishes  to  kill  him.  Edgar  also  at  once  believes 
him,  and  flees  from  his  father. 

The  relations  between  Gloucester  and  his  two  sons  and  the 
feelings  of  these  characters,  are  as  unnatural  as  Lear's  rela- 
tion to  his  daughters,  if  not  more  so;  and  therefore  it  is  even 
more  difficult  for  the 'spectator  to  put  himself  into  the  mental 
condition  of  Gloucester  and  his  sons  and  to  sympathise  with 
them,  than  it  was  in  regard  to  Lear  and  his  daughters. 

In  Scene  IV  the  banished  Kent,  disguised,  so  that  Lear  does 
not  recognise  him,  presents  himself  to  the  king  who  is  now 
staying  with  Goneril.  Lear  asks  who  he  is,  to  which  Kent, 
one  does  not  know  why,  replies  in  a  jocular  tone  quite  inap- 
propriate to  his  position:  "A  very  honest-hearted  fellow  and 
as  poor  as  the  King."  "If  thou  be'st  as  poor  for  a  subject  as 
he's  for  a  King,  thou  art  poor  enough,"  replies  Lear.  "How 
old  art  thou?"  "Not  so  young,  sir,  to  love  a  woman  for  sing- 
ing, nor  so  old  as  to  dote  on  her  for  anything,"  to  which  the 
King  replies  that  if  he  likes  him  not  worse  after  dinner,  he 
will  let  him  remain  in  his  service. 

This  talk  fits  in  neither  with  Lear's  position  nor  with 
Kent's  relation  to  him,  and  is  evidently  put  into  their  mouths 
only  because  the  author  thought  it  witty  and  amusing. 

Goneril's  steward  appears  and  is  rude  to  Lear,  for  which 
Kent  trips  him  up.  The  King,  who  still  does  not  recognise 
Kent,  gives  him  money  for  this,  and  takes  him  into  his  service. 
After  this  the  fool  appears,  and  a  talk  begins  between  the 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  401 

fool  and  the  King,  quite  out  of  accord  with  the  situation, 
leading  to  nothing,  prolonged,  and  intended  to  be  amusing. 
Thus  for  instance  the  fool  says,  "Give  me  an  egg,  and  I'll  give 
thee  two  crowns."  The  King  asks  what  crowns  they  shall  be. 
"Why,  after  I  have  cut  the  egg  i'the  middle  and  eat  up  the 
meat,  the  two  crowns  of  the  egg.  When  thou  clovest  thy 
crown  i'the  middle,  and  gavest  away  both  parts,  thou  borest 
thine  ass  on  thy  back  o'er  the  dirt ;  thou  hadst  little  wit  in  thy 
bald  crown  when  thou  gavest  thy  golden  one  away.  If  I 
speak  like  myself  in  this,  let  him  be  whipped  that  first  finds 
it  so." 

In  this  manner  prolonged  conversations  go  on,  producing 
in  the  spectator  or  reader  a  sense  of  wearisome  discomfort 
such  as  one  experiences  when  listening  to  dull  jokes. 

This  conversation  is  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Goneril. 
She  demands  that  her  father  should  diminish  his  retinue:  in- 
stead of  a  hundred  courtiers  he  should  be  satisfied  with  fifty. 
On  hearing  this  proposal  Lear  is  seized  with  terrible,  un- 
natural rage,  and  asks: 

Does  any  here  know  me?     This  is  not  Lear! 

Does  Lear  walk  thus  ?     Speak  thus  ?     Where  are  his  eyes  ? 

Either  his  notion  weakens,  his  discernings 

Are  lethargied.     Ha!     Waking?  'tis  not  so, 

Who  is  it  that  can  tell  me  who  I  am? 

and  so  forth. 

Meanwhile  the  fool  unceasingly  interpolates  his  humour- 
less jokes.  Goneril's  husband  appears  and  wishes  to  appease 
Lear,  but  Lear  curses  Goneril,  invoking  sterility  upon  her, 
or  the  birth  of  such  a  child  as  would  repay  with  ridicule  and 
contempt  her  maternal  cares,  and  would  thereby  show  her  all 
the  horror  and  suffering  caused  by  a  child's  ingratitude. 

These  words,  which  express  a  genuine  feeling,  might  have 
been  touching  had  only  this  been  said,  but  they  are  lost 


402  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

among  long  high-flown  speeches  Lear  continually  utters  quite 
inappropriately.  Now  he  calls  down  blasts  and  fogs  on 
his  daughter's  head,  now  desires  that  curses  should  "pierce 
every  sense  about  thee,"  or  addressing  his  own  eyes,  says  that 
if  they  weep  he  will  pluck  them  out  and  cast  them,  with  the 
waters  that  they  lose,  "to  temper  clay." 

After  this,  Lear  sends  Kent,  whom  he  still  does  not  recog- 
nise, to  his  other  daughter,  and  notwithstanding  the  despair 
he  has  just  expressed  he  talks  with  the  fool  and  incites  him 
to  jests.  The  jests  continue  to  be  mirthless,  and  besides  the 
unpleasant  feeling  akin  to  shame  that  one  feels  at  unsuccess- 
ful witticisms,  they  are  so  long-drawn-out  as  to  be  wearisome. 
So  for  instance  the  fool  asks  the  King,  " Canst  thou  tell  why 
one's  nose  stands  i'  the  middle  of  one's  face?"  Lear  says  he 
does  not  know. 

"Why,  to  keep  one's  eyes  of  either  side  one's  nose:  that 
what  a  man  cannot  smell  out  he  may  spy  into." 

"Canst  tell  how  an  oyster  makes  his  shell?"  the  fool  asks. 

"No." 

"Nor  I  neither;  but  I  can  tell  why  a  snail  has  a  house." 

"Why?" 

"Why,  to  put  his  head  in;  not  to  give  it  away  to  his  daugh- 
ters, and  leave  his  horns  without  a  case." 

"Be  my  horses  ready?"  asks  Lear. 

"Thy  asses  are  gone  about  'em.  The  reason  why  the  seven 
stars  are  no  more  than  seven  is  a  pretty  reason." 

"Because  they  are  not  eight?"  says  Lear. 

"Yes,  indeed;  thou  wouldst  make  a  good  fool,"  says  the 
fool,  and  so  forth. 

After  this  long  scene  a  gentleman  comes  and  announces  that 
the  horses  are  ready.     The  fool  says : 

She  that's  a  maid  now  and  laughs  at  my  departure, 
Shall  not  be  a  maid  long,  unless  things  be  cut  shorter, 

and  goes  off. 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  403 

Scene  I  of  Act  II  begins  with  the  villain  Edmund  per- 
suading his  brother,  when  his  father  enters,  to  pretend  that 
they  are  fighting  with  their  swords.  Edgar  agrees,  though  it 
is  quite  incomprehensible  why  he  should  do  so.  The  father 
finds  them  fighting.  Edgar  runs  away  and  Edmund  scratches 
his  own  arm  to  draw  blood,  and  persuades  his  father  that 
Edgar  was  using  charms  to  kill  his  father  and  had  wanted 
Edmund  to  help  him,  but  that  he  had  refused  to  do  so  and 
Edgar  had  then  thrown  himself  upon  him  and  wounded  him 
in  the  arm.  Gloucester  believes  everything,  curses  Edgar, 
and  transfers  all  the  rights  of  his  elder  and  legitimate  son  to 
the  illegitimate  Edmund.  The  Duke  of  Cornwall,  hearing 
of  this,  also  rewards  Edmund. 

In  Scene  II  before  Gloucester's  castle,  Lear's  new  servant 
Kent,  still  unrecognised  by  Lear,  begins  without  any  reason 
to  abuse  Oswald  (Goneril's  steward),  calling  him  "a  knave,  a 
rascal,  an  eater  of  broken  meats;  a  base,  proud,  shallow,  beg- 
garly, three-suited,  hundred-pound,  filthy,  worsted-stocking 
knave;  .  .  .  the  son  and  heir  of  a  mongrel  bitch,"  and  so  on. 
Then  drawing  his  sword  he  demands  that  Oswald  should 
fight  him,  saying  that  he  will  make  of  him  a  "sop  o'  the  moon- 
shine," words  no  commentator  has  been  able  to  explain,  and 
when  he  is  stopped,  he  continues  to  give  vent  to  the  strangest 
abuse,  saying,  for  instance,  that  he,  Oswald,  has  been  made 
by  a  tailor,  because  "a  stone-cutter,  or  a  painter,  could  not 
have  made  him  so  ill,  though  they  had  been  but  two  hours  at 
the  trade."  He  also  says  that,  if  he  is  allowed,  he  will  tread 
this  unbolted  villain  into  mortar,  and  daub  the  wall  of  a  privy 
with  him. 

And  in  this  way  Kent,  whom  nobody  recognises, — though 
both  the  king  and  the  Duke  of  Cornwall,  as  well  as  Gloucester 
who  is  present,  should  know  him  well, — continues  to  brawl,  in 
the  character  of  a  new  servant  of  Lear's,  until  he- is  seized 
and  put  in  the  stocks. 


404  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Scene  III  takes  place  on  a  heath.  Edgar,  flying  from  his 
father's  pursuit,  hides  himself  in  a  tree,  and  he  tells  the 
audience  what  kinds  of  lunatics  there  are,  beggars  who  go 
about  naked,  thrust  pins  and  wooden  pricks  into  their  bodies, 
and  scream  with  wild  voices  and  enforce  charity,  and  he 
says  that  he  intends  to  play  the  part  of  such  a  lunatic  in  order 
to  escape  from  the  pursuit.  Having  told  the  audience  this 
he  goes  off. 

Scene  IV  is  again  before  Gloucester's  castle.  Lear  and 
the  fool  enter.  Lear  sees  Kent  in  the  stocks  and,  still  not  rec- 
ognising him,  is  inflamed  with  anger  against  those  who  have 
dared  so  to  treat  his  messenger,  and  he  calls  for  the  Duke  and 
Regan.  The  fool  goes  on  with  his  queer  sayings.  Lear 
with  difficulty  restrains  his  anger.  The  Duke  and  Regan  en- 
ter. Lear  complains  of  Goneril,  but  Regan  justifies  her 
sister.  Lear  curses  Goneril  and,  when  Regan  tells  him  he 
had  better  go  back  to  her  sister,  he  is  indignant  and  says: 
"Ask  her  forgiveness?"  and  goes  on  his  knees,  showing  how 
improper  it  would  be  for  him  abjectly  to  beg  food  and  clothing 
as  charity  from  his  own  daughter,  and  he  curses  Goneril  with 
the  most  terrible  curses,  and  asks  who  has  dared  to  put  his 
messenger  in  the  stocks.  Before  Regan  can  answer  Goneril 
arrives.  Lear  becomes  yet  more  angry  and  again  curses 
Goneril,  and  when  he  is  told  that  the  Duke  had  ordered  the 
stocks  he  says  nothing,  for  at  this  moment  Regan  tells  him 
that  she  cannot  receive  him  now  and  that  he  had  better  return 
with  Goneril,  and  in  a  month's  time  she  will  herself  receive 
him  but  not  with  a  hundred  but  with  only  fifty  followers. 
Lear  again  curses  Goneril  and  does  not  want  to  go  with  her, 
still  hoping  that  Regan  will  receive  him  with  all  his  hundred 
followers,  but  Regan  says  she  will  only  accept  him  with 
twenty-five,  and  then  Lear  decides  to  go  back  with  Goneril 
who  allows  fifty.  Then,  when  Goneril  says  that  even  twenty- 
five  are  too  many,  Lear  utters  a  long  discourse  about  the 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  405 

superfluous  and  sufficient  being  conditional  conceptions,  and 
says  that  if  a  man  is  allowed  only  as  much  as  is  necessary  he 
is  no  different  from  a  beast,  And  here  Lear,  or  rather  the  ac- 
tor who  plays  Lear,  addresses  himself  to  a  finely-dressed 
woman  in  the  audience,  and  says  that  she  too  does  not  need 
her  finery,  which  does  not  keep  her  warm.  After  this  he  be- 
comes madly  angry,  says  that  he  will  do  something  terrible 
to  be  revenged  upon  his  daughters  but  will  not  weep,  and  so  he 
departs.     The  noise  of  a  storm  that  is  commencing  is  heard. 

Such  is  the  second  Act,  full  of  unnatural  occurrences,  and 
still  more  unnatural  speeches  not  flowing  from  the  speaker's 
circumstances,  and  finishing  with  the  scene  between  Lear  and 
his  daughters  which  might  be  powerful  if  it  were  not  over- 
loaded with  speeches  most  naively  absurd  and  unnatural  and 
quite  inappropriate  moreover,  put  in  Lear's  mouth.  Ex- 
ceedingly touching  would  be  Lear's  vacillations  between 
pride,  anger,  and  hope  of  concessions  from  his  daughters, 
were  they  not  spoilt  by  these  verbose  absurdities  which  he 
utters  about  being  ready  to  divorce  Regan's  dead  mother 
should  Regan  not  be  glad  to  see  him,  or  about  evoking  ''fen- 
sucked  fogs"  to  infect  his  daughter,  or  about  the  heavens  being 
obliged  to  protect  old  men  as  they  themselves  are  old,  and 
much  else. 

Act  III  begins  with  thunder,  lightning,  and  storm — a  spe- 
cial kind  of  storm  such  as  there  never  was  before,  as  one  of 
the  characters  in  the  play  says.  On  the  heath  a  gentleman 
tells  Kent  that  Lear,  expelled  by  his  daughters  from  their 
houses,  is  wandering  about  the  heath  alone,  tearing  his  hair 
and  throwing  it  to  the  winds,  and  that  only  the  fool  is  with 
him.  Kent  tells  the  gentleman  that  the  Dukes  have  quar- 
relled, and  that  a  French  army  has  landed  at  Dover,  and  hav- 
ing communicated  this,  he  despatches  the  gentleman  to  Dover 
to  meet  Cordelia. 

Scene  II  of  Act  III  also  takes  place  on  the  heath.     Lear 


406  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

walks  about  the  heath  and  utters  words  intended  to  express 
despair:  he  wishes  the  winds  to  blow  so  hard  that  they  (the 
winds)  should  crack  their  cheeks,  and  that  the  rain  should 
drench  everything,  and  that  the  lightning  should  singe  his 
white  head  and  thunder  strike  the  earth  flat  and  destroy  all 
the  germs  "that  make  ingrateful  man ! "  The  fool  keeps  utter- 
ing yet  more  senseless  words.  Kent  enters.  Lear  says  that, 
for  some  reason,  in  this  storm  all  criminals  shall  be  discov- 
ered and  exposed.  Kent,  still  not  recognised  by  Lear,  per- 
suades Lear  to  take  shelter  in  a  hovel.  The  fool  thereupon 
utters  a  prophecy  quite  unrelated  to  the  situation,  and  they  all 
go  off. 

Scene  III  is  again  transferred  to  Gloucester's  castle. 
Gloucester  tells  Edmund  that  the  French  king  has  already 
landed  with  an  army  and  intends  to  help  Lear.  On  learning 
this,  Edmund  decides  to  accuse  his  father  of  treason  in  order 
to  supplant  him. 

Scene  IV  is  again  on  the  heath  in  front  of  the  hoYgL  Kent 
invites  Lear  to  enter  the  hovel,  but  Lear  replies  that  he  has 
no  reason  to  shelter  himself  from  the  storm,  that  he  does  not 
feel  it  as  the  tempest  in  his  mind,  aroused  by  his  daughter's 
ingratitude,  overpowers  all  else.  This  true  feeling,  if  ex- 
pressed in  simple  words,  might  evoke  sympathy,  but  amid 
his  inflated  and  incessant  ravings  it  is  hard  to  notice  it  and 
it  loses  its  significance. 

The  hovel  to  which  Lear  is  led  turns  out  to  be  the  same  that 
Edgar  has  entered  disguised  as  a  madman,  that  is  to  say, 
without  clothes.  Edgar  comes  out  of  the  hovel  and,  though 
they  all  know  him,  nobody  recognises  him  any  more  than 
they  recognise  Kent,  and  Edgar,  Lear,  and  the  fool,  begin  to 
talk  nonsense  which  continues  with  intervals  for  six  pages. 
In  the  midst  of  this  scene  Gloucester  enters  (who  also  fails 
to  recognise  either  Kent  or  his  own  son  Edgar),  and  tells 
them  how  his  son  Edgar  wished  to  kill  him. 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  407 

This  scene  is  again  interrupted  by  one  in  Gloucester's  cas- 
tle, during  which  Edmund  betrays  his  father  and  the  Duke 
declares  he  will  be  revenged  on  Gloucester.  The  scene  again 
shifts  to  Lear.  Kent,  Edgar,  Gloucester,  Lear,  and  the  fool, 
are  in  a  farm-house  and  are  talking.  Edgar  says:  "Fra- 
teretto  calls  me  and  tells  me,  Nero  is  an  angler  in  the  lake 
of  darkness.  .  .  ."  The  fool  says:  "Nuncle,  tell  me,  whether 
a  madman  be  a  gentleman,  or  a  yeoman?"  Lear,  who  is  out 
of  his  mind,  says  that  a  madman  is  a  king.  The  fool  says: 
"No,  he's  a  yeoman,  that  has  a  gentleman  to  his  son;  for  he's 
a  mad  yeoman,  that  sees  his  son  a  gentleman  before  him." 
Lear  cries  out:  "To  have  a  thousand  with  red  burning  spits 
come  hissing  in  upon  them."  And  Edgar  shrieks  that  the 
foul  fiend  bites  his  back.  Then  the  fool  utters  an  adage  that 
one  cannot  trust  "the  tameness  of  a  wolf,  a  horse's  health,  a 
boy's  love,  or  a  whore's  oath."  Then  Lear  imagines  that  he 
is  trying  his  daughters.  "Most  learned  justicer,"  says  he  ad- 
dressing the  naked  Edgar.  "Thou,  sapient  sir,  sit  here. 
Now,  you  she  foxes!"     To  this  Edgar  says: 

Look,  where  he  stands  and  glares ! 
Wantonest  thou  eyes  at  trial,  madam? 
Come  o'er  the  bourn,  Bessy,  to  me! 

and  the  fool  sings: 

Her  boat  hath  a  leak, 

And  she  must  not  speak 

Why  she  dares  not  come  over  to  thee. 

Edgar  again  says  something,  and  Kent  begs  Lear  to  lie 
down,  but  Lear  continues  his  imaginary  trial. 

Bring  in  the  evidence. 
Thou  robed  man  of  justice,  take  thy  place;  (to  Edgar) 
And  thou,  his  yoke-fellow  of  equity,  (to  the  fool) 


408  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Bench  by  his  side.     You  are  of  the  commission,  (to  Kent) 
Sit  you  too. 

"Pur!  the  cat  is  grey,"  cries  Edgar. 

"Arraign  her  first;  't  is  Goneril,"  says  Lear.  "I  here  take 
my  oath  before  this  honourable  assembly,  she  kicked  the 
poor  King  her  father." 

Fool:     Come  hither,   mistress.     Is  your  name   Goneril?     (addressing 

a  joint-stool) 
Lear:     And  here's  another.  .  .  .  Stop  her  there! 

Arms,  arms,  sword,  fire!     Corruption  in  the  place! 

False  justicer,  why  hast  thou  let  her  'scape? 

and  so  on. 

This  raving  ends  by  Lear  falling  asleep,  and  Gloucester 
persuading  Kent,  still  without  recognising  him,  to  take  the 
King  to  Dover.     Kent  and  the  fool  carry  Lear  off. 

The  scene  changes  to  Gloucester's  castle.  Gloucester  him- 
self is  accused  of  treason,  and  is  brought  in  and  bound.  The 
Duke  of  Cornwall  tears  out  one  of  his  eyes  and  stamps 
on  it.  Regan  says  that  one  eye  is  still  whole  and  that  this 
healthy  eye  is  laughing  at  the  other  eye,  and  urges  the  Duke 
to  crush  it  too.  The  Duke  wishes  to  do  so,  but  for  some 
reason  one  of  the  servants  suddenly  takes  Gloucester's  part 
and  wounds  the  Duke.  Regan  kills  the  servant.  The 
servant  dies  and  tells  Gloucester  that  he  has  still  one  eye  to 
see  that  the  evil-doer  is  punished.  The  Duke  says:  "Lest 
it  see  more,  prevent  it:  out,  vile  jelly!"  and  tears  out  Glou- 
cester's other  eye  and  throws  it  on  the  floor.  Here  Regan 
mentions  that  Edmund  has  denounced  his  father,  and 
Gloucester  suddenly  understands  that  he  has  been  deceived 
and  that  Edgar  did  not  wish  to  kill  him. 

This  ends  the  third  Act.  Act  IV  is  again  in  the  open 
country.  Edgar,  still  in  the  guise  of  a  maniac,  talks  in  arti- 
ficial language  about  the  perversities  of  fate  and  the  advan- 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  409 

tages  of  a  humble  lot.  Then,  curiously  enough,  to  the  very 
spot  on  the  open  heath  where  he  is  comes  his  father,  blind 
Gloucester,  led  by  an  old  man,  and  he  too  talks  about  the 
perversities  of  fate  in  that  curious  Shakespearean  language 
the  chief  peculiarity  of  which  is  that  the  thoughts  arise  either 
from  the  sound  of  the  words,  or  by  contrast.  He  tells  the  old 
man  who  leads  him  to  leave  him.  The  old  man  says  that 
without  eyes  one  cannot  go  alone,  because  one  cannot  see  the 
way.     Gloucester  says: 

"I  have  no  way,  and  therefore  want  no  eyes!' 
And  he  argues  that  he  stumbled  when  he  saw  and  that  our 
defects  often  save  us. 

"Ah!  dear  son  Edgar,"  adds  he, 

The  food  of  thy  abused  father's  wrath. 
Might  I  but  live  to  see  thee  in  my  touch, 
I'd  say  I  had  eyes  again! 

Edgar,  naked,  in  the  character  of  a  lunatic,  hears  this,  but 
does  not  disclose  himself;  he  takes  the  place  of  the  old  man 
who  had  acted  as  guide,  and  talks  with  his  father,  who  does 
not  recognise  his  voice  and  believes  him  to  be  a  madman. 
Gloucester  takes  the  opportunity  to  utter  a  witticism  about 
"when  madmen  lead  the  blind,"  and  insists  on  driving  away 
the  old  man,  obviously  not  from  motives  which  might  be 
natural  to  him  at  that  moment,  but  merely,  when  left  alone 
with  Edgar,  to  enact  an  imaginary  leap  over  the  cliff.  Edgar, 
though  he  has  only  just  seen  his  blinded  father  and  learned 
that  he  repents  of  having  driven  him  away,  utters  quite  un- 
necessary sayings,  which  Shakespeare  might  know,  having 
read  them  in  Harsnet's  book,1  but  which  Edgar  had  no  means 
of  becoming  acquainted  with,  and  which,  above  all,  it  is  quite 

1  A  Declaration  of  egregious  popish  impostures,  etc.,"  by  Dr.  Samuel  Harsnet, 
London  1603,  which  contains  almost  all  that  Edgar  says  in  his  feigned  mad- 
ness.— A.  M. 


410  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

unnatural  for  him  to  utter  in  his  then  condition.  He  says: 
"Five  fiends  have  been  in  poor  Tom  at  once:  of  lust,  as 
Obidicut ;  Hobbididence,  prince  of  dumbness ;  Mahu,  of  steal- 
ing; Modo,  of  murder;  and  Flibbertigibbet,  of  mopping  and 
mowing,  who  since  possesses  chamber-maids  and  waiting- 
women." 

On  hearing  these  words,  Gloucester  gives  Edgar  his  purse 
saying : 

That  I  am  wretched 
Makes  thee  the  happier.     Heavens,  deal  so  still ! 
Let  the  superfluous  and  lust-dieted  man 
That  braves  your  ordinance,  that  will  not  see 
Because  he  doth  not  feel,  feel  your  power  quickly; 
So  distribution  should  undo  excess, 
And  each  man  have  enough. 

Having  uttered  these  strange  words,  the  blind  Gloucester 
demands  that  Edgar  should  lead  him  to  a  cliff  that  he  does  not 
himself  know,  but  that  hangs  over  the  sea,  and  they  depart. 

Scene  II  of  Act  IV  takes  place  before  the  Duke  of  Albany's 
palace.  Goneril  is  not  only  cruel  but  also  dissolute.  She 
despises  her  husband,  and  discloses  her  love  to  the  villain. 
Edmund,  who  has  obtained  his  father's  title  of  Gloucester. 
Edmund  goes  away,  and  a  conversation  takes  place  between 
Goneril  and  her  husband.  The  Duke  of  Albany,  the  only 
character  who  shows  human  feelings,  has  already  grown  dis- 
satisfied with  his  wife's  treatment  of  her  father  and  now  defin- 
itely takes  Lear's  part,  but  he  expresses  himself  in  words  which 
destroy  one's  belief  in  his  feelings.  He  says  that  a  bear 
would  lick  Lear's  reverence,  and  that  if  the  heavens  do  not 
send  their  visible  spirits  to  tame  these  vile  offences,  humanity 
must  prey  on  itself  like  monsters,  and  so  forth. 

Goneril  does  not  listen  to  him,  and  he  then  begins  to  de- 
nounce her. 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  411 

He  says: 

See  thyself,  devil! 
Proper  deformity  seems  not  in  the  fiend 
So  horrid,  as  in  woman. 

"O  vain  fool!"  says  Goneril. 

Thou  changed  and  self-cover'd  thing,  for  shame, 
Be-monster  not  thy  feature.     Were  it  my  fitness 
To  let  these  hands  obey  my  blood, 
They  are  apt  enough  to  dislocate  and  tear 
Thy  flesh  and  bones: — Howe'er  thou  art  a  fiend, 
A  woman's  shape  doth  shield  thee, 

continues  the  Duke. 

After  this  a  messenger  enters  and  announces  that  the  Duke 
of  Cornwall,  wounded  by  a  servant  while  he  was  tearing  out 
Gloucester's  eyes,  has  died.  Goneril  is  glad,  but  already  an- 
ticipates with  fear  that  Regan,  being  now  a  widow,  will  snatch 
Edmund  from  her.     This  ends  the  second  scene. 

Scene  III  of  Act  IV  represents  the  French  camp.  From  a 
conversation  between  Kent  and  a  gentleman,  the  reader  or 
spectator  learns  that  the  King  of  France  is  not  in  the  camp 
and  that  Cordelia  has  received  a  letter  from  Kent  and  is 
greatly  grieved  by  what  she  learns  about  her  father.  The 
gentleman  says  that  her  face  reminded  one  of  sunshine  and 
rain. 

Her  smiles  and  tears 
Were  like  a  better  day :     Those  happy  smilets, 
That  play'd  on  her  ripe  lip,  seem'd  not  to  know 
What  guests  were  in  her  eyes;  which  parted  thence, 
As  pearls  from  diamonds  dropp'd, 

and  so  forth.  The  gentleman  says  that  Cordelia  desires  to  see 
her  father,  but  Kent  says  that  Lear  is  ashamed  to  see  the 
daughter  he  has  treated  so  badly. 


412  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

In  Scene  IV  Cordelia,  talking  with  a  physician,  tells  him 
that  Lear  has  been  seen,  and  that  he  is  quite  mad,  wearing  on 
his  head  a  wreath  of  various  weeds  and  roaming  about,  and 
that  she  has  sent  soldiers  to  find  him,  and  she  adds  the  wish 
that  all  secret  medicinal  virtues  of  the  earth  may  spring  to 
him  in  her  tears,  and  so  forth. 

She  is  told  that  the  forces  of  the  Dukes  are  approaching; 
but  she  is  only  concerned  about  her  father,  and  goes  off. 

In  Scene  V  of  Act  IV,  which  is  in  Gloucester's  castle,  Re- 
gan talks  with  Oswald,  Goneril's  steward,  who  is  carrying  a 
letter  from  Goneril  to  Edmund,  and  tells  him  that  she  also 
loves  Edmund  and  that  as  she  is  a  widow  it  is  better  for  her 
to  marry  him  than  for  Goneril  to  do  so,  and  she  asks  Oswald 
to  persuade  her  sister  of  this.  Moreover  she  tells  him  that 
it  was  very  unwise  to  put  out  Gloucester's  eyes  and  yet  to  let 
him  live,  and  therefore  she  advises  Oswald,  if  he  meets  Glou- 
cester, to  kill  him,  and  promises  him  a  great  reward  if  he  does 
so. 

In  Scene  VI  Gloucester  again  appears  with  his  unrecog- 
nised son  Edgar,  who,  now  dressed  as  a  peasant,  is  leading 
his  father  to  the  cliff.  Gloucester  is  walking  along  on  level 
ground,  but  Edgar  assures  him  that  they  are  with  difficulty 
ascending  a  steep  hill.  Gloucester  believes  this.  Edgar  tells 
his  father  that  the  noise  of  the  sea  is  audible;  Gloucester  be- 
lieves this  also.  Edgar  stops  on  a  level  place  and  assures 
his  father  that  he  has  ascended  the  cliff  and  that  below  him 
is  a  terrible  abyss,  and  he  leaves  him  alone.  Gloucester,  ad- 
dressing the  gods,  says  that  he  shakes  off  his  affliction  as 
he  could  not  bear  it  longer  without  condemning  them,  the 
gods,  and  having  said  this  he  leaps  on  the  level  ground  and 
falls,  imagining  that  he  has  jumped  over  the  cliff.  Edgar 
thereupon  utters  to  himself  a  yet  more  confused  phrase: 

And  yet  I  know  not  how  conceit  may  rob 
The  treasury  of  life,  when  life  itself 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  413 

Yields  to  the  theft;  had  he  been  where  he  thought, 
By  this  had  thought  been  past, 

and  he  goes  up  to  Gloucester  pretending  to  be  again  a  different 
man,  and  expresses  astonishment  at  the  latter  not  having  been 
killed  by  his  fall  from  such  a  dreadful  height.  Gloucester 
believes  that  he  has  fallen,  and  prepares  to  die,  but  he  feels 
that  he  is  alive,  and  begins  to  doubt  having  fallen. 
Then  Edgar  assures  him  that  he  really  did  jump  from  a 
terrible  height,  and  says  that  the  man  who  was  with  him  at 
the  top  was  a  fiend,  for  he  had  eyes  like  two  full  moons,  and  a 
thousand  noses,  and  wavy  horns. 

Gloucester  believes  this,  and  is  persuaded  that  his  despair 
was  caused  by  the  devil,  and  therefore  decides  that  he  will 
despair  no  longer  but  will  quietly  await  death.  Just  then 
Lear  enters,  for  some  reason  all  covered  with  wild  flowers. 
He  has  gone  mad,  and  utters  speeches  yet  more  meaningless 
than  before.  He  talks  about  coining  money,  about  a  bow, 
calls  for  a  clothier's  yard,  then  he  cries  out  that  he  sees  a 
mouse  which  he  wishes  to  entice  with  a  piece  of  cheese,  and 
then  he  suddenly  asks  the  password  of  Edgar,  who  at  once 
replies  with  the  words,  "Sweet  Marjoram."  Lear  says, 
"Pass!"  and  the  blind  Gloucester,  who  did  not  recognise  his 
son's  or  Kent's,  recognises  the  King's  voice. 

Then  the  King,  after  his  disconnected  utterances,  suddenly 
begins  to  speak  ironically  about  flatterers  who  said  "ay  and 
no"  like  the  theologians  and  assured  him  that  he  could  do 
everything,  but  when  he  got  into  a  storm  without  shelter,  he 
saw  that  this  was  not  true ;  and  then  he  goes  on  to  say  that  as 
all  creatures  are  wanton,  and  as  Gloucester's  bastard  son  was 
kinder  to  his  father  than  his  own  daughters  had  been  to  him 
(though  Lear,  according  to  the  course  of  the  play,  could  know 
nothing  of  Edmund's  treatment  of  Gloucester),  therefore  let 
copulation  thrive,  especially  as  he,  a  King,  lacks  soldiers. 
And  thereupon  he   addresses   an  imaginary,   hypocritically 


414  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

virtuous  lady  who  acts  the  prude  while  at  the  same  time,  like 
an  animal  in  heat,  she  is  addicted  to  lust.  All  women 
"but  to  the  girdle  do  the  gods  inherit.  Beneath  is  all  the 
fiend's  ..."  and  saying  this  Lear  screams  and  spits  with 
horror.  This  monologue  is  evidently  meant  to  be  addressed 
by  actor  to  audience,  and  probably  produces  an  effect  on  the 
stage,  but  is  quite  uncalled  for  in  the  mouth  of  Lear — as  is 
his  desire  to  wipe  his  hand  because  it  "smells  of  mortality" 
when  Gloucester  wishes  to  kiss  it.  Then  Gloucester's  blind- 
ness is  referred  to,  which  gives  an  opportunity  for  a  play  of 
words  on  eyes  and  Cupid's  blindness,  and  for  Lear  to  say 
that  Gloucester  has  "no  eyes  in  your  head,  nor  no  money  in 
your  purse?  Your  eyes  are  in  a  heavy  case,  your  purse  in  a 
light."  Then  Lear  declaims  a  monologue  on  the  injustice  of 
legal  judgment,  which  is  quite  out  of  place  in  his  mouth  see- 
ing that  he  is  insane.  Then  a  gentleman  enters  with  atten- 
dants sent  by  Cordelia  to  fetch  her  father.  Lear  continues 
to  behave  madly  and  runs  away.  The  gentleman  sent  to  fetch 
Lear  does  not  run  after  him  but  continues  to  tell  Edgar 
lengthily  about  the  position  of  the  French  and  the  British 
armies. 

Oswald  enters  and,  seeing  Gloucester  and  wishing  to  obtain 
the  reward  promised  by  Regan,  attacks  him;  but  Edgar,  with 
his  stave,  kills  Oswald,  who  when  dying  gives  Edgar  (the 
man  who  has  killed  him)  Goneril's  letter  to  Edmund,  the 
delivery  of  which  will  earn  a  reward.  In  this  letter  Goneril 
promises  to  kill  her  husband  and  marry  Edmund.  Edgar 
drags  out  Oswald's  body  by  the  legs,  and  then  returns  and 
leads  his  father  away. 

Scene  VII  of  Act  IV  takes  place  in  a  tent  in  the  French 
camp.  Lear  is  asleep  on  a  bed.  Cordelia  enters  with  Kent, 
still  in  disguise.  Lear  is  awakened  by  music  and,  seeing 
Cordelia,  does  not  believe  she  is  alive  but  thinks  her  an  ap- 
parition, and  does  not  believe  that  he  is  himself  alive.     Cor- 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  415 

delia  assures  him  that  she  is  his  daughter,  and  begs  him  to 
bless  her.  He  goes  on  his  knees  before  her,  begs  forgiveness, 
admits  himself  to  be  old  and  foolish,  and  says  he  is  ready  to 
take  poison,  which  he  thinks  she  probably  has  prepared  for 
him,  as  he  is  persuaded  that  she  must  hate  him. 

For  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong; 
You  have  some  cause,  they  have  not. 

Then  little  by  little  he  comes  to  his  senses  and  ceases  to  rave. 
His  daughter  suggests  that  he  should  take  a  little  walk.  He 
consents  and  says: 

You  must  bear  with  me: 
Pray  you  now,  forget  and  forgive:  I  am  old  and  foolish. 

They  go  off.  The  gentleman  and  Kent,  who  remain  on  the 
scene,  talk  in  order  to  explain  to  the  audience  that  Edmund 
is  at  the  head  of  the  forces  and  that  a  battle  must  soon  begin 
between  Lear's  defenders  and  his  enemies.     So  Act  IV  ends. 

In  this  Fourth  Act  the  scene  between  Lear  and  his  daughter 
might  have  been  touching  had  it  not  been  preceded  in  three 
previous  acts  by  the  tedious  monotonous  ravings  of  Lear,  and 
also  had  it  been  the  final  scene  expressing  his  feelings,  but  it 
is  not  the  last. 

In  Act  V  Lear's  former  cold  pompous  artificial  ravings  are 
repeated,  destroying  the  impression  the  preceding  scene  might 
have  produced. 

Scene  I  of  Act  V  shows  us  Edmund  and  Regan  (who  is 
jealous  of  her  sister  and  offers  herself  to  Edmund).  Then 
Goneril  comes  on  with  her  husband  and  soldiers.  The  Duke 
of  Albany,  though  he  pities  Lear,  considers  it  his  duty  to 
fight  against  the  French  who  have  invaded  his  country,  and 
so  prepares  himself  for  battle. 

Then  Edgar  enters,  still  disguised,  and  hands  the  Duke  of 


416  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Albany  the  letter,  and  says  that  if  the  Duke  wins  the  battle 
he  should  let  a  herald  sound  a  trumpet,  and  then  (this  is  800 
years  B.  C.)  a  champion  will  appear  who  will  prove  that  the 
contents  of  the  letter  are  true. 

In  Scene  II  Edgar  enters  leading  his  father,  whom  he  seats 
by  a  tree,  and  himself  goes  off.  The  sounds  of  a  battle  are 
heard,  Edgar  runs  back  and  says  that  the  battle  is  lost;  Lear 
and  Cordelia  are  prisoners.  Gloucester  is  again  in  despair. 
Edgar,  still  not  disclosing  himself  to  his  father,  tells  him  that 
he  should  not  despair,  and  Gloucester  at  once  agrees  with 
him. 

Scene  III  opens  with  a  triumphal  progress  of  Edmund  the 
victor.  Lear  and  Cordelia  are  prisoners.  Lear,  though  he 
is  now  no  longer  insane,  still  utters  the  same  sort  of  sense- 
less, inappropriate  words,  as,  for  instance,  that  in  prison  with 
Cordelia, 

We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  i'  the  cage, 
When  thou  dost  ask  me  blessing,  I'll  kneel  down, 
And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness. 

(This  kneeling  down  comes  three  times  over.)  He  also  says 
that  when  they  are  in  prison  they  will  wear  out  poor  rogues 
and  "sects  of  great  ones  that  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon,"  that 
he  and  she  are  sacrifices  upon  which  "the  gods  throw  incense," 
that  "he  that  parts  them  shall  bring  a  brand  from  heaven,  and 
fire  us  hence  like  foxes"  and  that 

The  good  years  shall  devour  them,  flesh  and  fell, 
Ere  they  shall  make  us  weep, 

and  so  forth. 

Edmund  orders  Lear  and  his  daughter  to  be  led  away  to 
prison,  and  having  ordered  a  captain  to  do  them  some  hurt, 
asks  him  whether  he  will  fulfil  it.  The  captain  replies  "I 
cannot  draw  a  cart,  nor  eat  dried  oats;  but  if  it  be  man's 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  417 

work  I  will  do  it."  The  Duke  of  Albany,  Goneril,  and  Regan 
enter.  The  Duke  wishes  to  take  Lear's  part,  but  Edmund  op- 
poses this.  The  sisters  intervene  and  begin  to  abuse  each 
other,  being  jealous  of  Edmund.  Here  everything  becomes 
so  confused  that  it  is  difficult  to  follow  the  action.  The 
Duke  of  Albany  wants  to  arrest  Edmund,  and  tells  Regan 
that  Edmund  had  long  ago  entered  into  guilty  relations  with 
his  wife  and  that  therefore  Regan  must  give  up  her  claim  on 
Edmund,  and  if  she  wishes  to  marry  should  marry  him,  the 
Duke  of  Albany. 

Having  said  this,  the  Duke  challenges  Edmund  and  orders 
the  trumpet  to  be  sounded,  and  if  no  one  appears  intends  him- 
self to  fight  him. 

At  this  point  Regan,  whom  Goneril  has  evidently  poisoned, 
writhes  with  pain.  Trumpets  are  sounded  and  Edgar  enters 
with  a  visor  which  conceals  his  face,  and  without  giving 
his  name  challenges  Edmund.  Edgar  abuses  Edmund;  Ed- 
mund casts  back  all  the  abuse  on  Edgar's  head.  They  fight 
and  Edmund  falls.     Goneril  is  in  despair. 

The  Duke  of  Albany  shows  Goneril  her  letter.  Goneril 
goes  off. 

Edmund  while  dying  recognises  that  his  opponent  is  his 
brother.  Edgar  raises  his  visor  and  moralises  to  the  effect 
that  for  having  an  illegitimate  son,  Edmund,  his  father  has 
paid  with  the  loss  of  his  sight.  After  this  Edgar  tells  the 
Duke  of  Albany  of  his  adventures  and  that  he  has  only  now, 
just  before  coming  to  this  combat,  disclosed  himself  to  his 
father,  and  his  father  could  not  bear  it  and  died  of  excite- 
ment. Edmund,  who  is  not  yet  dead,  asks  what  else 
happened. 

Then  Edgar  relates  that  while  he  was  sitting  by  his  father's 
body  a  man  came,  embraced  him  closely,  cried  out  as  if  he 
would  burst  heaven,  threw  himself  on  his  father's  corpse,  and 
told  a  most  piteous  tale  about  Lear  and  himself,  and  having 


418  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

told  it  "the  strings  of  life  began  to  crack,"  but  just  then  the 
trumpet  sounded  twice  and  he,  Edgar,  left  him  "tranced." 
And  this  was  Kent.  Before  Edgar  had  finished  telling  this 
story  a  gentleman  runs  in  with  a  bloody  knife,  shouting, 
"Help ! "  To  the  question  "Who  has  been  killed  ?"  the  gentle- 
man says  that  Goneril  is  dead,  who  had  poisoned  her  sister. 
She  had  confessed  this.  Kent  enters,  and  at  this  moment 
the  bodies  of  Regan  and  Goneril  are  brought  in.  Edmund 
thereupon  says  that  evidently  the  sisters  loved  him  greatly, 
as  the  one  had  poisoned  the  other  and  then  killed  herself  for 
his  sake.  At  the  same  time  he  confesses  that  he  had  given 
orders  to  kill  Lear  and  hang  Cordelia  in  prison,  under  the 
pretence  that  she  had  committed  suicide;  but  that  he  now 
wishes  to  prevent  this,  and  having  said  so,  he  dies  and  is 
carried  out. 

After  this  Lear  enters  with  Cordelia's  dead  body  in  his 
arms  (though  he  is  over  eighty  years  of  age  and  ill).  And 
again  there  begin  his  terrible  ravings  which  make  one  feel 
as  ashamed  as  one  does  when  listening  to  unsuccessful  jokes. 
Lear  demands  that  they  should  all  howl,  and  alternately  be- 
lieves that  Cordelia  is  dead  and  that  she  is  alive.     He  says : 

Had  I  your  tongues  and  eyes,  I'd  use  them  so 
That  heaven's  vault  should  crack. 

Then  he  recounts  how  he  has  killed  the  slave  who  hanged 
Cordelia.  Next  he  says  that  his  eyes  see  badly,  and  there- 
upon recognises  Kent  whom  all  along  he  had  not  recognised. 

The  Duke  of  Albany  says  that  he  resigns  his  power  as  long 
as  Lear  lives,  and  that  he  will  reward  Edgar  and  Kent  and 
all  who  have  been  true  to  him.  At  that  moment  news  is 
brought  that  Edmund  has  died;  and  Lear,  continuing  his 
ravings,  begs  that  they  will  undo  one  of  his  buttons,  the  same 
request  he  made  when  he  was  roaming  about  the  heath.     He 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  419 

expresses  his  thanks  for  this,  tells  them  all  to  look  some- 
where, and  with  these  words  he  dies. 

In  conclusion  the  Duke  of  Albany,  who  remains  alive,  says : 

The  weight  of  this  sad  time  we  must  obey; 
Speak  what  we  feel,  not  what  we  ought  to  say. 
The  oldest  hath  borne  most:  we  that  are  young 
Shall  never  see  so  much,  nor  live  so  long. 

All  go  off  to  the  sound  of  a  dead  march.     This  ends 
Act  V  of  the  play. 


Ill 

Such  is  this  celebrated  play.  Absurd  as  it  may  appear  in 
this  rendering  (which  I  have  tried  to  make  as  impartial  as 
possible),  I  can  confidently  say  that  it  is  yet  more  absurd  in 
the  original.  To  any  man  of  our  time,  were  he  not  under 
the  hypnotic  influence  of  the  suggestion  that  this  play  is  the 
height  of  perfection,  it  would  be  enough  to  read  it  to  the  end, 
had  he  patience  to  do  so,  to  convince  himself  that  far  from 
being  the  height  of  perfection  it  is  a  very  poor,  carelessly 
constructed  work  which,  if  it  may  have  been  of  interest  to  a 
certain  public  of  its  own  day,  can  among  us  evoke  nothing 
but  aversion  and  weariness.  And  any  man  of  our  day  free 
from  such  suggestion  would  receive  just  the  same  impression 
from  the  other  much  praised  dramas  of  Shakespeare,  not  to 
speak  of  the  absurd  dramatised  tales,  Pericles,  Twelfth 
Night,  The  Tempest,  Cymbeline,  and  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

But  such  free-minded  people,  not  pre-disposed  to  Shake- 
speare worship,  are  no  longer  to  be  found  in  our  time  and  in 
our  Christian  society.  Into  every  man  of  our  society  and 
time,  from  an  early  period  of  his  conscious  life,  has  been  in- 
stilled the  idea  that  Shakespeare  is  a  poetic  and  dramatic 
genius  and  that  all  his  works  are  the  height  of  perfection, 


420  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

And  therefore,  superfluous  as  it  would  seem,  I  will  try  to  in- 
dicate in  the  play  of  King  Lear  which  I  have  chosen,  the 
defects  characteristic  of  all  Shakespeare's  tragedies  and 
comedies,  as  a  result  of  which  they  not  only  fail  to  furnish 
models  of  dramatic  art  but  fail  to  satisfy  the  most  elementary 
and  generally  recognised  requirements  of  art. 

According  to  the  laws  laid  down  by  those  very  critics  who 
extol  Shakespeare,  the  conditions  of  every  tragedy  are  that 
the  persons  who  appear  should,  as  a  result  of  their  own  char- 
acters, actions,  and  the  natural  movement  of  events,  be 
brought  into  conditions  in  which,  finding  themselves  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  world  around  them,  they  should  struggle  with  it 
and  in  that  struggle  display  their  inherent  qualities. 

In  the  tragedy  of  King  Lear  the  persons  represented  are 
indeed  externally  placed  in  opposition  to  the  surrounding 
world  and  struggle  against  it.  But  the  struggle  does  not  re- 
sult from  a  natural  course  of  events  and  from  their  own  char- 
acters, but  is  quite  arbitrarily  arranged  by  the  author,  and 
therefore  cannot  produce  on  the  reader  that  illusion  which 
constitutes  the  chief  condition  of  art.  Lear  is  under  no  neces- 
sity, and  has  no  reason,  to  resign  his  power.  And  having 
lived  all  their  lives  with  his  daughters  he  also  has  no  reason 
to  believe  the  words  of  the  two  elder,  and  not  to  believe  the 
truthful  statement  of  the  youngest;  yet  on  this  the  whole 
tragedy  of  his  position  is  built. 

Equally  unnatural  is  the  secondary  and  very  similar  plot: 
the  relation  of  Gloucester  to  his  sons.  The  position  of  Glou- 
cester and  Edgar  arises  from  the  fact  that  Gloucester,  just  like 
Lear,  immediately  believes  the  very  grossest  deception,  and 
does  not  even  try  to  ask  the  son  who  had  been  deceived, 
whether  the  accusation  against  him  is  true,  but  curses  him  and 
drives  him  away. 

The  fact  that  the  relation  of  Lear  to  his  daughters  is  just 
the  same  as  that  of  Gloucester  to  his  sons,  makes  one  feel  even 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  421 

more  strongly  that  they  are  both  arbitrarily  invented  and  do 
not  flow  from  the  characters  or  the  natural  course  of  events. 
Equally  unnatural  and  obviously  invented  is  the  fact  that 
all  through  the  play  Lear  fails  to  recognise  his  old  courtier, 
Kent ;  and  so  the  relations  of  Lear  and  Kent  fail  to  evoke  the 
sympathy  of  reader  or  hearer.  This  applies  in  an  even 
greater  degree  to  the  position  of  Edgar,  whom  nobody  rec- 
ognises, who  acts  as  guide  to  his  blind  father  and  persuades 
him  that  he  has  leapt  from  a  cliff  when  Gloucester  has  really 
jumped  on  level  ground. 

These  positions  in  which  the  characters  are  quite  arbitrar- 
ily placed  are  so  unnatural  that  the  reader  or  spectator  is 
unable  either  to  sympathise  with  their  sufferings  or  even  to  be 
interested  in  what  he  reads  or  hears.     That  in  the  first  place. 

Secondly,  there  is  the  fact  that  both  in  this  and  in  Shakes- 
peare's other  dramas  all  the  people  live,  think,  speak,  and  act, 
quite  out  of  accord  with  the  given  period  and  place.  The 
action  of  King  Lear  takes  place  800  years  B.  C,  and  yet  the 
characters  in  it  are  placed  in  conditions  possible  only  in  the 
Middle  Ages:  Kings,  dukes,  armies,  illegitimate  children, 
gentlemen,  courtiers,  doctors,  farmers,  officers,  soldiers, 
knights  in  armour,  and  so  on,  appear  in  it.  Perhaps  such 
anachronisms  (of  which  all  Shakespeare's  plays  are  full)  did 
not  infringe  the  possibility  of  illusion  in  the  16th  century  and 
the  beginning  of  the  17th,  but  in  our  time  it  is  no  longer 
possible  to  interest  oneself  in  the  development  of  events  one 
knows  could  not  have  occurred  in  the  conditions  the  author 
describes  in  detail. 

The  artificiality  of  the  positions,  which  do  not  arise  from  a 
natural  course  of  events  and  from  the  characters  of  the  peo- 
ple engaged,  and  their  incompatibility  with  the  period  and  the 
place,  is  further  increased  by  the  coarse  embellishments 
Shakespeare  continually  makes  use  of  in  passages  meant  to 
be    specially    touching.     The    extraordinary    storm    during 


422  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

which  Lear  roams  about  the  heath,  or  the  weeds  which  for 
some  reason  he  puts  on  his  head,  as  Ophelia  does  in  Hamlet, 
or  Edgar's  attire — all  these  effects,  far  from  strengthening 
the  impression,  produce  a  contrary  effect.  "Man  sieht  die 
Absicht  und  man  wird  verstimmt"  1  as  Goethe  says.  It  often 
happens — as  for  instance  with  such  obviously  intentional 
effects  as  the  dragging  out  of  half-a-dozen  corpses  by  the  legs, 
with  which  Shakespeare  often  ends  his  tragedies — that  in- 
stead of  feeling  fear  and  pity  one  feels  the  absurdity  of  the 
thing. 

IV 

But  not  only  are  the  characters  in  Shakespeare's  plays 
placed  in  tragic  positions  which  are  quite  impossible,  do  not 
result  from  the  course  of  events,  and  are  inappropriate  to  the 
period  and  the  place,  but  they  also  behave  in  a  way  not  in 
accord  with  their  own  definite  characters  and  that  is  quite  ar- 
bitrary. It  is  customary  to  assert  that  in  Shakespeare's 
dramas  character  is  particularly  well  expressed,  and  that  with 
all  his  vividness  his  people  are  as  many-sided  as  real  peo- 
ple, and  that  while  exhibiting  the  nature  of  a  certain  given 
individual  they  also  show  the  nature  of  man  in  general.  It 
is  customary  to  say  that  Shakespeare's  deHnejaJion  of  charac- 
ter is  the  height  of  perfection.  This  is  asserted  with  great 
confidence  and  repeated  by  everyone  as  an  indisputable 
verity,  but  much  as  I  have  tried  to  find  confirmation  of  this 
in  Shakespeare's  dramas,  I  have  always  found  the  reverse. 

From  the  very  beginning  of  reading  any  of  Shakespeare's 
plays  I  was  at  once  convinced  that  it  was  perfectly  evident 
that  he  is  lacking  in  the  chief,  if  not  the  sole,  means  of  por- 
traying character,  which  is  individuality  of  language — that 
each  person  should  speak  in  a  way  suitable  to  his  own  char- 

1  "One  sees  the  intention  and  one  is  put  off." 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  423 

acter.  That  is  lacking  in  Shakespeare.  All  his  characters 
speak,  not  a  language  of  their  own  but  always  one  and  the 
same  Shakespearean,  affected,  unnatural  language,  which 
not  only  could  they  not  speak,  but  which  no  real  people  could 
ever  have  spoken  anywhere. 

No  real  people  could  speak,  or  could  have  spoken,  as  Lear 
does — saying  that,  "I  would  divorce  me  from  thy  mother's 
tomb"  if  Regan  did  not  receive  him,  or  telling  the  winds  to 
"crack  your  cheeks,"  or  bidding  "the  wind  blow  the  earth  into 
the  sea,"  or  "swell  the  curl'd  waters  'bove  the  main,"  as  the 
gentleman  describes  what  Lear  said  to  the  storm,  or  that  it 
is  easier  to  bear  one's  griefs  and  "the  mind  much  sufferance 
doth  o'erskip,  when  grief  hath  mates,  and  bearing  fellow- 
ship" ("bearing"  meaning  suffering),  that  Lear  is  "childed, 
as  I  father'd,"  as  Edgar  says,  and  so  forth — unnatural  ex- 
pressions such  as  overload  the  speeches  of  the  people  in  all 
Shakespeare's  dramas. 

But  it  is  not  only  that  the  characters  all  talk  as  no  real  peo- 
ple ever  talked  or  could  talk;  they  are  also  all  afflicted  by 
a  common  intemperance  of  language. 

In  love,  preparing  for  death,  fighting  or  dying,  they  all 
talk  at  great  length  and  unexpectedly  about  quite  irrevelant 
matters,  guided  more  by  the  sound  of  the  words  and  by  puns 
than  by  the  thoughts. 

And  they  all  talk  alike.  Lear  raves  just  as  Edgar  does 
when  feigning  madness.  Kent  and  the  fool  both  speak  alike. 
The  words  of  one  person  can  be  put  into  the  mouth  of  an- 
other, and  by  the  character  of  the  speech  it  is  impossible  to 
know  who  is  speaking.  If  there  is  a  difference  in  the  speech 
of  Shakespeare's  characters,  it  is  only  that  Shakespeare 
makes  different  speeches  for  his  characters,  and  not  that 
they  speak  differently. 

Thus  Shakespeare  always  speaks  for  his  kings  in  one  and 
the  same  inflated,  empty  language.     Similarly  all  his  women 


424  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

who  are  intended  to  be  poetic,  speak  the  same  pseudo- 
sentimental  Shakespearean  language:  Juliet,  Desdemona, 
Cordelia,  and  Mariana.  In  just  the  same  way  also  it  is 
Shakespeare  who  always  speaks  for  his  villains:  Richard, 
Edmund,  Iago,  and  Macbeth — expressing  for  them  those 
maligant  feelings  which  villains  never  express.  And  yet  more 
identical  is  the  talk  of  his  madmen,  with  their  terrible  words, 
and  the  speeches  of  his  fools  with  their  mirthless  witticisms. 

So  that  the  individual  speech  of  living  people — that  indi- 
vidual speech  which  in  drama  is  the  chief  means  of  present- 
ing character — is  lacking  in  Shakespeare.  (If  gesture  is  also 
a  means  of  expressing  character,  as  in  the  ballet,  it  is  only 
a  subsidiary  means.)  If  the  characters  utter  whatever  comes 
to  hand  and  as  it  comes  to  hand  and  all  in  one  and  the  same 
way,  as  in  Shakespeare,  even  the  effect  of  gesture  is  lost; 
and  therefore  whatever  blind  worshippers  of  Shakespeare 
may  say,  Shakespeare  does  not  show  us  characters. 

Those  persons  who  in  his  dramas  stand  out  as  characters, 
are  characters  borrowed  by  him  from  earlier  works  which 
served  as  the  bases  of  his  plays,  and  they  are  chiefly  depicted, 
not  in  the  dramatic  manner  which  consists  of  making  each 
person  speak  in  his  own  diction,  but  in  the  epic  manner,  by 
one  person  describing  the  qualities  of  another. 

The  excellence  of  Shakespeare's  depiction  of  character  is 
asserted  chiefly  on  the  ground  of  the  characters  of  Lear,  Cor- 
delia, Othello,  Desdemona,  Falstaff,  and  Hamlet.  But 
these  characters,  like  all  the  others,  instead  of  belonging  to 
Shakespeare,  are  taken  by  him  from  previous  dramas,  chroni- 
cles, and  romances.  And  these  characters  were  not  merely  not 
strengthened  by  him,  but  for  the  most  part  weakened  and 
spoilt.  This  is  very  evident  in  the  drama  of  King  Lear 
which  we  are  considering,  and  which  was  taken  by  Shake- 
speare from  the  play  of  King  Leir  by  an  unknown  author. 
The  characters  of  this  drama,  such  as  Lear  himself  and  in  par- 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  425 

ticular  Cordelia,  were  not  only  not  created  by  Shakespeare,  but 
have  been  strikingly  weakened  by  him  and  deprived  of  per- 
sonality, as  compared  with  the  older  play. 

In  the  older  play  Leir  resigns  his  power  because,  having 
become  a  widower,  he  thinks  only  of  saving  his  soul.  He 
asks  his  daughters  about  their  love  for  him  in  order,  by 
means  of  a  cunning  device,  to  keep  his  youngest  and  favour- 
ite daughter  with  him  on  his  island.  The  two  eldest  are  be- 
trothed, while  the  youngest  does  not  wish  to  contract  a  love- 
less marriage  with  any  of  the  neighbouring  suitors  Leir  offers 
her,  and  he  is  afraid  she  may  marry  some  distant  potentate. 

The  device  he  has  planned,  as  he  explains  to  his  courtier 
Perillus  (Shakespeare's  Kent),  is  this:  that  when  Cordelia 
tells  him  that  she  loves  him  more  than  anyone,  or  as  much 
as  her  elder  sisters  do,  he  will  say  that  in  proof  of  her  love 
she  must  marry  a  prince  he  will  indicate  on  his  island. 

All  these  motives  of  Lear's  conduct  are  lacking  in  Shake- 
speare's play.  Then,  when  (according  to  the  older  play) 
Leir  asks  his  daughters  about  their  love  for  him,  Cordelia 
does  not  reply  (as  Shakespeare  has  it)  that  she  will  not  give 
her  father  all  her  love  but  will  also  love  her  husband  if  she 
marries — to  say  which  is  quite  unnatural — but  simply  says 
that  she  cannot  express  her  love  in  words  but  hopes  her  ac- 
tions will  prove  it.  Goneril  and  Regan  make  remarks  to 
the  effect  that  Cordelia's  answer  is  not  an  answer,  and  that 
their  father  cannot  quietly  accept  such  indifference.  So  that 
in  the  older  play  there  is  an  explanation,  lacking  in  Shake- 
speare, of  Leir's  anger  at  the  youngest  daughter's  reply.  Leir 
is  vexed  at  the  non-success  of  his  cunning  device,  and  the 
venomous  words  of  his  elder  daughters  add  to  his  irritation. 
After  the  division  of  his  kingdom  between  the  two  eldest 
daughters  in  the  older  play  comes  a  scene  between  Cordelia 
and  the  King  of  Gaul  which,  instead  of  the  impersonal  Shake- 
spearean Cordelia,  presents  us  with  a  very  definite  and  at- 


426  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

tractive  character  in  the  truthful,  tender,  self-denying  young- 
est daughter.  While  Cordelia,  not  repining  at  being  de- 
prived of  a  share  in  the  inheritance,  sits  grieving  that  she 
has  lost  her  father's  love  and  looking  forward  to  earning 
her  bread  by  her  own  toil,  the  King  of  Gaul  enters,  who  in 
the  disguise  of  a  pilgrim  wishes  to  choose  a  bride  from  among 
Leir's  daughters.  He  asks  Cordelia  the  cause  of  her  grief. 
She  tells  him  her  woe.  He,  having  fallen  in  love  with  her, 
in  his  pilgrim  guise  woos  her  for  the  King  of  Gaul,  but 
Cordelia  says  she  will  only  marry  a  man  she  loves.  Then 
the  pilgrim  offers  her  his  hand  and  heart,  and  Cordelia  con- 
fesses that  she  loves  him  and,  notwithstanding  the  poverty 
and  privation  that  she  thinks  awaits  her,  agrees  to  marry 
him.  Then  the  pilgrim  discloses  to  her  that  he  is  himself  the 
King  of  Gaul,  and  Cordelia  marries  him. 

Instead  of  this  scene  Lear,  according  to  Shakespeare,  pro- 
poses to  Cordelia's  two  suitors  to  take  her  without  dowry,  and 
one  cynically  refuses,  while  the  other  takes  her  without  our 
knowing  why. 

After  this  in  the  older  play,  as  in  Shakespeare,  Leir  under- 
goes insults  from  Goneril  to  whose  house  he  has  gone,  but 
he  bears  these  insults  in  a  very  different  way  from  that  repre- 
sented by  Shakespeare:  he  feels  that  by  his  conduct  to  Cor- 
delia he  has  deserved  them,  and  he  meekly  submits.  As  in 
Shakespeare  so  also  in  the  older  play,  the  courtier,  Perillus 
(Kent)  who  has  taken  Cordelia's  part  and  has  therefore  been 
punished,  comes  to  Leir,  only  not  disguised,  but  simply  as 
a  faithful  servant  who  does  not  abandon  his  King  in  a  mo- 
ment of  need,  and  assures  him  of  his  love.  Leir  says  to 
him  what  in  Shakespeare  Lear  says  to  Cordelia  in  the  last 
scene — that  if  his  daughters  whom  he  has  benefited  hate  him, 
surely  one  to  whom  he  has  done  evil  cannot  love  him.  But 
Perillus  (Kent)  assures  the  King  of  his  love,  and  Leir,  paci- 
fied goes  on  to  Regan.    In  the  older  play  there  are  no  tempests 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  427 

or  tearing  out  of  grey  hairs,  but  there  is  a  weakened  old 
Leir,  overpowered  by  grief  and  humbled,  and  driven  out  by 
his  second  daughter  also,  who  even  wishes  to  kill  him. 
Turned  out  by  his  eldest  daughters,  Leir  in  the  older  play, 
as  a  last  resource,  goes  with  Perillus  to  Cordelia.  Instead 
of  the  unnatural  expulsion  of  Leir  during  a  tempest  and  his 
roaming  about  the  heath,  in  the  old  play  Leir  with  Perillus 
during  their  journey  to  France  very  naturally  come  to  the 
last  degree  of  want.  They  sell  their  clothes  to  pay  for  the 
sea-crossing,  and  exhausted  by  cold  and  hunger  they  ap- 
proach Cordelia's  house  in  fishermen's  garb.  Here  again, 
instead  of  the  unnatural  conjoint  ravings  of  the  fool,  Lear, 
and  Edgar,  as  presented  by  Shakespeare,  we  have  in  the 
older  play  a  natural  scene  of  the  meeting  between  the  daugh- 
ter and  father.  Cordelia — who  notwithstanding  her  happi- 
ness has  all  the  time  been  grieving  about  her  father  and 
praying  God  to  forgive  her  sisters  who  have  done  him  so  much 
wrong — meets  him,  now  in  the  last  stage  of  want,  and  wishes 
immediately  to  disclose  herself  to  him,  but  her  husband  ad- 
vises her  not  to  do  so  for  fear  of  agitating  the  weak  old  man. 
She  agrees  and  takes  Leir  into  her  house,  and  without  reveal- 
ing herself  to  him  takes  care  of  him.  Leir  revives  little  by 
little,  and  then  the  daughter  asks  him  who  he  is,  and  how  he 
lived  formerly.     If,  says  Leir, 

.  .  .  from  the  first  I  should  relate  the  cause, 

I  would  make  a  heart  of  adamant  to  weep. 

And  thou,  poor  soul, 

Kind-hearted  as  thou  art, 

Dost  weep  already  ere  I  do  begin. 

Cordelia  replies: 

For  God's  love  tell  it,  and  when  you  have  done, 
I'll  tell  the  reason  why  I  weep  so  soon. 


428  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

And  Leir  relates  all  he  has  suffered  from  his  elder  daugh- 
ters, and  says  that  he  now  wishes  to  find  shelter  with  the  one 
who  would  be  right  should  she  condemn  him  to  death.  "If, 
however,"  he  says,  "she  will  receive  me  with  love,  it  will  be 
God's  and  her  work,  and  not  my  merit!"  To  this  Cordelia 
replies,  "Oh,  I  know  for  certain  that  thy  daughter  will  lov- 
ingly receive  thee!"  "How  canst  thou  know  this  without 
knowing  her?"  says  Leir.  "I  know,"  says  Cordelia,  "because 
not  far  from  here,  I  had  a  father  who  acted  towards  me  as 
badly  as  thou  hast  acted  towards  her,  yet  if  I  were  only  to  see 
his  white  head,  I  would  creep  to  meet  him  on  my  knees." 
"No,  this  cannot  be,"  says  Leir,  "for  there  are  no  children  in 
the  world  so  cruel  as  mine."  "Do  not  condemn  all  for  the 
sins  of  some,"  says  Cordelia,  falling  on  her  knees.  "Look 
here,  dear  father,"  she  says,  "look  at  me:  I  am  thy  loving 
daughter."  The  father  recognises  her  and  says:  "It  is  not 
for  thee,  but  for  me  to  beg  thy  pardon  on  my  knees  for  all 
my  sins  towards  thee." 

Is  there  anything  approaching  this  charming  scene  in 
Shakespeare's  drama? 

Strange  as  the  opinion  may  appear  to  Shakespeare's  de- 
votees, the  whole  of  this  older  play  is  in  all  respects  beyond 
compare  better  than  Shakespeare's  adaptation.  It  is  so,  first 
because  in  it  those  superfluous  characters — the  villain  Ed- 
mund and  the  unnatural  Gloucester  and  Edgar,  who  only 
distract  one's  attention — do  not  appear.  Secondly,  it  is  free 
from  the  perfectly  false  "effects"  of  Lear's  roaming  about  on 
the  heath,  his  talks  with  the  fool,  and  all  those  impossible 
disguises,  non-recognitions,  and  wholesale  deaths — above  all 
because  in  this  play  there  is  the  simple,  natural,  and  deeply 
touching  character  of  Leir,  and  the  yet  more  touching  and 
clearly  defined  character  of  Cordelia,  which  are  lacking  in 
Shakespeare.  And  also  because  there  is  in  the  older  drama, 
instead  of  Shakespeare's  daubed  scene  of  Lear's  meeting  with 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  429 

Cordelia  and  her  unnecessary  murder,  the  exquisite  scene  of 
Leir's  meeting  with  Cordelia,  which  is  unequalled  by  any- 
thing in  Shakespeare's  drama. 

The  older  play  also  terminates  more  naturally  and  more  in 
accord  with  the  spectators'  moral  demands  than  does  Shake- 
speare's, namely,  by  the  King  of  the  Gauls  conquering  the 
husbands  of  the  elder  sisters,  and  Cordelia  not  perishing, 
but  replacing  Leir  in  his  former  position. 

This  is  the  position  as  regards  the  drama  we  are  examining, 
borrowed  from  the  old  play  King  Leir. 

It  is  the  same  with  Othello,  which  is  taken  from  an  Italian 
story,  and  it  is  the  same  again  with  the  famous  Hamlet. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  Antony,  Brutus,  Cleopatra,  Shy- 
lock,  Richard,  and  all  Shakespeare's  characters;  they  are  all 
taken  from  antecedent  works.  Shakespeare,  taking  the  char- 
acters already  given  in  previous  plays,  stories,  chronicles,  or 
in  Plutarch's  Lives,  not  only  fails  to  make  them  more  true  to 
life  and  more  vivid,  as  his  adulators  assert,  but  on  the  con- 
trary always  weakens  them  and  often  quite  destroys  them,  as 
in  King  Leir :  making  his  characters  commit  actions  unnatural 
to  them,  and  making  them,  above  all,  talk  in  a  way  natural 
neither  to  them  nor  to  any  human  being.  So  in  Othello, 
though  this  is — we  will  not  say  the  best,  but  the  least  bad — 
the  least  overloaded  with  pompous  verbosity,  of  all  Shake- 
speare's dramas,  the  characters  of  Othello,  Iago,  Cassio, 
Emilia  are  far  less  natural  and  alive  in  Shakespeare  than  in 
the  Italian  romance.  In  Shakespeare  Othello  suffers  from 
epilepsy,  of  which  he  has  an  attack  on  the  stage.  Afterwards 
in  Shakespeare  the  murder  of  Desdemona  is  preceded  by  a 
strange  vow  uttered  by  Othello  on  his  knees,  and  besides  this, 
Othello  in  Shakespeare's  play  is  a  negro  and  not  a  Moor. 
All  this  is  unusual,  inflated,  unnatural,  and  infringes  the 
unity  of  the  character.  And  there  is  none  of  all  this  in  the 
romance.     In  the  romance  also  the  causes  of  Othello's  jeal- 


430  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

ousy  are  more  naturally  presented  than  in  Shakespeare.  In 
the  romance  Cassio,  knowing  whose  the  handkerchief  is, 
goes  to  Desdemona  to  return  it,  but  when  approaching  the 
back  door  of  Desdemona's  house  he  sees  Othello  coming  and 
runs  away  from  him.  Othello  perceives  Cassio  running 
away,  and  this  it  is  that  chiefly  confirms  his  suspicion.  This 
is  omitted  in  Shakespeare,  and  yet  this  casual  incident  ex- 
plains Othello's  jealousy  more  than  anything  else.  In 
Shakespeare  this  jealousy  is  based  entirely  on  Iago's  machi- 
nations, which  are  always  successful,  and  on  his  crafty 
speeches,  which  Othello  blindly  believes.  Othello's  mono- 
logue over  the  sleeping  Desdemona,  to  the  effect  that  he  wishes 
that  she  when  killed  should  look  as  she  is  when  alive,  and 
that  he  will  love  her  when  she  is  dead  and  now  wishes  to  in- 
hale her  "balmy  breath"  and  so  forth,  is  quite  impossible.  A 
man  who  is  preparing  to  murder  someone  he  loves  cannot 
utter  such  phrases,  and  still  less  after  the  murder  can  he  say 
that  the  sun  and  the  moon  ought  now  to  be  eclipsed  and  the 
globe  to  yawn,  nor  can  he,  whatever  kind  of  a  nigger  he  may 
be,  address  devils,  inviting  them  to  roast  him  in  sulphur,  and 
so  forth.  And  finally,  however  effective  may  be  his  suicide 
(which  does  not  occur  in  the  romance)  it  quite  destroys  the 
conception  of  his  firm  character.  If  he  really  suffers  from 
grief  and  remorse  then,  when  intending  to  kill  himself,  he 
would  not  utter  phrases  about  his  own  services,  about  a  pearl, 
about  his  eyes  dropping  tears  "as  fast  as  the  Arabian  trees 
their  medicinable  gum/'  and  still  less  could  he  talk  about  the 
way  a  Turk  scolded  a  Venetian,  and  how  "thus"  he  punished 
him  for  it!  So  that  despite  the  powerful  movement  of  feel- 
ing in  Othello,  when  under  the  influence  of  Iago's  hints 
jealousy  rises  in  him,  and  afterwards  in  his  scene  with  Desde- 
mona, one's  conception  of  Othello's  character  is  constantly 
infringed  by  false  pathos  and  by  the  unnatural  speeches  he 
utters. 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  431 

So  it  is  with  the  chief  character — Othello.  But  notwith- 
standing the  disadvantageous  alterations  it  has  undergone  in 
comparison  with  the  character  from  which  he  is  taken  in  the 
romance,  Othello  still  remains  a  character.  But  all  the  other 
personages  have  been  quite  spoilt  by  Shakespeare. 

Iago  in  Shakespeare's  play  is  a  complete  villain,  a  de- 
ceiver, a  thief,  and  avaricious;  he  robs  Roderigo,  succeeds  in 
all  sorts  of  impossible  designs,  and  therefore  is  a  quite  un- 
real person.  In  Shakespeare  the  motive  of  his  villainy  is, 
first,  that  he  is  offended  at  Othello  not  having  given  him  a 
place  he  desired;  secondly,  that  he  suspects  Othello  of  an  in- 
trigue with  his  wife;  and  thirdly  that,  as  he  says,  he  feels  a 
strange  sort  of  love  for  Desdemona.  There  are  many  mo- 
tives, but  they  are  all  vague.  In  the  romance  there  is  one 
motive,  and  it  is  simple  and  clear :  Iago's  passionate  love  for 
Desdemona,  changing  into  hatred  of  her  and  of  Othello  after 
she  had  preferred  the  Moor  to  him  and  had  definitely  re- 
pulsed him.  Yet  more  unnatural  is  the  quite  unnecessary 
figure  of  Roderigo,  whom  Iago  deceives  and  robs,  promising 
him  Desdemona's  love  and  obliging  him  to  do  as  he  is  or- 
dered :  to  make  Cassio  drunk,  to  provoke  him,  and  then  to  kill 
him.  Emilia,  who  utters  anything  it  occurs  to  the  author  to 
put  into  her  mouth,  bears  not  even  the  slightest  resemblance  to 
a  real  person. 

"But  Falstaff,  the  wonderful  Falstaff! "  Shakespeare's  eulo- 
gists, will  say.  "It  is  impossible  to  assert  that  he  is  not  a 
live  person,  and  that,  having  been  taken  out  of  an  anonymous 
comedy,  he  has  been  weakened." 

Falstaff,  like  all  Shakespeare's  characters,  was  taken  from 
a  play  by  an  unknown  author,  written  about  a  real  person, 
a  Sir  John  Oldcastle,  who  was  the  friend  of  some  Duke. 
This  Oldcastle  had  once  been  accused  of  heresy,  but  had  been 
saved  by  his  friend  the  Duke.  But  afterwards  he  was  con- 
demned and  burnt  at  the  stake  for  his  religious  beliefs,  which 


482  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

clashed  with  Catholicism.  To  please  the  Roman  Catholic 
public  an  unknown  author  wrote  a  play  about  Oldcastle,  ridi- 
culing this  martyr  for  his  faith  and  exhibiting  him  as  a 
worthless  man,  a  boon  companion  of  the  Duke;  and  from  this 
play  Shakespeare  took  not  only  the  character  of  Falstaff  but 
also  his  own  humorous  attitude  towards  him.  In  the  first 
plays  of  Shakespeare's  in  which  this  character  appears  he 
was  called  Oldcastle;  but  afterwards,  when  under  Elizabeth 
Protestantism  had  again  triumphed,  it  was  awkward  to  mock 
at  this  martyr  of  the  struggle  with  Catholicism,  and  besides, 
Oldcastle's  relatives  had  protested,  and  Shakespeare  changed 
the  name  from  Oldcastle  to  Falstaff — also  an  historical  char- 
acter, notorious  for  having  run  away  at  the  battle  of 
Agincourt. 

Falstaff  is  really  a  thoroughly  natural  and  characteristic 
personage,  almost  the  only  natural  and  characteristic  one 
depicted  by  Shakespeare.  And  he  is  natural  and  characteris- 
tic because,  of  all  Shakespeare's  characters,  he  alone  speaks  in 
a  way  proper  to  himself.  He  speaks  in  a  manner  proper  to 
himself  because  he  talks  just  that  Shakespearean  language, 
filled  with  jests  that  lack  humour  and  unamusing  puns, 
which,  while  unnatural  to  all  Shakespeare's  other  characters, 
is  quite  in  harmony  with  the  boastful,  distorted,  perverted 
character  of  the  drunken  Falstaff.  That  is  the  only  reason 
why  this  figure  really  presents  a  definite  character.  Unfortu- 
nately the  artistic  effect  of  the  character  is  spoilt  by  the  fact 
that  it  is  so  repulsive  in  its  gluttony,  drunkenness,  debauch- 
ery, rascality,  mejidacity,  and  cowardice,  that  it  is  difficult  to 
share  the  feeling  of  merry  humour  Shakespeare  adopts  to- 
wards it.     Such  is  the  case  with  Falstaff. 

But  in  none  of  Shakespeare's  figures  is,  I  will  not  say  his 
inability  but  his  complete  indifference,  to  giving  his  people 
characters  so  strikingly  noticeable  as  in  the  case  of  Hamlet, 
and  with  no  other  of  Shakespeare's  works  is  the  blind  worship 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  433 

of  Shakespeare  so  strikingly  noticeable — that  unreasoning 
hypnotism  which  does  not  even  admit  the  thought  that  any 
production  of  his  can  be  other  than  a  work  of  genius,  or 
that  any  leading  character  in  a  drama  of  his  can  fail  to  be 
the  expression  of  a  new  and  profoundly  conceived  character. 

Shakespeare  takes  the  ancient  story — not  at  all  bad  of  its 
kind — relating:  avec  quelle  ruse  Amlet  qui  depuis  jut  Roy  de 
Dannemarch,  vengea  la  mort  de  son  pere  Horwendille,  occis 
par  Fengon,  son  frere,  et  autre  occurrence  de  son  histoire,  or  a 
drama  that  was  written  on  the  same  theme  fifteen  years  be- 
fore him;  and  he  writes  his  play  on  this  subject  introducing  in- 
appropriately (as  he  constantly  does)  into  the  mouth  of  the 
chief  character  all  such  thoughts  of  his  own  as  seem  to  him 
worthy  of  attention.  Putting  these  thoughts  into  his  hero's 
mouth:  about  life  (the  grave-diggers);  about  death  ("To  be 
or  not  to  be") ;  those  he  had  expressed  in  his  sixty-sixth  son- 
net about  the  theatre  and  about  women — he  did  not  at  all  con- 
cern himself  as  to  the  circumstances  under  which  these 
speeches  are  delivered,  and  it  naturally  results  that  the  per- 
son uttering  these  various  thoughts  becomes  a  mere  phono- 
graph of  Shakespeare,  deprived  of  any  character  of  his  own; 
and  his  actions  and  words  do  not  agree. 

In  the  legend  Hamlet's  personality  is  quite  intelligible:  he 
is  revolted  by  the  conduct  of  his  uncle  and  his  mother,  wishes 
to  be  revenged  on  them,  but  fears  that  his  uncle  may  kill 
him  as  he  had  killed  his  father,  and  therefore  pretends  to  be 
mad,  wishing  to  wait  and  observe  all  that  was  going  on  at 
court.  But  his  uncle  and  his  mother,  being  afraid  of  him, 
wish  to  find  out  whether  he  is  feigning,  or  is  really  mad,  and 
send  a  girl  he  loves  to  him.  He  keeps  up  his  role,  and  after- 
wards sees  his  mother  alone,  kills  a  courtier  who  was  eaves- 
dropping, and  convicts  his  mother  of  her  sin.  Then  he  is 
sent  to  England.  He  intercepts  letters,  returns  from  Eng- 
land, and  revenges  himself  on  his  enemies,  burning  them  all. 


434  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

This  is  all  intelligible  and  flows  from  Hamlet's  character 
and  position.  But  Shakespeare,  by  putting  into  Hamlet's 
mouth  speeches  he  wished  to  publish  and  making  him  per- 
form actions  he  needed  to  secure  effective  scenes,  destroys 
all  that  forms  Hamlet's  character  in  the  legend.  Throughout 
the  whole  tragedy  Hamlet  does  not  do  what  he  might  wish  to 
do,  but  what  is  needed  for  the  author's  plans:  now  he  is  fright- 
ened by  his  father's  ghost,  and  now  he  begins  to  chaff  it,  calling 
it  "old  mole";  now  he  loves  Ophelia,  now  he  teases  her,  and 
so  on.  There  is  no  possibility  of  finding  any  explanation  of 
Hamlet's  actions  and  speeches,  and  therefore  no  possibility  of 
attributing  any  character  to  him. 

But  as  it  is  accepted  that  Shakespeare,  the  genius,  could 
write  nothing  bad,  learned  men  devote  all  the  power  of  their 
minds  to  discovering  extraordinary  beauties  in  what  is  an 
obvious  and  glaring  defect — particularly  obvious  in  Hamlet 
— namely, 'that  the  chief  person  in  the  play  has  no  character 
at  all.  And,  lo  and  behold,  profound  critics  announce  that 
in  this  drama,  in  the  person  of  Hamlet,  is  most  powerfully 
presented  a  perfectly  new  and  profound  character,  consist- 
ing in  this,  that  the  person  has  no  character;  and  that  in  this 
absence  of  character  lies  an  achievement  of  genius — the  crea- 
tion of  a  profound  character !  And  having  decided  this,  the 
learned  critics  write  volumes  upon  volumes,  until  the  Lauda- 
tions and  explanations  of  the  grandeur  and  importance  of 
depicting  the  character  of  a  man  without  a  character  fill  whole 
libraries.  It  is  true  that  some  critics  timidly  express  the 
thought  that  there  is  something  strange  about  this  person, 
and  that  Hamlet  is  an  unsolved  riddle;  but  no  one  ventures 
to  say,  as  in  Hans  Andersen's  story,  that  the  king  is  naked; 
that  it  is  clear  as  day  that  Shakespeare  was  unable,  and  did 
not  even  wish,  to  give  Hamlet  any  character  and  did  not  even 
understand  that  this  was  necessary!  And  learned  critics 
continue  to  study  and  praise  this  enigmatical  production, 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  435 

which  reminds  one  of  the  famous  inscribed  stone  found  by 
Pickwick  at  a  cottage  doorstep, — which  divided  the  scientific 
world  into  two  hostile  camps. 

So  that  neither  the  character  of  Lear,  nor  of  Othello,  nor 
of  Falstaff,  and  still  less  of  Hamlet,  at  all  confirms  the  ex- 
isting opinion  that  Shakespeare's  strength  lies  in  the  delinea- 
tion of  character. 

If  in  Shakespeare's  plays  some  figures  are  met  with  that 
have  characteristic  traits  (mostly  secondary  figures  as 
Polonius  in  Hamlet,  and  Portia  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice) 
these  few  life-like  figures — among  the  five  hundred  or  more 
secondary  figures,  and  with  the  complete  absence  of  character 
in  the  principal  figures — are  far  from  proving  that  the  ex- 
cellence of  Shakespeare's  dramas  lies  in  the  presentation  of 
character. 

That  a  great  mastery  in  the  presentation  of  character  is 
attributed  to  Shakespeare  arises  from  his  really  possessing 
a  peculiarity  which,  when  helped  out  by  the  play  of  good 
actors,  may  appear  to  superficial  observers  to  be  a  capacity  to 
manage  scenes  in  which  a  movement  of  feeling  is  expressed. 
However  arbitrary  the  positions  in  which  he  puts  his  charac- 
ters, however  unnatural  to  them  the  language  he  makes  them 
speak,  however  lacking  in  individuality  they  may  be,  the 
movement  of  feeling  itself,  its  increase  and  change  and  the 
combination  of  many  contrary  feelings,  are  often  expressed 
correctly  and  powerfully  in  some  of  Shakespeare's  scenes. 
And  this,  when  performed  by  good  actors,  evokes,  if  but  for 
a  while,  sympathy  for  the  persons  represented. 

Shakespeare,  himself  an  actor  and  a  clever  man,  knew  not 
only  by  speeches  but  by  exclamations,  gestures,  and  the  repeti- 
tion of  words,  how  to  express  the  state  of  mind  and  changes 
of  feeling  occurring  in  the  persons  represented.  So  that  in 
many  places  Shakespeare's  characters  instead  of  speaking, 
merely  exclaim,  or  weep,  or  in  the  midst  of  a  monologue  indi- 


TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

cate  the  pain  of  their  position  by  gesture  (as  when  Lear  asks 
to  have  a  button  undone),  or  at  a  moment  of  strong  excite- 
ment they  repeat  a  question  several  times  and  cause  a  word 
to  be  repeated  which  strikes  them,  as  is  done  by  Othello,  Mac- 
duff, Cleopatra,  and  others.  Similar  clever  methods  of  ex- 
pressing a  movement  of  feeling — giving  good  actors  a  chance 
to  show  their  powers — have  often  been  taken  by  many  critics 
for  the  expression  of  character.  But  however  strongly  the 
play  of  feeling  may  be  expressed  in  one  scene,  a  single  scene 
cannot  give  the  character  of  a  person,  when,  after  the  ap- 
propriate exclamations  or  gesture,  that  person  begins  to  talk 
lengthily  not  in  a  natural  manner  proper  to  him,  but  accord- 
ing to  the  author's  whim — uttering  things  unnecessary  and 
not  in  harmony  with  his  character. 


"Well,  but  the  profound  utterances  and  sayings  delivered 
by  Shakespeare's  characters?"  Shakespeare's  eulogists  will 
exclaim.  "Lear's  monologue  on  punishment,  Kent's  on  venge- 
ance, Edgar's  on  his  former  life,  Gloucester's  reflections  on 
the  perversity  of  fate,  and  in  other  dramas  the  famous  mono- 
logues of  Hamlet,  Antony  and  others?" 

Thoughts  and  sayings  may  be  appreciated,  I  reply,  in 
prose  works,  in  essays,  in  collections  of  aphorisms,  but  not 
in  artistic  dramatic  works  the  aim  of  which  is  to  elicit  sym- 
pathy with  what  is  represented.  And  therefore  the  mono- 
logues and  sayings  of  Shakespeare,  even  if  they  contained 
many  very  profound  and  fresh  thoughts,  which  is  not  the  case, 
cannot  constitute  the  excellence  of  an  artistic  and  poetic  work. 
On  the  contrary,  these  speeches,  uttered  in  unnatural  condi- 
tions, can  only  spoil  artistic  works. 

f  An  artistic  poetic  work,  especially  a  drama,  should  first  of 
,  all  evoke  in  reader  or  spectator  the  illusion  that  what  the  per- 
sons represented  are  living  through  and  experiencing,  is  be- 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  437 

ing  lived  through  and  experienced  by  himself.  And  for  this 
purpose  it  is  not  more  important  for  the  dramatist  to  know 
precisely  what  he  should  make  his  acting  characters  do  and 
say,  than  it  is  to  know  what  he  should  not  make  them  say  and 
do  so  as  not  to  infringe  the  reader's  or  spectator's  illusion^ 
However  eloquent  and  profound  they  may  be,  speeeches  put 
into  the  mouths  of  acting  characters  if  they  are  superfluous 
and  do  not  accord  with  the  situation  and  the  characters,  infringe 
the  main  condition  of  dramatic  work — the  illusion  causing 
the  reader  or  spectator  to  experience  the  feelings  of  the  per- 
sons represented.  One  may  without  infringing  the  illusion 
leave  much  unsaid:  the  reader  or  spectator  will  himself  sup- 
ply what  is  needed  and  sometimes  as  a  result  of  this  his  illu- 
sion is  even  increased;  but  to  say  what  is  superfluous  is  like 
jerking  and  scattering  a  statue  made  up  of  small  pieces,  or 
taking  the  lamp  out  of  a  magic  lantern.  The  reader's  or 
spectator's  attention  is  distracted,  the  reader  sees  the  author, 
the  spectator  sees  the  actor,  the  illusion  is  lost,  and  to  re- 
create it  is  sometimes  impossible.  And  therefore  without 
a  sense  of  proportion  there  cannot  be  an  artist,  especially  a 
dramatist.  And  Shakespeare  is  entirely  devoid  of  this  feeling. 
Shakespeare's  characters  continually  do  and  say  what  is 
not  merely  unnatural  to  them  but  quite  unnecessary.  I  will 
not  cite  examples  of  this,  for  I  think  that  a  man  who  does 
not  himself  perceive  this  striking  defect  in  all  Shakespeare's 
dramas  will  not  be  convinced  by  any  possible  examples  or 
proofs.  It  is  sufficient  to  read  King  Lear  alone,  with  the 
madness,  the  murders,  the  plucking  out  of  eyes,  Gloucester's 
jump,  the  poisonings,  and  the  torrents  of  abuse — not  to  men- 
tion Pericles,  A  Winter's  Tale — or  The  Tempest,  to  convince 
oneself  of  this.  Only  a  man  quite  devoid  of  the  sense  of 
proportion  and  taste  could  produce  the  types  of  Titus  An- 
dronicus  and  Troilus  and  Cressida,  and  so  mercilessly  distort 
the  old  drama  of  King  Leir. 


438  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Gervinus  tries  to  prove  that  Shakespeare  possessed  a  feel- 
ing of  beauty,  Schonheit's  Sinn,  but  all  Gervinus's  proofs 
only  show  that  he  himself,  Gervinus,  completely  lacked  it. 
In  Shakespeare  everything  is  exaggerated :  the  actions  are  ex- 
aggerated, so  are  their  consequences,  the  speeches  of  the  char- 
acters are  exaggerated,  and  therefore  at  every  step  the  possi- 
bility of  artistic  impression  is  infringed. 

Whatever  people  may  say,  however  they  may  be  enrap- 
tured by  Shakespeare's  works,  whatever  merits  they  may  at- 
tribute to  them,  it  is  certain  that  he  was  not  an  artist,  and 
that  his  works  are  not  artistic  productions.  Without  a  sense 
of  proportion  there  never  was  or  could  be  an  artist,  just  as 
without  a  sense  of  rhythm  there  cannot  be  a  musician.  And 
Shakespeare  may  be  anything  you  like — only  not  an  artist. 

"But  one  must  not  forget  the  times  in  which  Shakespeare 
wrote,"  says  his  belauders.  "It  was  a  time  of  cruel  and  coarse 
manners,  a  time  of  the  then  fashionable  euphuism,  that  is, 
an  artificial  manner  of  speech — a  time  of  forms  of  life  strange 
to  us,  and  therefore  to  judge  Shakespeare  one  must  keep  in 
view  the  times  when  he  wrote.  In  Homer,  as  in  Shakespeare, 
there  is  much  that  is  strange  to  us,  but  this  does  not  prevent 
our  valuing  the  beauties  of  Homer,"  say  the  belauders.  But 
when  one  compares  Shakespeare  with  Homer,  as  Gervinus 
does,  the  infinite  distance  separating  true  poetry  from  its 
imitation  emerges  with  special  vividness.  However  distant 
Homer  is  from  us,  we  can  without  the  slightest  effort  trans- 
port ourselves  into  the  life  he  describes.  And  we  are  thus 
transported  chiefly  because,  however  alien  to  us  may  be  the 
events  Homer  describes,  he  believes  in  what  he  says  and 
speaks  seriously  of  what  he  is  describing,  and  therefore  he 
never  exaggerates  and  the  sense  of  measure  never  deserts  him. 
And  therefore  it  happens  that,  not  to  speak  of  the  wonderfully 
distinct,  life-like,  and  excellent  characters  of  Achilles,  Hec- 
tor, Priam,  Odysseus,  and  the  eternally  touching  scenes  of 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  439 

Hector's  farewell,  of  Priam's  embassy,  of  the  return  of  Odys- 
seus, and  so  forth,  the  whole  of  the  Iliad  and  particularly  the 
Odyssey,  is  as  naturally  close  to  us  all  as  if  we  had  lived  and 
were  now  living  among  the  gods  and  heroes.  But  it  is  not  so 
with  Shakespeare.  From  his  first  words  exaggeration  is 
seen:  exaggeration  of  events,  exaggeration  of  feeling,  and  ex- 
aggeration of  expressions.  It  is  at  once  evident  that  he  does 
not  believe  in  what  he  is  saying,  that  he  doesn't  need  it,  that 
he  is  inventing  the  occurrences  he  describes,  is  indifferent  to 
his  characters,  and  has  devised  them  merely  for  the  stage,  and 
therefore  makes  them  do  and  say  what  may  strike  his  pub- 
lic; and  so  we  do  not  believe  either  in  the  events,  or  in  the 
actions,  or  in  the  sufferings  of  his  characters.  Nothing  so 
clearly  shows  the  complete  absence  of  esthetic  feeling  in 
Shakespeare,  as  a  comparison  between  him  and  Homer.  The 
works  which  we  call  the  works  of  Homer,  are  artistic,  poetic, 
original  works,  lived  through  by  their  author  or  authors. 

But  Shakespeare's  works  are  compositions  devised  for  a 
particular  purpose  and  having  absolutely  nothing  in  common 
with  art  or  poetry. 

VI 

But  perhaps  the  loftiness  of  Shakespeare's  conception  of 
life  is  such  as,  even  though  he  does  not  satisfy  the  demands  of 
esthetics,  discloses  to  us  so  new  and  important  a  view  of  life 
that  in  consideration  of  its  value  all  his  artistic  defects  become 
unnoticeable.  This  is  indeed  what  some  belauders  of  Shake- 
speare say.  Gervinus  plainly  says  that  besides  Shakespeare's 
significance  in  the  sphere  of  dramatic  poetry,  in  which  in 
his  opinion  he  is  the  equal  of  "Homer  in  the  sphere  of  the 
epic;  Shakespeare  being  the  greatest  judge  of  the  human  soul, 
is  a  teacher  of  most  indisputable  ethical  authority,  and  the 
most  select  leader  in  the  world  and  in  life." 


440  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

In  what  then  does  this  indubitable  authority  of  the  most 
select  teacher  in  the  world  and  in  life  consist?  Gervinus  de- 
votes the  concluding  chapter  of  his  second  volume  (some  fifty 
pages)  to  an  explanation  of  this. 

The  ethical  authority  of  this  supreme  teacher  of  life,  in 
the  opinion  of  Gervinus,  consists  in  the  following:  "Shake- 
speare's moral  view  starts  from  the  simple  point,"  says  Ger- 
vinus, "that  man  is  born  with  powers  of  activity,"  and  there- 
fore, first  of  all,  says  Gervinus,  Shakespeare  regarded  it  as 
"an  obligation  to  use  our  inherent  power  of  action."  (As  if 
it  were  possible  for  man  not  to  act !  )  l 

"Die  thatfrdftigen  Manner,  Fortinbras,  Bolingbroke,  Alci- 
biades,  Octavius  spielen  hier  die  gegensdtzlichen  Rollen  gegen 
die  verschiedenen  Thatlosen;  nicht  ihre  Charaktere  verdienen 
ihnen  Allen  ihr  Gluck  und  Gedeihen  etwa  durch  eine  grosse 
Ueberlegenheit  ihre  Natur,  sondern  trotz  ihrer  geringern  An- 
lage  stellt  sich  ihre  Thatkraft  an  sich  uber  die  Unthatigkeit 
der  Anderen  hinaus,  gleichviel  aus  wie  schbner  Quelle  diese 
Passivitat,  aus  wie  schlechter  jene  Thatigkeit  fliesse"  2 

That  is  to  say,  that  active  people  like  Fortinbras,  Boling- 
broke, Alcibiades  and  Octavius,  Gervinus  informs  us,  are 
contrasted  by  Shakespeare  with  various  characters  who  do  not 
display  energetic  activity.  And,  according  to  Shakespeare, 
happiness  and  success  are  attained  by  people  who  possess  this 
active  character,  not  at  all  as  a  result  of  their  superiority  of 
nature.  On  the  contrary,  in  spite  of  their  inferior  talents, 
their  energy  in  itself  always  gives  them  the  advantage  over 
the  inactive  people,  no  matter  whether  their  inactivity  re- 
sults from  excellent  impulses,  or  the  activity  of  the  others  from 
base   ones.     Activity    is   good,    inactivity   is   evil.     Activity 

1  This  and  the  quotations  in  English  that  follow  are  taken  from  Shakespeare's 
Commentaries,  by  Dr.  G.  G.  Gervinus,  translated  by  F.  G.  Bennett,  London, 
1877. 

2  Shakespeare,  Von  G.  G.  Gervinus,  Leipzig,  1872.    Vol.  II,  pp.  550-51. 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  441 

transforms  evil  into  good,  says  Shakespeare,  according  to 
Gervinus.  " Shakespeare  prefers  the  principle  of  Alexander 
to  that  of  Diogenes,"  says  Gervinus.  In  other  words,  ac- 
cording to  him,  Shakespeare  prefers  death  and  murder  from 
ambition,  to  self-restraint  and  wisdom.1 

According  to  Gervinus,  Shakespeare  considers  that  hu- 
manity should  not  set  itself  ideals,  but  that  all  that  is  neces- 
sary is  healthy  activity,  and  a  golden  mean  in  everything. 
Indeed  Shakespeare  is  so  imbued  with  this  wise  moderation 
that,  in  the  words  of  Gervinus,  he  even  allows  himself  to 
deny  Christian  morality,  which  makes  exaggerated  demands 
on  human  nature.  "How  thoroughly  penetrated  Shakespeare 
was  with  this  principle  of  wise  moderation,"  says  Gervinus, 
"is  shewn  perhaps  most  strongly  in  this,  that  he  ventured  even 
to  oppose  Christian  laws  which  demand  an  overstraining  of 
human  nature;  for  he  approved  not  that  the  limits  of  duty 
should  be  extended  beyond  the  intention  of  nature.  He 
taught  therefore  the  wise  and  human  medium  between  the 
Christian  and  heathen  precepts"  (p.  917) — a  reasonable 
mean,  natural  to  man,  between  Christian  and  pagan  injunc- 
tions— on  the  one  hand,  love  of  one's  enemies,  and  on  the 
other,  hatred  of  them ! 

"That  it  is  possible  to  do  too  much  in  good  things,  is  an  ex- 
press doctrine  of  Shakespeare,  both  in  word  and  example. 
.  .  .  Thus  excessive  liberality  ruins  Timon,  whilst  moderate 
generosity  keeps  Antonio  in  honour;  the  genuine  ambition 
which  makes  Henry  V  great  overthrows  Percy,  in  whom  it 
rises  too  high.  Exaggerated  virtue  brings  Angelo  to  ruin; 
and  when  in  those  near  him  the  excess  of  punishment  proves 
harmful  and  cannot  hinder  sin,  then  mercy,  the  most  God- 


4 


1  Tolstoy's  essay  Non-acting   (see  Essays  and  Letters  in  the  "World's  Classics' 
'series)   deals  with  a  controversy  that  occurred  in  1893  between  Zola  and  Dumas 
In  it  Tolstoy  controverts  the  opinion  that  activity  in  itself,  lacking  moral  guidance,   J 
*s  beneficial. 


442  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

like  gift  that  man  possesses,  is  also  exhibited  in  its  excess, 
as  the  producer  of  sin." 

Shakespeare,  says  Gervinus,  taught  that  one  may  do  too 
much  good.  He  teaches,  says  Gervinus,  "that  morality,  like 
politics,  is  a  matter  so  complicated  with  relations,  conditions 
of  life,  and  motives,  that  it  is  impossible  to  bring  it  to  final 
principles"  (p.  918). 

"In  Shakespeare's  opinion  (and  here  also  he  is  one  with 
Bacon  and  Aristotle)  there  is  no  positive  law  of  religion  or 
morals  which  could  form  a  rule  of  moral  action  in  precepts 
ever  binding  and  suitable  for  all  cases." 

Gervinus  most  clearly  expresses  Shakespeare's  whole  moral 
theory  by  saying  that  Shakespeare  does  not  write  for  those 
classes  for  whom  definite  religious  principles  and  laws  are 
suitable  (that  is  to  say,  for  999  out  of  1000  of  mankind),  but 
for  the  cultivated,  who  have  made  their  own  a  healthy  tact  in 
life  and  such  an  instinctive  feeling  as,  united  with  conscience 
reason  and  will,  can  direct  them  to  worthy  aims  of  life.  But 
even  for  these  fortunate  ones,  in  the  opinion  of  Gervinus,  this 
teaching  may  be  dangerous  if  it  is  taken  incompletely.  It 
must  be  taken  whole.  "There  are  classes,"  says  Gervinus, 
"whose  morality  is  best  provided  for  by  the  positive  letter  of 
religion  and  law;  but  for  such  as  these  Shakespeare's  writ- 
ings are  in  themselves  inaccessible;  they  are  only  readable 
and  comprehensible  to  the  cultivated,  of  whom  it  can  be  re- 
quired that  they  should  appropriate  to  themselves  the  healthy 
measure  of  life,  and  that  self-reliance  in  which  the  guiding 
and  inherent  powers  of  conscience  and  reason,  united  with 
the  will,  are,  when  consciously  apprehended,  worthy  aims  of 
life"  (p.  919).  "But  even  for  the  cultivated  also,  Shake- 
speare's doctrine  may  not  always  be  without  danger.  .  .  . 
The  condition  on  which  his  doctrine  is  entirely  harmless  is 
this,  that  it  should  be  fully  and  completely  received  and  with- 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  443 

out  any  expurging  and  separating.  Then  it  is  not  only  with- 
out danger,  but  it  is  also  more  unmistakable  and  more  in- 
fallible, and  therefore  more  worthy  of  our  confidence,  than 
any  system  of  morality  can  be,"  (p.  919). 

And  in  order  to  accept  it  all,  one  should  understand  that 
according  to  his  teaching  it  is  insane  and  harmful  for  an  indi- 
vidual to  rise  against,  or  "disregard  the  bonds  of  religion 
and  the  state"  (p.  921 ).  For  Shakespeare  would  abhor  a  free 
and  independent  personality  who  strong  in  spirit  should  op- 
pose any  law  in  politics  or  morals  and  should  disregard  the 
union  of  the  state  and  religion  "which  has  kept  society  together 
for  centuries"  (p.  921).  "For  in  his  opinion  the  practi- 
cal wisdom  of  man  would  have  no  higher  aim  than  to  carry 
into  society  the  utmost  possible  nature  and  freedom,  but  for 
that  very  reason,  and  that  he  might  maintain  sacred  and  in- 
violable the  natural  laws  of  society,  he  would  respect  exist- 
ing forms,  yet  at  the  same  time  penetrate  into  their  rational 
substance  with  sound  criticism,  not  forgetting  nature  in  civ- 
ilization, nor,  equally,  civilization  in  nature."  Property,  the 
family,  the  state,  are  sacred.  But  the  aspiration  to  recognize 
the  equality  of  man,  is  insane.  "Jt^s  realization  would  bring 
the  greatest  harm  to  humanity"  (p.  925). 

"No  man  has  fought  more  strongly  against  rank  and  class 
prejudices,  than  Shakespeare,  but  how  could  his  liberal  prin- 
ciples have  been  pleased  with  the  doctrines  of  those  who 
would  have  done  away  with  the  prejudices  of  the  rich  and 
cultivated,  only  to  replace  them  with  the  interests  and  preju- 
dices of  the  poor  and  uncultivated?  How  would  this  man, 
who  allures  so  eloquently  to  the  course  of  honour,  have  ap- 
proved, if  in  annulling  rank,  degrees  of  merit,  distinction,  we 
extinguish  every  impulse  to  greatness,  and  by  the  removal 
of  all  degrees,  'shake  the  ladder  to  all  high  designs'?  If  in- 
deed no  surreptitious  honour  and  false  power  were  longer 


444  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

to  oppress  mankind,  how  would  the  poet  have  acknowledged 
the  most  fearful  force  of  all,  the  power  of  barbarity?  In 
consequence  of  these  modern  doctrines  of  equality,  he  would 
have  apprehended  that  everything  would  resolve  itself  into 
power;  or  if  this  were  not  the  final  lot  which  awaited  man- 
kind from  these  aspirations  after  equality,  if  love  between 
nationalities  and  endless  peace  were  not  that  'nothing'  of  im- 
possibility, as  Alonso  expresses  it  in  the  Tempest,  but  could 
be  an  actual  fruit  of  these  efforts  after  equality,  then  the  poet 
would  have  believed  with  this  time  the  old  age  and  decrepi- 
tude of  the  world  to  have  arrived,  in  which  it  were  worthless 
to  the  active  to  live"  (p.  925). 

Such  is  Shakespeare's  view  of  life  as  explained  by  his 
greatest  exponent  and  admirer.  Another  of  the  recent  be- 
lauders  of  Shakespeare,  Brandes,  adds  the  following : 

"No  one,  of  course,  can  preserve  his  life  quite  pure  from 
injustice,  from  deception,  and  from  doing  harm  to  others,  but 
injustice  and  deception  are  not  always  vices,  and  even  the 
harm  done  to  other  people  is  not  always  a  vice:  it  is  often 
only  a  necessity,  a  legitimate  weapon,  a  right.  At  bottom, 
Shakespeare  had  always  held  that  there  were  no  such  things 
as  unconditional  duties  and  absolute  prohibitions.  He  had 
never,  for  example,  questioned  Hamlet's  right  to  kill  the 
King,  scarcely  even  his  right  to  run  his  sword  through 
Polonius.  Nevertheless  he  had  hitherto  been  unable  to  con- 
quer a  feeling  of  indignation  and  disgust  when  he  saw  around 
him  nothing  but  breaches  of  the  simplest  moral  laws.  Now, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  dim  divinations  of  his  earlier  years 
crystallised  in  his  mind  into  a  coherent  body  of  thought:  no 
commandment  is  unconditional;  it  is  not  in  the  observance  or 
non-observance  of  an  external  fiat  that  the  merits  of  an  ac- 
tion, to  say  nothing  of  a  character,  consists:  everything  de- 
pends upon  the  volitional  substance  into  which  the  individual, 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  445 

as  a  responsible  agent,  transmits  the  formal  imperative  at 
the  moment  of  decision."  * 

In  other  words  Shakespeare  now  sees  clearly  that  the 
morality  of  the  aim  is  the  only  true,  the  only  possible  one;  so 
that,  according  to  Brandes,  Shakespeare's  fundamental  prin- 
ciple, for  which  he  is  extolled,  is  that  the  endLJustiJies_tke 
means.  Action  at  all  costs,  the  absence  of  all  ideals,  modera- 
tion in  everything,  the  maintenance  of  established  forms  of 
life,  and  the  maxim  that  " the  end  justifies  the  means." 

If  one  adds  to  this  a  Chauvinistic  English  patriotism,  ex- 
pressed in  all  his  historical  plays:  a  patriotism  according  to 
which  the  English  throne  is  something  sacred,  the  English  al- 
ways defeat  the  French,  slaughtering  thousands  and  losing 
only  scores,  Jeanne  d'Arc  is  a  witch,  Hector  and  all  the  Tro- 
jons — from  whom  the  English  are  descended — are  heroes 
while  the  Greeks  are  cowards  and  traitors,  and  so  forth:  this 
is  the  view  of  life  of  the  wisest  teacher  of  life  according  to 
his  greatest  admirer.  And  anyone  who  reads  attentively  the 
works  of  Shakespeare  cannot  but  acknowledge  that  the  attri- 
bution of  this  view  of  life  to  Shakespeare  by  those  who  praise 
him  is  perfectly  correct. 

The  value  of  every  poetical  work  depends  on  three 
qualities : 

1)  The  content  of  the  work:  the  more  important  the  con- 
tent, that  is  to  say,  the  more  important  it  is  for  the  life  of  man, 
the  greater  is  the  work. 

2)  The  external  beauty  achieved  by  the  technical  methods 
proper  to  the  particular  kind  of  art.  Thus  in  dramatic  art 
the  technical  method  will  be :  that  the  characters  should  have 
a  true  individuality  of  their  own,  a  natural  and  at  the  same 
time  a  touching  plot,  a  correct  presentation  on  the  stage  of 


1  William  Shakepeare,  by  Georges  Brandes,  translated  by  William  Archer  and 
Miss  Morison.    London,  1898,  p.  921.  J 


446  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

the  manifestation  and  development  of  feelings,  and  a  sense  of 
proportion  in  all  that  is  presented. 

3)  Sincerity,  that  is  to  say  that  the  author  should  himself 
vividly  feel  what  he  expresses.  Without  this  condition  there 
can  be  no  work  of  art,  as  the  essence  of  art  consists  in  the 
infection  of  the  contemplator  of  a  work  by  the  author's 
feeling.  If  the  author  has  not  felt  what  he  is  expressing,  the 
recipient  cannot  become  infected  by  the  author's  feeling,  he 
does  not  experience  any  feeling,  and  the  production  cannot  be 
classed  as  a  work  of  art. 

The  content  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  as  is  seen  by  the  ex- 
planations of  his  greatest  admirers,  is  the  lowest,  most  vulgar 
view  of  life,  which  regards  the  external  elevation  of  the  great 
ones  of  the  earth  as  a  genuine  superiority;  despises  the  crowd, 
that  is  to  say,  the  working  classes;  and  repudiates  not  only 
religious,  but  even  any  humanitarian,  efforts  directed  towards 
the  alteration  of  the  existing  order  of  society. 

The  second  condition  is  also  absent  in  Shakespeare  except 
in  his  handling  of  scenes  in  which  a  movement  of  feelings  is 
expressed.  There  is  in  his  works  a  lack  of  naturalness  in 
the  situations,  the  characters  lack  individuality  of  speech,  and 
a  sense  of  proportion  is  also  wanting,  without  which  such 
works  cannot  be  artistic. 

The  third  and  chief  condition — sincerity — is  totally  absent 
in  all  Shakespeare's  works.  One  sees  in  all  of  them  an  in- 
tentional artificiality;  it  is  obvious  that  he  is  not  in  earnest 
but  is  playing  with  words. 

VII 

The  works  of  Shakespeare  do  not  meet  the  demands  of 
every  art,  and  besides  that  their  tendency  is  very  low  and  im- 
moral. What  then  is  the  meaning  of  the  immense  fame  these 
works  have  enjoyed  for  more  than  a  hundred  years? 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  447 

To  reply  to  this  question  seems  the  more  difficult  because 
if  the  works  of  Shakespeare  had  any  kind  of  excellence,  the 
achievement  which  has  produced  the  exaggerated  praise  lav- 
ished upon  them,  would  at  least  be  to  some  extent  intelligible. 
But  here  two  extremes  meet:  works  which  are  beneath  criti- 
cism, insignificant,  empty,  and  immoral — and  insensate,  uni- 
versal laudation,  proclaiming  these  works  to  be  above  every- 
thing that  has  ever  been  produced  by  man. 

How  is  this  to  be  explained? 

Many  times  during  my  life  I  have  had  occasion  to  discuss 
Shakespeare  with  his  admirers,  not  only  with  people  little 
sensitive  to  poetry,  but  also  with  those  who  felt  poetic  beauty 
keenly,  such  as  Turgeney,  Fet,1  and  others,  and  each  time 
I  have  encountered  one  and  the  same  attitude  towards  my 
disagreement  with  the  belaudment  of  Shakespeare. 

I  was  not  answered  when  I  pointed  out  Shakespeare's  de- 
fects ;  they  only  pitied  me  for  my  want  of  comprehension  and 
urged  on  me  the  necessity  of  acknowledging  the  extraor- 
dinary supernatural  grandeur  of  Shakespeare.  They  did 
not  explain  to  me  in  what  the  beauties  of  Shakespeare  con- 
sist, but  were  merely  indefinitely  and  exaggeratedly  enthusi- 
astic about  the  whole  of  Shakespeare,  extolling  some  favour- 
ite passages:  the  undoing  of  Lear's  button,  Falstaff's  lying, 
Lady  Macbeth's  spot  which  would  not  wash  out,  Hamlet's 
address  to  the  ghost  of  his  father,  the  " forty  thousand  broth- 
ers," "none  does  offend,  none,  I  say  none,"  and  so  forth. 

"Open  Shakespeare,"  I  used  to  say  to  these  admirers  of 
his,  "where  you  will  or  as  may  chance,  and  you  will  see 
that  you  will  never  find  ten  consecutive  lines  that  are  com- 
prehensible, natural,  characteristic  of  the  person  who  utters 
them,  and  productive  of  an  artistic  impression."  (Anyone 
may  make  this  experiment.)     And  the  belauders  of  Shake- 

1  A  Russian  poet  of  much  delicacy  of  feeling,   for  many  years  a  great  friend 
of  Tolstoy's.    He  is  frequently  referred  to  in  my  Life  of  Tolstoy. — A.  M. 


448  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

speare  opened  pages  in  Shakespeare's  dramas  by  chance,  or 
at  their  own  choice,  and  without  paying  any  attention  to  the 
reasons  I  adduced  as  to  why  the  ten  lines  selected  did  not 
meet  the  most  elementary  demands  of  esthetics  or  good  sense, 
praised  the  very  things  that  appeared  to  me  absurd,  unin- 
telligible, and  inartistic. 

So  that  in  general  in  response  to  my  endeavours  to  obtain 
from  the  worshippers  of  Shakespeare  an  explanation  of  his 
greatness,  I  encountered  precisely  the  attitude  I  have  usually 
met  with,  and  still  meet,  from  the  defenders  of  any  dogmas  ac- 
cepted not  on  the  basis  of  reason  but  in  mere  credulity.  And 
just  this  attitude  of  the  belauders  of  Shakespeare  towards  him 
— an  attitude  which  may  be  met  with  in  all  the  indefinite, 
misty  articles  about  Shakespeare,  and  in  conversations  about 
him,  gave  me  the  key  to  an  understanding  of  the  cause  of 
Shakespeare's  fame.  There  is  only  one  explanation  of  this 
astonishing  fame:  it  is  one  of  those  epidemic  suggestions  to 
which  people  always  have  been  and  are  liable.  Such  irra- 
tional suggestion  has  always  existed,  and  does  exist  in  all 
spheres  of  life.  Glaring  examples  of  such  suggestion,  con- 
siderable in  scope  and  deceptiveness,  were  the  mediaeval 
Crusades,  which  influenced  not  only  adults  but  also  children, 
and  many  other  epidemic  suggestions  astonishing  in  their 
senselessness,  such  as  the  belief  in  witches,  in  the  utility  of 
torture  for  the  discovery  of  truth,  the  search  for  the  elixir  of 
life,  for  the  philosopher's  stone,  and  the  passion  for  tulips 
valued  at  several  thousand  guilders  a  bulb,  which  overran 
Holland.  There  always  have  been  and  always  are  such  ir- 
rational suggestions  in  all  spheres  of  human  life — religious, 
philosophic,  economic,  scientific,  artistic,  and  in  literature 
generally,  and  people  only  see  clearly  the  insanity  of  such 
suggestions  after  they  are  freed  from  them.  But  as  long  as 
they  are  under  their  influence  these  suggestions  appear  to  them 
such  undoubted  truths  that  they  do  not  consider  it  necessary 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  449 

or  possible  to  reason  about  them.  Since  the  development  of 
the  printing-press  these  epidemics  have  become  particularly 
striking. 

Since  the  development  of  the  press  it  has  come  about  that 
as  soon  as,  from  accidental  circumstances,  something  obtains 
a  special  significance,  the  organs  of  the  press  immediately 
announce  this  significance.  And  as  soon  as  the  press  has 
put  forward  the  importance  of  the  matter,  the  public  directs 
yet  more  attention  to  it.  The  hypnotization  of  the  public 
incites  the  press  to  regard  the  thing  more  attentively  and  in 
greater  detail.  The  interest  of  the  public  is  still  further  in- 
creased, and  the  organs  of  the  press,  competing  one  with 
another,  respond  to  the  public  demand. 

The  public  becomes  yet  more  interested,  and  the  press 
attributes  yet  more  importance  to  the  matter;  so  that  this  im- 
portance, growing  ever  greater  and  greater  like  a  snowball, 
obtains  a  quite  unnatural  appreciation,  and  this  appreciation, 
exaggerated  even  to  absurdity,  maintains  itself  as  long  as  the 
outlook  on  life  of  the  leaders  of  the  press  and  of  the  public 
remains  the  same.  There  are  in  our  day  innumerable 
examples  of  such  a  misunderstanding  of  the  importance  of 
the  most  insignificant  occurrences,  occasioned  by  the  mutual 
reaction  of  press  and  public.  A  striking  example  of  this  was 
the  excitement  which  seized  the  whole  world  over  the  Dreyfus 
affair.  A  suspicion  arose  that  some  captain  on  the  French 
staff  had  been  guilty  of  treason.  Whether  because  this  cap- 
tain was  a  Jew,  or  from  some  special  internal  party  disagree- 
ments in  French  society,  this  event,  which  resembled  others 
that  continually  occur  without  arousing  anyone's  attention 
and  without  interesting  the  whole  world  or  even  the  French 
military,  was  given  a  somewhat  prominent  position  by  the 
press.  The  public  paid  attention  to  it.  The  organs  of  the 
press,  vying  with  one  another,  began  to  describe,  to  analyse, 
to  discuss  the  event,  the  public  became  yet  more  interested,  the 


450  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

press  responded  to  the  demands  of  the  public,  and  the  snow- 
ball began  to  grow  and  grow,  and  grew  before  our  eyes  to 
such  an  extent  that  there  was  not  a  family  which  had  not  its 
disputes  about  Vafjaire.  So  that  Caran  d'Ache's  caricature, 
which  depicted  first  a  peaceful  family  that  had  decided  not 
to  discuss  the  Dreyfus  affair  any  more,  and  then  the  same 
family  represented  as  angry  furies  fighting  one  another, 
quite  correctly  depicted  the  relation  of  the  whole  reading 
world  to  the  Dreyfus  question.  Men  of  other  nationalities 
who  could  not  have  any  real  interest  in  the  question  whether 
a  French  officer  had  or  had  not  been  a  traitor — men  more- 
over who  could  not  know  how  the  affair  was  going — all 
divided  for  or  against  Dreyfus,  some  asserting  his  guilt  with 
assurance,  others  denying  it  with  equal  certainty. 

It  was  only  after  some  years  that  people  began  to  awaken 
from  the  "suggestion"  and  to  understand  that  they  could  not 
possibly  know  whether  he  was  guilty  or  innocent,  and  that 
each  one  of  them  had  a  thousand  matters  nearer  and  more 
interesting  to  him  than  the  Dreyfus  affair.  Such  infatua- 
tions occur  in  all  spheres,  but  they  are  specially  noticeable  in 
the  sphere  of  literature,  for  the  press  naturally  occupies  itself 
most  of  all  with  the  affairs  of  the  press,  and  these  are  particu- 
larly powerful  in  our  day  when  the  press  has  obtained  such 
an  unnatural  development.  It  continually  happens  that  peo- 
ple suddenly  begin  to  devote  exaggerated  praise  to  some  very 
insignificant  works,  and  then  if  these  works  do  not  cor- 
respond to  the  prevailing  view  of  life  suddenly  become  per- 
fectly indifferent  to  them  and  forget  both  the  works  themselves 
and  their  own  previous  attitude  towards  them. 

So  within  my  recollection,  in  the  eighteen-forties,  there 
occurred  in  the  artistic  sphere  the  exaltation  and  laudation 
of  Eugene  Sue  and  George  Sand;  in  the  social  sphere,  of 
Fourier ;  in  the  philosophic  sphere,  of  Comte  and  Hegel ;  and 
in  the  scientific  sphere,  of  Darwin, 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  451 

Sue  is  quite  forgotten,  George  Sand  is  being  forgotten  and 
replaced  by  the  writings  of  Zola  and  the  Decadents,  Baude- 
laire, Verlaine,  Maeterlinck  and  others.  Fourier,  with  his 
phalansteries,  is  quite  forgotten,  and  has  been  replaced  by 
Karl  Marx.  Hegel,  who  justified  the  existing  order,  and 
Comte,  who  denied  the  necessity  of  religious  activity  in 
humanity,  and  Darwin,  with  his  law  of  struggle  for  exist- 
ence, still  maintain  their  places,  but  are  beginning  to  be 
neglected  and  replaced  by  the  teachings  of  Nietzsche,  which 
though  perfectly  absurd,  unthought-out,  obscure,  and  bad  in 
their  content,  correspond  better  to  the  present-day  outlook  on 
life.  Thus  it  sometimes  happens  that  artistic,  philosophic, 
and  literary  crazes  in  general,  arise,  fall  rapidly,  and  are 
forgotten. 

But  it  also  happens  that  such  crazes,  having  arisen  in 
consequence  of  special  causes  accidently  favouring  their  es- 
tablishment, correspond  so  well  to  the  view  of  life  diffused  in 
society  and  especially  in  literary  circles,  that  they  maintain 
their  place  for  a  very  long  time.  Even  in  Roman  times  it 
was  remarked  that  books  have  their  fate,  and  often  a  very 
strange  one:  failure  in  spite  of  high  qualities,  and  enor- 
mous undeserved  success  in  spite  of  insignificance.  And  a 
proverb  was  made:  Pro  captu  lectoris  habent  sua  fata 
libelli,  that  is,  that  the  fate  of  books  depends  on  the  under- 
standing of  those  who  read  them.  Such  was  the  correspond- 
ence of  Shakespeare's  work  to  the  view  of  life  of  the  people 
among  whom  his  fame  arose.  And  this  fame  has  been  main- 
tained, and  is  still  maintained,  because  the  works  of  Shake- 
speare continue  to  correspond  to  the  view  of  life  of  those  who 
maintain  this  fame. 

Until  the  end  of  the  18th  century  Shakespeare  not  only  had 
no  particular  fame  in  England,  but  was  estimated  less  than 
his  contemporaries:  Ben  Jonson,  Fletcher,  Beaumont,  and 
others.     His  fame  began  in  Germany,  and  from  there  passed 


452  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

to    England.     This    happened    for    the    following    reason: 

Art,  especially  dramatic  art  which  demands  for  its  realisa- 
tion extensive  preparations,  expenditure,  and  labour,  was  al- 
ways religious,  that  is  to  say,  its  object  was  to  evoke  in  man  a 
clearer  conception  of  that  relation  of  man  to  God  attained  at 
the  time  by  the  advanced  members  of  the  society  in  which 
the  art  was  produced. 

So  it  should  be  by  the  nature  of  the  matter,  and  so  it 
always  had  been  among  all  nations:  among  the  Egyptians, 
Hindoos,  Chinese,  and  Greeks — from  the  earliest  time  that 
we  have  knowledge  of  the  life  of  man.  And  it  has  always 
happened  that,  with  the  coarsening  of  religious  forms,  art 
had  more  and  more  diverged  from  this  original  aim  (which 
had  caused  it  to  be  recognised  as  an  important  matter — al- 
most an  act  of  worship)  and  instead  of  the  service  of  religion, 
it  adopted  instead  of  religious  aims  worldly  aims  for  the 
satisfaction  of  the  demands  of  the  crowd,  or  of  the  great 
ones  of  the  earth,  that  is  to  say,  aims  of  recreation  and 
amusement. 

This  deflection  of  art  from  its  true  and  high  vocation  oc- 
curred everywhere,  and  it  occurred  in  Christendom. 

The  first  manifestation  of  Christian  art  was  in  the  worship 
of  God  in  the  temples :  the  performance  of  Mass  and,  in  gen- 
eral, of  the  liturgy.  When  in  course  of  time  the  forms  of 
this  art  of  divine  worship  became  insufficient,  the  Mysteries 
were  produced,  depicting  those  events  regarded  as  most  im- 
portant in  the  Christian  religious  view  of  life.  Afterwards, 
when  in  the  13  th  and  14th  centuries  the  centre  of  gravity  of 
Christian  teaching  was  more  and  more  transferred  from  the 
worship  of  Jesus  as  God,  to  the  explanation  of  his  teaching 
and  its  fulfilment,  the  form  of  the  Mysteries,  which  depicted 
external  Christian  events,  became  insufficient  and  new  forms 
were  demanded;  and  as  an  expression  of  this  tendency  ap- 
peared the  Moralities,  dramatic  representations  in  which  the 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  453 

characters  personified  the  Christian  virtues  and  the  opposite 
vices. 

But  allegories  by  their  very  nature,  as  art  of  a  lower  order, 
could  not  replace  the  former  religious  drama,  and  no  new 
form  of  dramatic  art  corresponding  to  the  conception  of 
Christianity  as  a  teaching  of  life  had  yet  been  found.  And 
dramatic  art,  lacking  a  religious  basis,  began  in  all  Christian 
countries  more  and  more  to  deviate  from  its  purpose,  and 
instead  of  a  service  of  God  became  a  service  of  the  crowd 
(I  mean  by  "crowd"  not  merely  the  common  people,  but  the 
majority  of  immoral  or  non-moral  people  indifferent  to  the 
higher  problems  of  human  life).  This  deviation  was  helped 
on  by  the  fact  that  just  at  that  time  the  Greek  thinkers,  poets, 
and  dramatists,  with  whom  the  Christian  world  had  not 
hitherto  been  acquainted,  were  re-discovered  and  favourably 
accepted.  And  therefore,  not  having  yet  had  time  to  work 
out  for  themselves  a  clear  and  satisfactory  form  of  dramatic 
art  suitable  to  the  new  conception  entertained  of  Christianity 
as  a  teaching  of  life,  and  at  the  same  time  recognising  the 
previous  Mysteries  and  Moralities  as  insufficient,  the  writers 
of  the  15th  and  16th  centuries,  in  their  search  for  a  new  form, 
began  to  imitate  the  newly  discovered  Greek  models,  which 
were  attractive  by  their  elegance  and  novelty.  And  as  it 
was  chiefly  the  great  ones  of  the  earth  who  could  avail  them- 
selves of  the  drama — the  kings,  princes,  and  courtiers — the 
least  religious  people,  not  merely  quite  indifferent  to  ques- 
tions of  religion  but  for  the  most  part  thoroughly  depraved — 
it  followed  that  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  its  public  the  drama 
of  the  15th,  16th,  and  17th  centuries  was  chiefly  a  spectacle 
intended  for  depraved  kings  and  for  the  upper  classes.  Such 
was  the  drama  of  Spain,  England,  Italy,  and  France. 

The  plays  of  that  time,  chiefly  composed  in  all  these  coun- 
tries according  to  ancient  Greek  models,  from  poems,  legends, 
and  biographies,  naturally  reflected  the  national  characters. 


454  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

In  Italy  what  was  chiefly  elaborated  were  comedies  with  amus- 
ing scenes  and  characters.  In  Spain  the  worldly  drama 
flourished,  with  complicated  plots  and  ancient  historical 
heroes.  The  peculiarity  of  English  drama  was  the  coarse 
effects  produced  by  murders,  executions,  and  battles  on  the 
stage,  and  popular  comic  interludes.  Neither  the  Italian, 
nor  the  Spanish,  nor  the  English,  drama  had  European  fame, 
and  each  of  them  enjoyed  success  only  in  its  own  country. 
General  fame,  thanks  to  the  elegance  of  its  language  and  the 
talent  of  its  writers,  was  enjoyed  only  by  the  French  drama, 
which  was  distinguished  by  strict  adherence  to  the  Greek 
models,  and  especially  to  the  law  of  the  three  Unities. 

So  matters  continued  till  the  end  of  the  18th  century,  but 
at  the  end  of  that  century  this  is  what  happened :  in  Germany 
which  lacked  even  mediocre  dramatists,  (though  there  had 
been  a  weak  and  little  known  writer,  Hans  Sachs),  all  edu- 
cated people,  including  Frederick  the  Great,  bowed  down 
before  the  French  pseudo-classical  drama.  And  yet  at  that 
very  time  there  appeared  in  Germany  a  circle  of  educated 
and  talented  writers  and  poets  who,  feeling  the  falsity  and 
coldness  of  the  French  drama,  sought  a  newer  and  freer 
dramatic  form.  The  members  of  this  group,  like  all  the 
upper  classes  of  the  Christian  world  at  that  time,  were  under 
the  charm  and  influence  of  the  Greek  classics  and,  being 
utterly  indifferent  to  religious  questions,  thought  that  if  the 
Greek  drama  depicting  the  calamities,  sufferings,  and  strug- 
gles of  its  heroes  supplied  the  best  model  for  the  drama,  then 
for  drama  in  the  Christian  world  such  representation  of  the 
sufferings  and  struggles  of  heroes  would  also  be  a  sufficient 
subject,  if  only  one  rejected  the  narrow  demands  of  pseudo- 
classicism.  These  men,  not  understanding  that  the  sufferings 
and  strife  of  their  heroes  had  a  religious  significance  for  the 
Greeks,  imagined  that  it  was  only  necessary  to  reject  the  in- 
convenient law  of  the  three  Unities,  and  without  containing 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  ±55 

any  religious  element  corresponding  to  the  beliefs  of  their  own 
time,  the  representation  of  various  incidents  in  the  lives  of 
historic  personages,  and  of  strong  human  passions  in  general 
would  afford  a  sufficient  basis  for  the  drama.  Just  such  a 
drama  existed  at  that  time  among  the  kindred  English  people 
and,  becoming  acquainted  with  it,  the  Germans  decided  that 
just  such  should  be  the  drama  of  the  new  period. 

The  masterly  development  of  the  scenes,  which  constitutes 
Shakespeare's  speciality,  caused  them  to  select  Shakespeare's 
dramas  from  among  all  other  English  plays  which  were  not 
in  the  least  inferior,  but  often  superior,  to  Shakespeare's. 

At  the  head  of  the  circle  stood  Goethe,  who  was  then  the 
dictator  of  public  opinion  on  esthetic  questions.  And  he  it 
was — partly  from  a  wish  to  destroy  the  fascination  of  the 
false  French  art,  partly  from  a  wish  to  give  freer  scope  to 
his  own  dramatic  activity,  but  chiefly  because  his  view  of  life 
agreed  with  Shakespeare's — he  it  was  who  acclaimed  Shake- 
speare a  great  poet.  When  that  falsehood  had  been  pro- 
claimed on  Goethe's  authority,  all  those  esthetic  critics  who 
did  not  understand  art  threw  themselves  upon  it  like  crows 
upon  carrion,  and  began  to  search  Shakespeare  for  non- 
existent beauties,  and  to  extol  them.  These  men,  German 
esthetic  critics — for  the  most  part  utterly  devoid  of  esthetic 
feeling,  ignorant  of  that  simple  direct  artistic  impression 
which  for  men  with  a  feeling  for  art  clearly  distinguishes 
artistic  impression  from  all  other,  but  believing  the  authority 
that  had  proclaimed  Shakespeare  as  a  great  poet — began  to 
belaud  the  whole  of  Shakespeare  indiscriminately,  selecting 
passages  especially  which  struck  them  by  their  effects  or  ex- 
pressed thoughts  corresponding  to  their  own  view  of  life, 
imagining  that  such  effects  and  such  thoughts  constitute  the 
essence  of  what  is  called  art. 

These  men  acted  as  blind  men  would  if  they  tried  by  touch 
to  select  diamonds  out  of  a  heap  of  stones  they  fingered.     As 


456  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

the  blind  man,  long  sorting  out  the  many  little  stones, 
could  finally  come  to  no  other  conclusion  than  that  all  the 
stones  were  precious  and  the  smoothest  were  especially  pre- 
cious, so  the  esthetic  critics,  deprived  of  artistic  feeling,  could 
come  to  no  other  result  about  Shakespeare.  To  make 
their  praise  of  the  whole  of  Shakespeare  more  convinc- 
ing they  composed  an  esthetic  theory,  according  to  which  a 
definite  religious  view  of  life  is  not  at  all  necessary  for  the 
creation  of  works  of  art  in  general,  or  for  the  drama  in  partic- 
ular; that  for  the  inner  content  of  a  play  it  is  quite  enough 
to  depict  passions  and  human  characters,  that  not  only  is 
no  religious  illumination  of  the  matter  presented  required, 
but  that  art  ought  to  be  objective,  that  is  to  say,  it  should 
depict  occurrences  quite  independently  of  any  valuation  of 
what  is  good  or  bad.  And  as  this  theory  was  educed  from 
Shakespeare,  it  naturally  happened  that  the  works  of  Shake- 
speare corresponded  to  this  theory,  and  were  therefore  the 
height  of  perfection. 

And  these  were  the  people  chiefly  responsible  for  Shake- 
speare's fame. 

Chiefly  in  consequence  of  their  writings,  the  inter-action  of 
writers  and  the 'public  came  about  which  found  expression, 
and  is  still  expressed,  by  the  insensate  belaudment  of  Shake- 
speare without  any  rational  basis.  These  esthetic  critics 
wrote  profound  treatises  about  Shakespeare  (eleven  thou- 
sand volumes  have  been  written  about  him,  and  a  whole 
science  of  Shakespeareology  has  been  formulated)  ;  the  public 
became  more  and  more  interested,  and  the  learned  critics  ex- 
plained more  and  more,  that  is  to  say,  they  added  to  the 
confusion  and  belaudment. 

So  that  the  first  cause  of  Shakespeare's  fame  was  that  the 
Germans  wanted  to  oppose  something  freer  and  more  alive 
to  the  French  drama  of  which  they  were  tired,  and  which  was 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  457 

really  dull  and  cold.  The  second  cause  was  that  the  young 
German  writers  required  a  model  for  their  own  dramas.  The 
third  and  chief  cause  was  the  activity  of  the  learned  and  zeal- 
ous esthetic  German  critics  who  lacked  esthetic  feeling  and 
formulated  the  theory  of  objective  art,  that  is  to  say,  deliber- 
ately repudiated  the  religious  essence  of  the  drama. 

"But,"  I  shall  be  asked,  "what  do  you  mean  by  the  words 
'religious  essence  of  the  drama'?  Is  not  what  you  demand 
for  the  drama  religious  instruction,  didactics:  what  is  called 
a  tendency — which  is  incompatible  with  true  art?"  By  "the 
religious  essence  of  art,"  I  reply,  I  mean  not  an  external  in- 
culcation of  any  religious  truth  in  artistic  guise,  and  not  an 
allegorical  representation  of  those  truths,  but  the  expression 
of  a  definite  view  of  life  corresponding  to  the  highest  religious 
-understanding  of  a  given  period :  an  outlook  which,  serving  as 
the  impelling  motive  for  the  composition  of  the  drama,  perme- 
ates the  whole  work  though  the  author  is  unconscious  of  it. 
So  it  has  always  been  with  true  art,  and  so  it  is  with  every 
true  artist  in  general  and  with  dramatists  especially.  Hence, 
as  happened  when  the  drama  was  a  serious  thing,  and  as 
should  be  according  to  the  essence  of  the  matter,  he  alone 
can  write  a  drama  who  has  something  to  say  to  men — some- 
thing highly  important  for  them — about  man's  relation  to 
God,  to  the  universe,  to  all  that  is  infinite  and  unending. 

But  when,  thanks  to  the  German  theories  about  objective 
art,  an  idea  had  been  established  that,  for  drama,  this  is  not 
wanted  at  all,  then  a  writer  like  Shakespeare  who  in  his  own 
soul  had  not  formed  religious  convictions  corresponding  to 
his  period,  and  who  had  even  no  convictions  at  all,  but  piled ' 
up  in  his  plays  all  possible  events,  horrors,  fooleries,  discus- 
sions, and  effects,  could  evidently  be  accepted  as  the  greatest 
of  dramatic  geniuses. 

But  all  these  are  external  reasons:  the  fundamental  inner 


458  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

cause  of  Shakespeare's  fame  was,  and  is,  that  his  plays  fitted 
pro  captu  lectoris,  that  is  to  say  responded  to  the  irreligious 
and  immoral  attitude  of  the  upper  classes  of  our  world. 


VIII 

A  series  of  accidents  brought  it  about  that  Goethe  at  the 
beginning  of  the  last  century,  being  the  dictator  of  philo- 
sophic thought  and  esthetic  laws,  praised  Shakespeare;  the 
esthetic  critics  caught  up  that  praise  and  began  to  write 
their  long  foggy  erudite  articles,  and  the  great  European 
public  began  to  be  enchanted  by  Shakespeare.  The  critics, 
responding  to  this  public  interest,  laboriously  vied  with  one 
another  in  writing  fresh  and  fresh  articles  about  Shakespeare, 
and  readers  and  spectators  were  still  further  confirmed  in 
their  enthusiasm,  and  Shakespeare's  fame  kept  growing  and 
growing  like  a  snowball,  until  in  our  time  it  has  attained 
a  degree  of  insane  laudation  that  obviously  rests  on  no  other 
basis  than  suggestion. 

"There  is  no  one  even  approximately  equal  to  Shakespeare 
either  among  ancient  or  modern  writers."  "Poetic  truth  is 
the  most  brilliant  gem  in  the  crown  of  Shakespeare's  service.,, 
"Shakespeare  is  the  greatest  moralist  of  all  times."  "Shake- 
speare displays  such  diversity  and  such  objectivity  as  place 
him  beyond  the  limits  of  time  and  nationality."  "Shake- 
speare is  the  greatest  genius  that  has  hitherto  existed."  "For 
the  creation  of  tragedies,  comedies,  historical  plays,  idylls, 
idyllic  comedies,  esthetic  idylls,  for  representation  itself  as 
also  for  incidental  verses,  he  is  the  only  man.  He  not  only 
wields  unlimited  power  over  our  laughter  and  our  tears,  over 
all  phases  of  passion,  humour,  thought- and  observation,  but 
he  commands  an  unlimited  realm  of  imagination,  full  of 
fancy  of  a  terrifying  and  amazing  character,  and  he  possesses 
penetration  in  the  world  of  invention  and  of  reality,  and  over 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  459 

all  this  there  reigns  one  and  the  same  truthfulness  to 
character  and  to  nature,  and  the  same  spirit  of  humanity." 

"To  Shakespeare  the  epithet  of  great  applies  naturally;  and 
if  one  adds  that  independently  of  his  greatness  he  has  also 
become  the  reformer  of  all  literature,  and  moreover  has  ex- 
pressed in  his  works  not  only  the  phenomena  of  the  life  of 
his  time,  but  also  from  thoughts  and  views  that  in  his  day 
existed  only  in  germ  has  prophetically  foreseen  the  direction 
which  the  social  spirit  would  take  in  the  future  (of  which 
we  see  an  amazing  example  in  Hamlet) — one  may  say  without 
hesitation  that  Shakespeare  was  not  only  a  great,  but  the 
greatest  of  all  poets  that  ever  existed,  and  that  in  the  sphere 
of  poetic  creation  the  only  rival  that  equals  him  is  life  itself, 
which  in  his  productions  he  depicted  with  such  perfection." 

The  obvious  exaggeration  of  this  appraisement  is  a  most 
convincing  proof  that  it  is  not  the  outcome  of  sane  thought, 
but  of  suggestion.  The  more  insignificant,  the  lower,  the 
emptier,  a  phenomenon  is,  once  it  becomes  the  object  of  sug- 
gestion, the  more  supernatural  and  exaggerated  is  the  im- 
portance attributed  to  it.  The  Pope  is  not  only  holy,  but 
most  holy,  and  so  forth.  So  Shakespeare  is  not  only  a  good 
writer,  but  the  greatest  genius,  the  eternal  teacher  of  man- 
kind. 

Suggestion  is  always  a  deceit,  and  every  deceit  is  an  evil. 
And  really  the  suggestion  that  Shakespeare's  works  are  great 
works  of  genius,  presenting  the  climax  both  of  esthetic  and 
ethical  perfection,  has  caused  and  is  causing  great  injury 
to  men. 

This  injury  is  two-fold:  first,  the  fall  of  the  drama  and 
the  substitution  of  an  empty  immoral  amusement  for  that 
important  organ  of  progress,  and  secondly,  by  the  direct 
degradation  of  men  by  presenting  them  with  false  models  for 
imitation. 

The  life  of  humanity  only  approaches  perfection  by  the 


r 


L 


460  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

elucidation  of  religious  consciousness  (the  only  principle 
securely  uniting  men  one  with  another).  The  elucidation 
of  the  religious  consciousness  of  man  is  accomplished  through 
all  sides  of  man's  spiritual  activity.  One  side  of  that  activity 
is  art.  One  part  of  art,  and  almost  the  most  important,  is 
the  drama. 

And  therefore  the  drama,  to  deserve  the  importance  at- 
tributed to  it,  should  serve  the  elucidation  of  religious  con- 
sciousness. Such  the  drama  always  was,  and  such  it  was 
in  the  Christian  world.  But  with  the  appearance  of  Prot- 
estantism in  its  broadest  sense — that  is  to  say,  the  appearance 
of  a  new  understanding  of  Christianity  as  a  teaching  of 
life — dramatic  art  did  not  find  a  form  corresponding  to  this 
new  understanding  of  religion,  and  the  men  of  the  Ren- 
aissance period  were  carried  away  by  the  imitation  of  classical 
art.  This  was  most  natural,  but  the  attraction  should  have 
passed,  and  art  should  have  found,  as  it  is  now  beginning  to 
find,  a  new  form  corresponding  to  the  altered  understand- 
ing of  Christianity. 

But  the  finding  of  this  new  form  was  hindered  by  the 
teaching,  which  arose  among  German  writers  at  the  end  of 
the  18th  and  beginningvof  the  19th  centuries,  of  the  so-called 
objectivity  of  art — that  is  to  say,  the  indifference  of  art  to 
good  or  evil — together  with  an  exaggerated  praise  of  Shake- 
speare's dramas,  which  partly  corresponded  to  the  esthetic 
theory  of  the  Germans  and  partly  served  as  material  for 
it.  Had  there  not  been  this  exaggerated  praise  of  Shake- 
speare's dramas,  accepted  as  the  most  perfect  models  of 
drama,  people  of  the  18th  and  19th  centuries  and  of  our 
own,  would  have  had  to  understand  that  the  drama,  to  have 
a  right  to  exist  and  be  regarded  as  a  serious  matter,  ought  to 
serve,  as  always  was,  and  cannot  but  be,  the  case,  the  elucida- 
tion of  religious  consciousness.     And  having  understood  this 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  461 

they  would  have  sought  a  new  form  of  drama  corresponding 
to  their  religious  perception. 

But  when  it  was  decided  that  Shakespeare's  drama  is  the 
summit  of  perfection,  and  that  people  ought  to  write  as  he 
did  without  any  religious  or  even  any  moral  content — all 
the  dramatists,  imitating  him,  began  to  compose  plays  lack- 
ing content,  like  the  plays  of  Goethe,  Schiller,  Hugo,  and, 
among  us  Russians,  Pushkin,  and  the  historical  plays  of 
Ostrovski,  Alexey  Tolstoy,  and  the  innumerable  other  more 
or  less  well-known  dramatic  works  which  fill  all  the  theatres 
and  are  continually  produced  by  anyone  to  whom  the  thought 
and  desire  to  write  plays  occur. 

Only  thanks  to  such  a  mean  petty  understanding  of  the 
importance  of  the  drama  do  there  appear  among  us  that 
endless  series  of  dramatic  works  presenting  the  actions, 
situations,  characters,  and  moods  of  people,  not  only  devoid 
of  any  spiritual  content  but  even  lacking  any  human  sense. 
And  let  not  the  reader  suppose  that  I  exclude  from  this 
estimate  of  contemporary  drama  the  pieces  I  myself  have 
incidentally  written  for  the  theatre.  I  recognise  them,  just 
like  all  the  rest,  to  be  lacking  in  that  religious  content  which 
should  form  the  basis  of  the  future  drama. 

So  that  the  drama,  the  most  important  sphere  of  art,  has 
become  in  our  time  merely  an  empty  and  immoral  amuse- 
ment for  the  empty  and  immoral  crowd.  What  is  worst  of  all 
is  that  to  the  art  of  the  drama,  which  has  fallen  as  low  as 
it  was  possible  to  fall,  people  continue  to  attribute  an  elevated 
significance,  unnatural  to  it. 

Dramatists,  actors,  theatrical  managers,  the  press — the 
latter  most  seriously  publishing  reports  of  theatres,  operas, 
and  so  forth — all  feel  assured  that  they  are  doing  something 
very  useful  and  important. 

The  drama  in  our  time  is  like  a  great  man  fallen  to  the 


462  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

lowest  stage  of  degradation,  who  yet  continues  to  pride  him- 
self on  his  past,  of  which  nothing  now  remains.  And  the 
public  of  our  time  is  like  those  who  pitilessly  get  amusement 
out  of  this  once  great  man,  now  descended  to  the  lowest 
depths. 

Such  is  one  harmful  effect  of  the  epidemic  suggestion  of 
the  greatness  of  Shakespeare.  Another  harmful  effect  of 
that  bepraisement  is  the  setting  up  of  a  false  model  for 
men's  imitation. 

If  people  now  wrote  of  Shakespeare  that,  for  his  time,  he 
was  a  great  writer,  he  managed  verse  well  enough, 
was  a  clever  actor  and  a  good  stage-manager,  even  if  their 
valuation  were  inexact  and  somewhat  exaggerated,  provided 
it  was  moderate,  people  of  the  younger  generations  might 
remain  free  from  the  Shakespearean  influence.  But  when 
to  every  young  man  entering  on  life  in  our  time  are  presented 
as  models  of  moral  perfection,  not  the  religious  and  moral 
teachers  of  mankind,  but  first  of  all  Shakespeare,  about 
whom  it  is  decided  and  transmitted  by  learned  men  from 
generation  to  generation  as  an  irrefragible  truth  that  he  is  the 
greatest  of  poets  and  the  greatest  of  teachers  of  life,  a  young 
man  cannot  remain  free  from  this  harmful  influence. 

On  reading  or  hearing  Shakespeare  the  question  for  a 
young  man  is  no  longer  whether  Shakespeare  is  good  or  bad, 
but  only  to  discover  wherein  lies  that  extraordinary  esthetic 
and  ethical  beauty  of  which  he  has  received  the  suggestion 
from  learned  men  whom  he  respects,  but  which  he  neither 
sees  nor  feels.  And  forcing  himself,  and  perverting  his 
esthetic  and  ethical  feeling,  he  tries  to  make  himself  agree 
with  the  prevailing  opinion.  He  no  longer  trusts  himself, 
but  trusts  to  what  learned  people,  respected  by  him,  have 
said  (I  myself  have  experienced  all  this).  Reading  the 
critical  analyses  of  the  plays,  and  the  extracts  from  books  with 
explanatory  commentaries,  it  begins  to  seem  to  him  that  he 


ON  SHAKESPEARE  463 

feels  something  like  an  artistic  impression,  and  the  longer 
this  continues  the  more  is  his  esthetic  and  ethical  feeling 
perverted.  He  already  ceases  to  discriminate  independently 
and  clearly  between  what  is  truly  artistic,  and  the  artificial 
imitation  of  art. 

But  above  all,  having  assimilated  that  immoral  view  of 
life  which  permeates  all  Shakespeare's  works  he  loses  the 
capacity  to  distinguish  between  good  and  evil.  And  the 
error  of  extolling  an  insignificant,  inartistic,  and  not  only 
non-moral  but  plainly  immoral  writer,  accomplishes  its  per- 
nicious work.  *--} 

That  is  why  I  think  that  the  sooner  people  emancipate 
themselves  from  this  false  worship  of  Shakespeare  the  better 
it  will  be — first  because  people  when  they  are  freed  from  this 
falsehood  will  come  to  understand  that  a  drama  which  has 
no  religious  basis  is  not  only  not  an  important  or  good 
thing,  as  is  now  supposed,  but  is  a  most  trivial  and  contemp- 
tible affair.  And  having  understood  this  they  will  have  to 
search  for  and  work  out  a  new  form  of  modern  drama — a 
drama  which  will  serve  for  the  elucidation  and  confirmation 
in  man  of  the  highest  degree  of  religious  consciousness. 
And  secondly,  because  people,  when  themselves  set  free  from 
this  hypnotic  state,  will  understand  that  the  insignificant  and 
immoral  works  of  Shakespeare  and  his  imitators,  aiming 
only  at  distracting  and  amusing  the  spectators,  cannot  pos- 
sibly serve  to  teach  the  meaning  of  life,  but  that,  as  long  as 
there  is  no  real  religious  drama,  guidance  for  life  must  be, 
looked  for  from  other  sources. 


PART  XVIII 

A  TALK  ON  THE  DRAMA. 

Reported  by  I.  Teneromo,  ca.  1907 


I  recently  had  the  opportunity  of  talking  with  Leo  Tol- 
stoy about  the  theatre. 

"What  dramas,  what  heartrending  dramas,  are  being 
enacted  before  our  eyes :  national  dramas,  class  dramas,  caste 
dramas !  And  the  individual  drama !  Has  there  ever  been  a 
time  so  full  of  terrible  suffering,  of  mutual  destruction?  Only 
think  what  has  passed  before  us  during  these  last  four  years 
of  horror!  What  a  din  of  battle,  what  a  storm  of  insurrec- 
tion, what  shrieks  of  massacres  with  their  heaps  of  mutilated 
bodies  in  the  streets,  in  the  fields,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sea !  And  now  that  the  noise  is  past,  how  many  secret  execu- 
tions, secret  suicides,  and  how  much  secret  madness !  And  in 
spite  of  such  a  plenitude  of  subjects  the  stage  is  impoverished. 
We  have  no  tragedies,  no  moving  drama,  not  even  a  healthy 
amusing  repertoire,  no  humor  .  .  . 

"It  is  as  though  life  and  the  drama  were  made  of  one  piece 
of  dough,  and  if  more  is  allotted  to  the  one,  there  remains  less 
for  the  other.  The  well-spring  of  plays  for  the  stage  has 
dried  up,  and  there  is  only  the  dull  sticky  liquid  of  adaptations 
left  at  the  bottom. 

"Oh,  those  adaptations!  Of  course,  what  will  not  hunger 
drive  one  to  invent?  But  the  idea  of  adaptation  is  a  perfectly 
childish  one.  To  take  a  novel,  or  a  story,  and  rearrange  it 
as  a  play  is  like  what  children  do  when  they  cut  a  figure  out 
of  a  picture  along  the  outline,  stick  it  to  a  bit  of  cardboard, 
fix  it  on  a  stand,  and  are  quite  delighted.     It  stands  up,  there- 

464 


A  TALK  ON  THE  DRAMA  465 

fore  it  is  a  statue!  A  novel  or  a  story  is  pictorial  work:  in 
it  the  master  works  with  his  brush,  putting  on  dabs  of  paint, 
producing  backgrounds,  shadows,  half-tones.  A  play  is 
sculptor's  work.  One  has  to  work  with  a  chisel:  not  to  put 
on  dabs  of  paint  but  to  cut  out  in  relief. 

"I  first  understood  the  wide  difference  between  a  novel  and 
a  play  when  I  sat  down  to  write  my  Power  of  Darkness.  At 
first  I  set  to  work  using  a  novelist's  usual  methods,  to  which 
I  was  accustomed.  But  after  the  first  few  pages  I  found 
that  they  were  not  the  right  thing  here.  For  instance,  on  the 
stage  it  is  impossible  to  prepare  for  the  important  moments 
lived  through  by  the  hero,  impossible  to  make  him  think  and 
call  up  memories,  or  to  throw  light  on  his  character  by  refer- 
ring back  to  the  past:  it  all  comes  out  dull,  forced,  and  unreal. 
A  ready- formed  state  of  mind,  ready-formed  resolutions,  must 
be  presented  to  the  public.  Only  soul-images  like  these — 
sculptured  in  relief  and  in  mutual  collision — agitate  and 
touch  the  onlooker. 

"It  is  true  I  myself  could  not  resist  it,  and  put  into  The 
Power  of  Darkness  a  few  monologues;  but  while  doing  so  I 
felt  it  was  not  the  right  thing."    ,  _— -J 

The  above  is  taken  from  The  Life  of  Tolstoy,  Vol.  II,  by  Aylmer  Maude. 

c.  1917. 


PART  XIX 
TWO  KINDS  OF  MENTAL  ACTIVITY 

(The  following  article  was  written  by  Tolstoy  to  serve  as  an  introduction  to  a 
collection  of  thoughts,  aphorisms,  and  maxims  by  La  Bruyere,  La  Rochefoucauld, 
Vauvenargues,  and  Montesquieu,  which  a  friend  of  Tolstoy's  had  translated  into 
Russian. ) 

The  activity  of  human  reason  directed  to  the  elucidation  of 
the  laws  that  govern  human  life  has  always  manifested  itself 
in  two  different  ways.  Some  thinkers  have  tried  to  systema- 
tize all  the  phenomena  and  laws  of  human  life  into  definite 
connection  with  one  another.  Such  were  the  originators  of 
all  the  systems  of  philosophy,  from  Aristotle  to  Spinoza  and 
Hegel. 

Others  have  helped  the  elucidation  of  the  laws  of  human 
life  not  by  elaborating  shapely  systems  but  by  detached  ob- 
servations and  apt  expressions  indicating  the  eternal  laws 
that  rule  our  life.  Such  were  the  sages  of  the  ancient  world 
who  formed  collections  of  aphorisms,  the  Christian  mystic 
writers,  and  especially  the  French  writers  of  the  XVIth, 
XVI Ith  and  XVIIIth  centuries,  who  brought  this  style  of 
writing  to  the  highest  degree  of  perfection. 

Such  are  the  thoughts  and  maxims  of  La  Rochefoucauld, 
La  Bruyere,  Pascal,  Montesquieu  and  Vauvenargues,  not  to 
mention  the  wonderful  Montaigne,  whose  writings  partly  be- 
long to  this  class. 

If  we  compare  all  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  human  life  to 
a  ball  continually  enlarged  by  fresh  acquisitions,  then  thinkers 
of  the  first,  systematic  class  should  be  likened  to  men  who  try 
to  enfold  the  ball  with  more  or  less  solid  and  thick  stuff  in 
order  to  enlarge  it  equally  all  over.  Thinkers  of  the  second 
category  are  like  men  who,  disregarding  inequalities  in  the 

466 


KINDS  OF  MENTAL  ACTIVITY         467 

increase  of  the  surface  of  different  parts  of  the  ball,  enlarge 
it,  not  all  over  but  at  various  points  of  the  radii  along  which 
their  thoughts  naturally  travel,  generally  outreaching  the 
thinkers  of  the  first  kind  and  furnishing  future  systematizers 
with  material  to  work  upon. 

The  advantages  on  the  side  of  thinkers  of  the  first  category 
are:  coherence,  completeness,  and  symmetry  in  their  doc- 
trines. The  disadvantages  are :  artificiality  in  their  structure, 
forced  connection  of  the  parts,  often  evident  deviations  from 
truth  to  secure  coherence  of  the  whole  teaching,  and  (result- 
ing from  this)  frequent  obscurity  and  mistiness  in  the  manner 
of  exposition. 

The  advantages  on  the  side  of  the  second  category  of  think- 
ers are:  directness,  sincerity,  novelty,  boldness,  and,  as  it  were, 
an  impulsiveness  in  their  thoughts,  a  freedom  from  shackles, 
and  a  corresponding  vigour  of  expression.  Their  disadvan- 
tages are:  fragmentariness  and  sometimes  external  inconsis- 
tency— though  this  latter  is  usually  more  apparent  than  real. 

Their  greatest  advantage  however  is  that  whereas  works 
of  the  first  class — philosophic  systems — often  repel  by  their 
pedantry  or,  if  they  do  not  repel,  weaken  the  mind  of  the 
reader  by  subduing  him  and  depriving  him  of  independence, 
books  of  the  second  class  always  attract  by  their  sincerity, 
elegance,  and  brevity  of  expression.  Above  all,  they  do  not 
crush  the  independent  activity  of  the  mind  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, evoke  it  by  obliging  the  reader  either  to  deduce  further 
conclusions  from  what  he  has  read  or  sometimes,  when  he 
quite  disagrees  with  the  author,  to  contest  his  positions  and 
thus  arrive  at  new  and  unexpected  conclusions. 

Of  this  kind  are  the  detached  thoughts  both  of  ancient  and 
modern  writers  generally,  and  such  are  the  thoughts  of  the 
French  writers  whose  maxims  are  collected  in  the  work  be- 
fore us. 

1908, 


PART  XX 

PREFACE  TO  N.  ORLOV'S  ALBUM  OF 
"RUSSIAN  PEASANTS" 

Tolstoy  willingly  called  attention  to  pictures,  as  well  as  to  stories,  of  which  he 
approved;  and  he  was  particularly  ready  to  do  so  if  the  artists'  subject  was  one 
that  might  interest  the  peasants,  for  whom  he  considered  that  artists  have  done 
too  little. 

Work  such  as  Orlov's  (himself  of  peasant  origin)  which,  by  the  disapproval  it 
showed  of  the  Government's  treatment  of  the  peasants,  involved  risk  to  the  artist, 
was  specially  calculated  to  attract  his  sympathy. 

"Be  not  afraid  of  them  which  kill  the  body,  but  are  not  able  to  kill 
the  soul:  but  rather  fear  him  which  is  able  to  destroy  both  soul  and 
body."     (Matt.  X.  28.) 

The  publication  of  Orlov's  pictures  in  album  form  is  an 
excellent  thing.  Orlov  is  my  favourite  artist  because  the 
subject  of  his  pictures  is  my  favourite  subject — the  Russian 
people :  the  real  Russian  peasant-people,  not  that  people  which 
vanquished  Napoleon  and  conquered  and  subdued  other 
nations,  not  that  people  which  unfortunately  has  so  quickly 
learnt  to  make  machines,  railways,  and  revolutions  as  well  as 
Parliaments  with  all  conceivable  sub-divisions  of  parties  and 
tendencies,  but  that  meek,  hard-working,  Christian,  gentle, 
much-enduring  people  which  has  reared  and  bears  on  its 
shoulders  all  those  who  now  torture  and  diligently  corrupt  it. 

And  what  Orlov  and  I  love  in  these  people  is  one  and  the 
same  thing:  namely,  the  meek,  patient  peasant-soul,  enlight- 
ened by  true  Christianity,  which  promises  so  much  to  those 
who  can  understand  it. 

In  all  Orlov's  pictures  I  see  that  soul,  which  like  the  soul 
of  a  child  retains  all  possibilities  and  above  all  the  possibil- 

468 


ORLOV'S  ALBUM  469 

ity  (while  avoiding  the  depravity  of  western  civilization)  of 
following  the  Christian  path  which  alone  can  lead  Christen- 
dom out  of  that  enchanted  circle  of  sufferings  in  which,  with 
torment  to  themselves,  men  now  incessantly  revolve. 

Here  in  a  smoky  hut  on  a  bed  of  straw  lies  a  dying  woman. 
A  burning  taper  has,  according  to  custom,  been  placed  in  her 
hands  which  are  already  growing  cold.  Near  her,  in  solemn 
submissive  calm,  stands  her  husband;  and  by  his  side,  in  a 
coarse  smock  (her  only  garment),  stands  their  eldest  daugh- 
ter, a  thin  little  girl,  crying.  Beside  a  rude  cradle,  hanging 
from  the  ceiling,  the  grandmother  soothes  a  crying  infant. 
Neighbours  stand  talking  near  the  door. 

This  picture  evokes  in  me  a  wonderful  and  elevating  feel- 
ing of  tender  pity  and  also,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  say  so, 
a  feeling  of  envy  of  that  holy  poverty  and  of  the  attitude 
towards  it  here  revealed. 

The  same  elevating  feeling  of  consciousness  of  the  vast 
spiritual  strength  of  the  people  to  whom  not  by  my  life  but 
by  my  race  I  have  the  good  fortune  to  belong,  is  produced  in 
me  by  two  other  pictures  of  similar  character,  which  always 
move  me  profoundly —  The  Emigrants  and  The  Soldier's 
Return. 

Apart  from  the  fact  that  the  departure  of  the  emigrants, 
who  are  saying  good-bye  to  those  they  are  leaving  be- 
hind, is  important  in  its  subject-matter  (showing  us  as  it 
does  in  vivid  images  what,  in  spite  of  the  difficulties  placed 
in  their  way  by  the  Government  and  the  landowners,  the 
Russian  people  are  accomplishing:  populating  and  cultivat- 
ing enormous  tracts  of  country),  this  picture  is  rendered 
particularly  touching  not  merely  by  the  wonderful  old  man 
in  the  foreground,  but  by  all  the  figures,  full  of  movement 
and  life,  excited  by  the  thoughts  of  departure  or  doubtful  at 
being  left  behind. 

The   Soldier's   Return   is   a   picture    I    am    particularly 


470  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

fond  of.  Having  pined  for  years  far  from  home  in  hard  army 
service  uncongenial  to  his  soul,  Pahom  or  Sidor,  a  dutiful 
son,  a  loving  husband  and  a  good  worker,  has  at  last  struggled 
back  to  liberty  and  home.  And  what  does  he  find  there? 
He  has  already  heard  the  news  before  he  reached  his  hut. 
During  his  absence  his  Matrena  has  had  a  baby. 

This  is  their  first  meeting:  the  wife  kneels  before  her  hus- 
band, and  the  child — the  evidence  of  her  fault — is  also  there. 
The  mother-in-law  is  egging  on  her  son  (woman's  way)  and 
telling  how  she  had  said,  "Mind,  Matrena,  your  husband  will 
return.  .  .  ."  But  the  old  father,  still  filled  with  that  Chris- 
tian spirit  of  forgiveness  and  love  by  which  the  best  repre- 
sentatives of  the  Russian  people  have  lived  and  still  live,  in- 
terrupts the  old  woman's  shrill  speech  and  reminds  them  of 
that  which  settles  all  accounts  and  wipes  out  all  offences  and 
all  anger:  he  reminds  them  of  God — and  all  reckonings  are 
at  an  end,  all  tangles  straightened  out. 

However  painful  it  may  be  to  the  son,  however  hurt  he  may 
feel,  however  he  may  have  wished  to  avenge  his  shame  on  his 
wife,  he  is  his  father's  son  and  the  same  divine  spirit  lives 
in  him:  the  spirit  of  mercy,  forgiveness  and  love;  and  this 
spirit — so  alien  to  the  uniform  he  wears — awakes  within  him, 
and  he  waves  his  hand  and  experiences  the  touching  joy  of 
forgiveness.  "God  will  forgive  you!  Rise,  Matrena,  that 
will  do!" 

The  other  six  pictures  are  equally  important  and  beautiful. 
I  have  separated  these  six  from  the  three  first  only  because, 
besides  the  traits  common  to  them  all,  in  these  six  are  vividly 
depicted  the  temptations  and  depraving  influences  against 
which  the  Christian  soul  of  the  Russian  people  has  to  con- 
tend and  does  contend,  and  by  which  it  has  not  been  subdued. 

These  pictures  are  peculiarly  attractive  in  that  they  depict 
the  struggle  without  deciding  whose  the  victory  will  be.  Will 
the  whole  people  follow  the  path  of  spiritual  and  mental  de- 


o  ** 

Si 

W    E«h 


ORLOV'S  ALBUM  471 

pravity  along  which  the  so-called  educated  classes,  wishing 
to  make  it  like  themselves,  invite  it,  or  will  it  hold  to  the 
Christian  principles  by  which  it  has  lived,  and,  in  a  vast 
majority  of  cases,  still  lives? 

(See  illustration  facing  this  page.)  A  picture  of  this  kind 
is  the  one  in  which  a  village  Elder — who  has  come  to  collect 
taxes  from  a  poor  man  just  returned  from  wage- work  car- 
ried on  far  from  home — is  standing  over  the  man  awaiting 
an  answer.  Only  the  old  father  gives  that  answer,  regardless 
of  all  consideration  of  the  needs  of  the  Government,  speaking 
of  God,  and  the  sin  of  exploiting  a  worker  barely  able  to  sup- 
port his  family.  Very  pathetic  in  this  picture,  besides  the 
master  of  the  house,  are  the  mistress  who  stands  by  the  table 
on  which  she  has  just  spread  a  meal,  from  which  everyone 
has  been  torn  away,  and  the  child  who  gazes  perplexed  and 
full  of  sympathy  at  his  excited  grandfather. 

Of  similar  kind  are  the  remaining  pictures  of  the  series, 
which  depict  a  struggle  between  good  and  evil  in  which  men 
of  the  people,  partly  or  completely  depraved,  side  with  evil. 

Such  is  the  picture  Arrears  of  Taxes,  depicting  the  sale 
of  a  poor  widow's  cow — the  support  of  her  children.  A  rich 
peasant  money-lender  is  buying,  and  the  District  Elder  is 
selling,  the  cow,  while  the  Village  Elder  notes  down  the 
transaction. 

Similar  pictures  are  the  one,  full  of  matter,  in  which  a 
poor  widow  who  lives  by  the  illicit  sale  of  vodka  (thereby 
diminishing  the  State  revenue)  is  caught  in  the  act;  and  No. 
7  (see  next  page),  which  depicts  the  consecration  of  one  of 
the  vodka-shops  which  are  now  (1908)  a  Government  mo- 
nopoly. This  picture  is  specially  remarkable  for  its  tech- 
nique, for  the  delicacy  and  exactitude  with  which  the  ideas 
are  expressed,  and  for  the  accuracy  of  its  types. 

Yet  another  such  picture  is  the  one  with  the  revolting  theme, 
Corporal  Punishment. 


472  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

Besides  a  true  portrayal  of  the  still  unperverted  Russians, 
which  is  the  chief  subject  of  the  whole  series,  in  all  these 
last  six  pictures,  types  are  shown  of  that  already  depraved 
part  of  the  nation  which  wishes,  for  its  own  profit,  to  pervert 
its  still  unperverted  brothers. 

The  Village  Elder  who  is  collecting  taxes  from  the  man 
whose  payments  are  in  arrear  has  not  yet  broken  all  links 
uniting  him  to  his  fellows,  and  evidently  suffers  for  his  fellow- 
man  as  well  as  from  his  own  participation  in  the  cause  of  that 
suffering. 

But  the  over-fed  District  Elder  in  the  picture  in  which  the 
cow  is  being  taken,  no  longer  feels  any  remorse  at  fulfilling 
his  cruel  duty,  and  the  usurer  buying  the  cow  has  no  considera- 
tion for  anything  but  his  own  profit.  In  the  picture  of  the 
illicit  vodka-seller,  the  policeman  and  the  District  Elder  and 
the  clerk  are  performing  their  task  unbashed,  and  they  even 
admire  the  cleverness  of  the  man  in  disguise  who  has  trapped 
the  vodka-seller.  Only  the  old  man,  a  representative  of  the 
soul  of  the  Russian  people,  disturbs  the  general  complacency 
by  his  bold  words. 

In  the  picture  of  The  Monopoly,  besides  the  fat  publican 
grieved  at  the  loss  of  his  business,  the  peasant  crossing  him- 
self before  the  icon  with  evident  hypocrisy  is  very  striking, 
and  so  is  the  tattered  fellow  who  has  pushed  inopportunely  in 
at  the  door  of  the  institution  which  has  brought  him  to  his 
present  condition,  and  has  so  successfully  corrupted — and 
continues  for  the  State's  profit  to  corrupt — a  large  part  of 
the  population. 

Again  in  the  picture  of  Corporal  Punishment,  all  those 
present,  except  the  old  man  who  is  praying  for  the  sins  of 
men,  and  the  little  boy  aghast  at  man's  cruelty,  have  reached 
the  point  at  which  they  can  regard  their  shameful  deeds  as 
necessary  duties. 

The  last  picture,  expressing  all  that  is  said  in  the  final  six 


1 


ORLOV'S  ALBUM  473 

of  the  series,  is  particularly  powerful  and  dreadful  in  that  it 
shows  in  the  simplest  and  most  comprehensible  way  what  lies 
at  the  bottom  of  the  demoralization  to  which  the  people  are 
subjected,  and  the  chief  danger  that  faces  them. 

"Go,  go!  God  will  help  you!"  says  the  girl,  refusing  to 
give  to  the  beggar.     "You  see,  his  Reverence  is  here! " 

Yes,  it  is  a  terrible  picture ! 

The  strength  of  a  nation  lies  in  the  degree  of  truth  in 
that  religious  understanding  of  the  laws  of  life  which  guides 
its  actions.  I  say  the  degree  of  truth,  for  a  complete  under- 
standing of  God  is  never  possible  to  man.  Man  can  but 
draw  ever  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  one  and  the  other.  And 
the  greatest  amount  of  true  religious  understanding  of  life  in 
our  days  has  been  and  still  is  to  be  found  among  the  illiterate, 
wise  and  holy  Russian  peasant-population.  And  in  all  kinds 
of  ways :  by  Law  Courts,  taxation,  conscription,  and  alcoholic 
poisoning  for  revenue's  sake,  they  are  surrounded  by  terrible 
temptations,  and  the  most  awful  of  these  is  the  religious  fraud 
which  claims  greater  importance  for  the  Church  and  its  min- 
isters than  for  mercy  and  brotherly  love. 

All  this  is  presented  in  Orlov's  pictures,  and  so  I  think  that 
I  am  not  wrong  in  loving  them. 

These  pictures  show  us  the  danger  now  menacing  the 
spiritual  life  of  the  Russian  people.  And  to  realize  a  danger 
that  was  not  noticed  before  is  a  step  towards  averting  it. 

1908. 


APPENDIX 

DARLING 

By  Anton  Chekhov 

Olenka,  the  daughter  of  a  retired  civil  servant,  Plemyan- 
nikov,  sat  musing  in  her  back  porch.  It  was  hot,  the  flies 
were  pertinaciously  teasing,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  reflect 
that  it  would  soon  be  evening.  Dark  rain-clouds  were  com- 
ing up  from  the  east  and  bringing  with  them  an  occasional 
whiff  of  moisture. 

In  the  middle  of  the  courtyard  Kukin,  who  lived  in  a  small 
house  in  the  same  courtyard  and  was  manager  and  proprietor 
of  the  Tivoli  Gardens,  stood  looking  at  the  sky. 

"Again!"  he  exclaimed  despairingly.  "It's  going  to  rain 
again!  Rain  every  day,  every  day,  as  though  to  spite  me. 
One  might  as  well  hang  oneself!  It's  ruination!  Fearful 
losses  every  day!" 

He  raised  and  clasped  his  hands  in  despair,  and  turning 
to  Olenka  continued: 

"There,  Olenka  Semenovna,  that's  the  life  we  lead.  It's 
enough  to  make  one  cry.  One  works,  tries  hard,  wears  one- 
self out,  gets  no  sleep  at  night,  and  racks  one's  brains  what 
to  do  for  the  best — and  what's  the  result?  On  the  one  hand 
there's  the  ignorant  boorish  public!  I  give  them  the  very 
best  operetta,  a  fairy-like  masque,  splendid  comic  singers,  but 
is  that  what  they  want?  Do  you  suppose  they  understand 
anything  of  all  that?  What  they  want  is  what  is  given  in  a 
booth  at  a  fair!  Trash,  is  what  they  demand!  On  the 
other  hand,  look  at  the  weather !     Rain  almost  every  evening. 

474 


DARLING  475 

As  it  started  on  the  10th  May,  so  it  went  on  the  whole  of  May 
and  June.  It's  simply  awful!  The  public  don't  come,  but 
I  have  to  pay  the  rent  and  the  artistes ! " 

Next  evening  the  clouds  again  began  to  gather,  and  Kukin 
said  with  an  hysterical  laugh: 

"Well,  what  of  it?  Rain  away!  Let  it  flood  the  whole 
garden  with  me  in  it!  Let  me  have  no  luck  in  this  world 
or  the  next!  Let  the  artistes  take  proceedings  against  me! 
What  is  a  trial?  Even  if  I  go  as  a  convict  to  Siberia!  Or 
to  the  scaffold!     Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

The  next  day  it  was  the  same  again. 

Olenka  listened  to  Kukin  silently  and  seriously,  and  some- 
times tears  came  into  her  eyes.  In  the  end  Kiikin's  misfor- 
tunes touched  her  and  she  came  to  love  him.  He  was  short 
and  lean,  with  a  sallow  complexion,  twists  of  hair  were  curled 
on  his  temples,  he  spoke  in  a  thin  tenor  voice,  and  when  he 
spoke  his  mouth  twisted,  and  his  face  always  expressed 
despair,  but  still  he  aroused  in  her  a  real  and  profound  af- 
fection. She  always  loved  someone  and  could  not  exist  with- 
out it.  Formerly  she  had  loved  her  papa,  who  now  sat  in 
an  armchair  in  a  dark  room,  ill,  and  breathing  with  difficulty ; 
she  loved  her  aunt,  who  sometimes — once  in  two  years — came 
from  Byansk ;  and  before  that,  when  she  was  at  the  secondary 
school,  she  had  loved  her  French  master.  She  was  a  quiet, 
soft-hearted,  compassionate  young  woman,  with  a  mild  ten- 
der look  in  her  eyes  and  very  good  health.  At  the  sight  of 
her  plump  rosy  cheeks,  her  soft  white  neck  with  a  dark  little 
mole  on  it,  and  the  kind  naive  smile  which  appeared  on  her 
face  when  she  listened  to  anything  pleasant,  men  thought, 
"Yes,  she's  all  right,"  and  smiled  too,  and  lady-visitors  could 
not  refrain  from  suddenly  seizing  her  hand  in  the  middle  of 
a  conversation  and  exclaiming  with  a  gush  of  delight:  "You 
darling!" 

The  house  in  which  she  had  lived  since  her  birth  and 


476  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

which  had  been  left  her  in  her  father's  will,  was  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town  in  the  Gipsy  Suburb,  not  far  from  the 
Tivoli  Gardens.  In  the  evenings  and  at  night  she  could 
hear  the  band  playing  and  rockets  going  off  with  a  bang  in 
the  Gardens,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  Kukin  was  fighting 
his  fate  and  taking  his  chief  foe,  the  indifferent  public,  by 
assault:  her  heart  melted  tenderly,  she  had  no  wish  to  sleep, 
and  when  he  returned  home  towards  morning  she  tapped 
softly  at  her  bedroom  window  and,  letting  him  see  only  her 
face  and  one  shoulder  through  the  curtains,  gave  him  a 
friendly  smile. 

He  proposed,  and  they  were  married.  And  when  he  had  a 
good  view  of  her  neck  and  her  plump  healthy  shoulders, 
he  threw  up  and  clasped  his  hands  and  said:     "Darling!" 

He  was  happy  but,  as  it  rained  on  their  wedding  day  and 
the  whole  of  the  following  night,  the  despairing  expression 
never  left  his  face. 

After  the  wedding  they  lived  happily  together.  She  sat  in 
his  booking-office,  saw  that  the  Tivoli  Gardens  were  in  order, 
entered  up  the  accounts  and  paid  the  salaries;  and  her  rosy 
cheeks,  her  sweet  naive  smile,  shining  like  a  halo,  appeared 
now  at  the  window  of  the  booking-office,  now  behind  the 
scenes,  now  at  the  refreshment-bar.  And  she  began  to  tell 
her  acquaintances  that  the  theatre  was  the  most  remarkable, 
most  important,  and  most  necessary  thing  in  the  world — 
that  only  at  the  theatre  could  one  obtain  true  pleasure  and  be- 
come cultivated  and  humane. 

"But  do  you  think  the  public  understands  that?"  she  said. 
"They  want  a  common  booth!  Yesterday  we  put  on  'Faust 
Inside  Out,'  and  almost  all  the  boxes  were  empty,  but  if  Va- 
nichka  and  I  were  to  give  some  common  trash,  believe  me  the 
theatre  would  be  packed.  To-morrow  Vanichka  and  I  are 
giving  'Orpheus  in  Hell';  mind  you  come!"     And  what  Ku- 


DARLING  477 

kin  said  about  the  theatre  and  the  actors  she  repeated;  she 
despised  the  public  as  he  did,  for  their  indifference  to  art 
and  their  ignorance;  she  took  part  in  the  rehearsals,  corrected 
the  actors,  kept  an  eye  on  the  behaviour  of  the  musicians, 
and  when  the  local  paper  criticised  their  theatre  unfavourably 
she  cried,  and  afterwards  went  to  the  newspaper  office  for 
explanations. 

The  actors  were  fond  of  her  and  called  her  "Vanichka  and 
I,"  and  "the  Darling."  She  was  sorry  for  them  and  used  to 
lend  them  small  sums,  and  if  it  happened  that  they  did  not 
pay  her,  she  cried  in  secret,  but  made  no  complaint  to  her 
husband. 

And  in  the  winter  they  got  on  quite  well.  They  took  a 
theatre  in  the  town  for  the  whole  winter  and  sub-let  it  for 
short  periods,  now  to  an  Ukrainian  troupe,  now  to  a  con- 
juror, now  to  a  local  dramatic  company.  Olenka  grew 
plumper  and  was  all  beaming  with  pleasure,  but  Kukin  grew 
thinner  and  sallower  and  complained  of  terrible  losses,  though 
business  had  not  been  bad  all  winter.  He  used  to  cough  at 
night,  and  she  gave  him  raspberry  or  lime-blossom  tea,  rubbed 
him  with  eau-de-Cologne,  and  wrapped  him  up  in  her  soft 
shawls. 

"What  a  splendid  dear  you  are!"  she  said,  quite  sincerely, 
smoothing  his  hair.     "What  a  good-looking  pet  you  are ! " 

In  Lent  he  went  to  Moscow  to  gather  a  troupe,  and  with- 
out him  she  could  not  sleep,  but  sat  by  the  window  looking  at 
the  stars.  She  compared  herself,  at  the  time,  to  the  hens 
who  keep  awake  all  night  and  are  restless  when  the  cock  is 
not  in  the  hen-house.  Kukin  was  detained  in  Moscow  and 
wrote  that  he  would  return  for  Easter,  and  his  letters  al- 
ready contained  arrangements  about  the  Tivoli  Gardens. 
But  on  the  Monday  in  Passion  Week,  late  in  the  evening,  an 
ominous  knock  was  suddenly  heard  at  the  gate ;  someone  was 


478  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

hammering  at  the  gate  as  if  on  a  barrel:  boom,  boom,  boom! 
The  sleepy  cook,  splashing  with  her  bare  feet  through  the 
puddles,  ran  to  open  the  gate. 

"Open  for  goodness'  sake!"  said  someone  in  a  thick  bass 
voice.     "There's  a  telegram  for  you ! " 

Olenka  had  received  telegrams  from  her  husband  before, 
but  this  time  for  some  reason  she  grew  quite  faint.  She 
opened  the  telegram  with  trembling  hands,  and  read  as 
follows : 

"Ivan  Kukin  passed  away  to-day  suddenly  pas  way  await- 
ing instructions  fuferal  Tuesday." 

It  was  typed  "fuferal"  in  the  telegram,  and  there  was  also 
the  incomprehensible  word  'pas way.'  The  signature  was  that 
of  the  manager  of  an  operatic  troupe. 

"My  precious!"  sobbed  Olenka.  "Vanichka,  my  dearest, 
my  precious.  Why  did  I  ever  meet  you?  Why  did  I  ever 
know  and  love  you?  Whom  have  I  left?  Why  have  you 
deserted  your  poor,  unfortunate  Olenka?" 

Kukin  was  buried  on  Tuesday  in  the  Vagankov  cemetery 
in  Moscow.  Olenka  returned  home  on  Wednesday  and  as 
soon  as  she  entered  her  house  she  fell  on  her  bed  and  sobbed 
so  loud  that  she  could  be  heard  in  the  street  and  in  the  neigh- 
bouring houses. 

"The  darling!"  said  the  neighbours,  as  they  crossed  them- 
selves.    "Darling  Olga  Semenovna,  how  she  does  take  on!" 

Three  months  later  Olenka  was  returning  from  Mass,  mel- 
ancholy and  in  deep  mourning.  It  happened  that  a  neigh- 
bour, Vasili  Andreich  Puslovalov,  who  was  also  returning 
from  church,  walked  beside  her.  He  was  manager  of  the 
merchant  Babakaev's  timber-yard.  He  wore  a  straw  hat,  a 
white  waistcoat  and  a  gold  watch-chain,  and  looked  more 
like  a  squire  than  a  tradesman. 

"Everything  has  its  own  order,  Olga  Semenovna,"  he  said 
gravely,  in  a  tone  of  sympathy,  "and  if  any  one  of  those  near 


DARLING  479 

us  dies,  it  must  be  that  God  willed  it  so,  and  so  we  must  not 
forget  ourselves  but  must  bear  it  submissively." 

Having  accompanied  Olenka  to  the  gate  he  took  his  leave 
of  her  and  went  on.  All  day  after  that  she  seemed  to  hear 
his  dignified  voice,  and  whenever  she  closed  her  eyes  she  saw 
his  dark  beard.  He  pleased  her  very  much.  And  apparently 
she  had  also  made  an  impression  on  him,  for  shortly  after- 
wards an  elderly  lady  with  whom  she  was  but  slightly  ac- 
quainted came  to  drink  coffee  with  her,  and  as  soon  as  she 
was  seated  at  the  table  began  to  talk  about  Pustovalov  and 
say  what  a  good  and  reliable  man  he  was,  whom  anyone 
would  be  glad  to  marry.  Three  days  after  that,  Pustovalov 
himself  came  to  call  on  her;  he  did  not  stay  long,  not  more 
than  ten  minutes,  and  did  not  say  much,  but  Olenka  fell  in 
love  with  him,  so  much  in  love  that  as  if  she  were  in  a  fever 
she  did  not  sleep  all  night,  and  in  the  morning  she  sent  for 
the  elderly  lady.  The  match  was  soon  arranged,  and  then 
came  the  wedding. 

Pustovalov  and  Olenka  lived  happily  after  their  marriage. 
He  was  usually  in  the  timber-yard  till  dinner  and  then  went 
out  on  business,  and  Olenka  took  his  place  and  sat  in  the 
office  till  the  evening,  writing  out  accounts  and  despatching 
goods. 

"Now  timber  rises  twenty  per  cent  in  price  every  year," 
she  said  to  customers  and  acquaintances.  "Just  think,  we 
used  to  sell  local  timber,  but  now  Vanichka  has  to  go  to  Mogi- 
lev province  every  year  to  buy  timber.  And  the  freights!" 
she  went  on,  covering  both  her  cheeks  with  her  hands  in 
horror,  "what  freights ! " 

She  felt  as  if  she  had  dealt  in  timber  quite  a  long  time; 
that  the  most  important  and  most  necessary  thing  in  life 
was  timber;  and  there  was  something  intimate  and  touching 
to  her  in  the  words:  "balk,  joist,  pole,  plank,  scantling,  batten, 
beam.  .  .  ." 


480  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

At  night  when  she  slept,  she  dreamed  of  whole  mountains  of 
planks  and  boards,  and  long  unending  rows  of  carts  convey- 
ing timber  to  distant  places  beyond  the  town.  She  dreamed 
of  how  a  whole  regiment  of  twenty-eight  foot,  nine-inch  beams 
was  marching  on  end  to  attack  the  timber-yard;  joists,  beams 
and  boards  knocked  against  one  another  with  a  resounding 
crash  of  dry  wood,  all  falling  down  and  rising  again,  piling 
themselves  on  one  another.  Olenka  cried  out  in  her  sleep 
and  Pustovalov  said  tenderly:  "Olenka,  what's  the  matter, 
darling?     Cross  yourself!" 

Her  husband's  thoughts  were  hers  too.  If  he  thought  the 
room  too  hot,  or  business  slack,  she  thought  so  too.  Her 
husband  did  not  care  for  any  entertainments  and  stayed  at 
home  on  holidays,  and  so  did  she. 

"You  are  always  at  home  or  in  the  office,"  her  acquaint- 
ances said  to  her.  "You  should  go  to  the  theatre,  darling, 
or  the  circus." 

"Vanichka  and  I  have  no  time  to  go  to  theatres,"  she  an- 
swered sedately.  "We  are  hard-working  people  and  have  no 
time  for  trifling.     What  good  are  those  theatres?" 

On  Saturdays  Pustovalov  and  she  went  to  evening  service, 
on  holidays  to  early  service,  and  they  returned  from  church 
side  by  side  with  a  softened  expression  on  their  faces,  both 
diffusing  an  agreeable  perfume,  and  her  silk  dress  rustling 
pleasantly.  At  home  they  had  tea  with  fancy  bread  and  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  jam,  and  then  cake.  Every  day  at  noon  an 
appetising  smell  of  beet-root  soup  and  roast  mutton  or  duck, 
or  on  fast  days  of  fish,  was  noticeable  in  their  yard  and  in 
the  street  outside,  and  one  could  not  pass  their  gate  without 
beginning  to  feel  an  appetite.  In  the  office  a  samovar  was 
always  boiling,  and  customers  were  treated  to  tea  and  biscuits. 
Once  a  week  the  couple  went  to  the  baths  and  returned  from 
there  together,  both  red  in  the  face. 

"Yes,  we  get  on  all  right,"  Olenka  used  to  say.     "Thank 


DARLING  481 

heaven!  God  grant  everyone  a  life  such  as  Vanichka's  and 
mine." 

When  Pustovalov  went  to  the  Mogilev  province  to  buy  tim- 
ber she  was  much  depressed  and  lay  awake  at  night,  crying. 
Sometimes  in  the  evening  the  regimental  veterinary  surgeon, 
Smirnin,  who  rented  their  lodge,  used  to  come  to  see  her. 
He  would  tell  her  some  news,  or  play  cards  with  her,  and  that 
distracted  her  a  little.  She  was  specially  interested  in  what 
he  told  her  of  his  own  family  life :  he  was  married  and  had  a 
boy,  but  was  separated  from  his  wife  because  she  had  been 
unfaithful  to  him,  and  now  he  hated  her  but  sent  her  forty 
roubles  a  month  for  his  son's  maintenance.  As  she  listened 
to  this  Olenka  sighed,  shook  her  head,  and  felt  sorry  for  him. 

"Well,  God  be  with  you,"  she  would  say  when  he  took  his 
leave,  and  as  she  lighted  him  with  a  candle  to  the  staircase. 
"Thank  you  for  sharing  my  dullness.  May  the  Queen  of 
Heaven  grant  you  good  health!" 

She  always  expressed  herself  thus  sedately  and  sagaciously, 
imitating  her  husband,  and  when  the  veterinary  surgeon  was 
already  disappearing  beyond  the  door  below,  she  would  call 
after  him: 

"Do  you  know,  Vladimir  Platonych,  you  should  make  it  up 
with  your  wife.  Forgive  her,  if  only  for  your  son's  sake! 
The  little  boy  no  doubt  understands." 

And  when  Pustovalov  returned  she  told  him  in  a  low  voice 
about  the  veterinary  surgeon  and  his  unhappy  family  life, 
and  they  both  sighed,  shook  their  heads,  and  spoke  of  the 
boy  who  no  doubt  pined  for  his  father,  and  then,  by  some 
strange  sequence  of  ideas,  they  went  up  to  the  icons,  bowed 
to  the  ground,  and  prayed  that  God  would  send  them  children. 

So  the  Pustovalovs  lived  quietly  and  peaceably  in  love  and 
full  accord  for  six  years.  But  then  one  winter  Pustovalov 
at  the  timber-yard  went  out  without  his  cap,  after  drinking  hot 
tea,  to  send  off  some  timber,  and  caught  cold  and  fell  ill.     He 


482  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

was  treated  by  the  best  doctors,  but  got  worse,  and  died  after 
four  months'  illness.     And  Olenka  was  again  a  widow. 

"Whom  have  I  now  that  you  have  forsaken  me,  my  pre- 
cious?" she  sobbed,  after  she  had  buried  her  husband.  "How 
am  I  to  live  without  you,  grief-stricken  and  wretched!  Pity 
me,  good  people,  utterly  forlorn.  ..." 

She  wore  a  black  dress  with  weepers,  gave  up  hats  and 
gloves  for  good,  and  hardly  ever  went  out  except  to  go  to 
church  and  to  her  husband's  grave,  and  at  home  she  lived 
like  a  nun.  It  was  only  after  six  months  had  passed  that  she 
left  off  the  weepers  and  opened  the  shutters  of  the  windows. 
She  was  sometimes  seen  going  to  market  with  her  cook  to  buy 
provisions,  but  how  she  now  lived,  and  what  went  on  in  her 
house,  could  only  be  conjectured.  People  made  conjectures, 
for  instance,  from  seeing  her  drinking  tea  in  her  little  garden 
with  the  veterinary  surgeon,  who  read  the  newspaper  aloud 
to  her,  and  also  from  the  fact  that,  meeting  a  lady  she  knew 
at  the  post-office,  she  had  said  to  her: 

"There  is  no  regular  veterinary  inspection  in  our  town, 
and  therefore  there  is  much  illness.  One  is  always  hearing 
of  people  falling  ill  from  the  milk,  and  being  infected  by  cows 
and  horses.  The  health  of  domestic  animals  should  really 
be  looked  after  as  carefully  as  the  health  of  human  beings." 

She  repeated  the  veterinary's  thoughts  and  was  now  of  his 
opinion  about  everything.  It  was  clear  that  she  could  not 
live  a  year  without  some  attachment  and  had  found  her  new 
happiness  in  the  lodge  of  her  own  house. 

Another  would  have  been  censured  for  this,  but  no  one 
could  think  ill  of  Olenka;  everything  she  did  was  so  natural. 
The  veterinary  surgeon  and  she  never  spoke  to  anybody  about 
the  change  in  their  relations  to  one  another,  and  they  tried  to 
conceal  it,  but  did  not  succeed  in  this,  for  Olenka  could  have 
no  secrets.  When  visitors,  his  comrades  in  the  service,  came 
to  see  him,  she  while  pouring  out  the  tea  or  serving  supper 


DARLING  483 

would  begin  to  speak  about  cattle-plague,  or  bovine  tuber- 
culosis and  municipal  slaughter-houses,  while  he  would  be- 
come dreadfully  confused,  and  after  the  visitors  had  gone 
would  seize  her  hand  and  hiss  angrily: 

"Didn't  I  ask  you  not  to  speak  of  what  you  don't  under- 
stand? When  we  veterinaries  talk  among  ourselves,  please 
don't  join  in.     It's  really  annoying!" 

And  she  would  look  at  him  with  amazement  and  agitation 
and  would  ask: 

"Volodichka  dear,  what  am  I  to  speak  about?" 

And  she  would  embrace  him  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes 
entreat  him  not  to  be  angry,  and  they  would  both  be  happy. 

That  happiness  however  did  not  last  long.  The  veterinary 
left  with  his  regiment  and  left  for  good,  as  the  regiment  was 
ordered  to  some  very  distant  place,  perhaps  to  Siberia.  And 
Olenka  was  left  alone. 

She  was  entirely  alone  now.  Her  father  had  died  long  ago, 
and  his  armchair  lay  covered  with  dust  and  with  a  leg  broken 
off,  in  the  garret.  She  grew  thinner  and  paler  and  people 
she  met  in  the  street  no  longer  looked  at  her  as  they  used  to 
do;  it  was  evident  that  her  best  years  were  over  and  left 
behind,  and  that  a  new  unknown  life  was  beginning  about 
which  it  was  better  not  to  think.  In  the  evenings  she  sat 
in  her  porch  and  could  hear  the  music  playing  and  the 
rockets  bursting  in  the  Tivoli  Gardens,  but  they  did  not  now 
awaken  any  thought  in  her.  She  looked  indifferently  at  her 
empty  yard,  thought  of  nothing,  wished  for  nothing,  and 
afterwards  when  night  came  on  she  went  to  sleep,  and  saw  in 
her  dreams  the  empty  yard.  She  ate  and  drank  as  if 
unwillingly. 

But  the  principal  thing  and  the  worst  of  all  was  that  she  no 
longer  had  any  opinions  whatever.  She  saw  the  objects 
around  her,  and  understood  all  that  took  place,  but  could 
form  no  opinions  and  did  not  know  what  to  speak  about, 


484  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

And  how  awful  it  is  not  to  have  any  opinions!  One  sees, 
for  instance,  how  a  bottle  is  standing,  or  rain  falling,  or  a 
peasant  is  driving  his  cart,  but  what  the  bottle,  or  rain,  or 
peasant,  is  for,  what  sense  there  is  in  them,  you  can't  say — 
not  even  if  someone  gave  you  a  thousand  roubles  to  do  so. 

While  she  had  Kukin,  Pustovalov,  and  afterwards  the 
veterinary  surgeon  Olenka  was  able  to  explain  everything 
and  express  her  opinions  about  anything  you  liked;  but  now 
there  was  the  same  void  in  her  mind  and  heart  as  in  her 
yard.  And  it  was  harsh  and  bitter  as  wormwood  in  the 
mouth. 

The  town  was  gradually  expanding  on  all  sides ;  the  Gipsy 
Suburb  was  now  called  a  street,  and  where  the  Tivoli  Gardens 
and  the  timber-yard  had  been,  houses  had  sprung  up,  and 
several  side  streets  had  formed.  How  fast  time  flies! 
Olenka's  house  had  grown  dingy,  the  roof  had  rusted,  the 
outhouse  had  a  slant  to  one  side,  and  the  whole  yard  was 
overgrown  with  docks  and  stinging  nettles.  Olenka  herself 
had  grown  elderly  and  plain ;  in  summer  she  sat  in  the  porch, 
and  her  soul  as  before  was  empty,  oppressed,  and  savoured 
of  wormwood;  in  winter  she  sat  at  a  window  looking  at  the 
snow.  When  there  was  a  scent  of  spring,  or  the  wind  brought 
the  sound  of  the  church  bells,  a  flood  of  memories  from  the 
past  would  well  up,  her  heart  would  contract  with  tender  emo- 
tion and  tears  would  flow  freely  from  her  eyes,  but  this  was 
only  for  a  moment,  then  again  emptiness  returned  and  she  did 
not  know  why  she  lived.  Bryska,  her  black  cat,  would  rub 
against  her  softly  and  purr,  but  these  feline  caresses  did  not 
touch  Olenka.  Were  they  what  she  needed?  She  wanted 
a  love  that  would  absorb  her  whole  being,  her  whole  soul  and 
reason,  would  give  her  ideas  and  a  purpose  in  life,  and  would 
warm  her  ageing  blood.  And  she  brushed  away  black 
Bryska,  and  told  her  crossly: 

" Get  away  .  .  .  you've  no  business  here ! " 


DARLING  485 

And  so  she  went  on  day  after  day,  year  after  year,  without 
a  single  joy,  and  without  any  opinions.  Whatever  Martha 
the  cook  said,  that  was  right. 

Towards  the  evening  of  a  very  hot  July  day,  just  as  the  town 
herd  of  cows  was  being  driven  through  the  streets  and  the 
whole  yard  was  filled  with  clouds  of  dust,  someone  suddenly 
knocked  at  the  gate.  Olenka  went  herself  to  open  it  and 
was  dumbfounded  by  what  she  saw:  at  the  gate  stood  the 
veterinary  Smirnin,  now  grey-haired  and  in  civilian  dress. 
She  suddenly  remembered  everything,  could  not  restrain  her- 
self, began  crying,  and  let  her  head  fall  on  his  breast  without 
saying  a  word,  and  in  her  great  excitement  did  not  notice  how 
they  both  entered  the  house  and  sat  down  to  tea.       ,  . 

"My  dearest!"  she  muttered,  trembling  with  joy.  "Vla- 
dimir Platonych!      From  where  has  heaven  sent  you?" 

"I  want  to  settle  here  for  good,"  he  told  her.  "I  have  left 
the  army,  and  want  to  try  my  luck  as  a  free  man,  and  to  live 
a  settled  life.  Besides  it  is  time  to  send  my  son  to  the  high 
school.  He's  a  big  boy.  Do  you  know,  I  have  made  it  up 
with  my  wife." 

"And  where  is  she?"  asked  Olenka. 

"She  is  at  the  hotel  with  our  son,  and  I  am  hunting  round 
looking  for  a  lodging." 

"Oh  goodness,  my  dear  soul,  take  my  house!  What's 
wrong  with  it?  Oh,  Lord,  why,  I  won't  charge  you  any- 
thing," said  Olenka,  excitedly,  and  again  began  to  cry.  "You 
live  here,  and  the  lodge  will  do  well  for  me.  What  joy,  oh, 
my  goodness ! " 

Next  day  the  roof  of  the  house  was  already  being  painted 
and  the  wall  whitewashed,  and  Olenka,  her  arms  akimbo, 
went  about  the  yard  giving  directions.  The  old  smile  beamed 
on  her  face  and  she  was  fresh  and  full  of  life  again,  as 
though  she  had  waked  up  from  a  long  sleep.  The  veterinary's 
wife   arrived — a   thin,   plain  lady   with   short  hair   and   a 


486  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

peevish  face,  and  with  her  came  the  boy,  Sasha,  small  for  his 
age  (he  was  going  on  for  ten),  plump,  with  clear  blue  eyes 
and  dimples  in  his  cheeks.  Scarcely  had  the  boy  entered 
the  yard  before  he  rushed  after  the  cat,  and  his  merry  joyous 
laughter  immediately  filled  the  air. 

"Auntie,  is  this  your  cat?"  he  asked  Olenka.  "When  she 
pups  let  me  have  a  kitten.     Mama  is  awfully  afraid  of  mice." 

Olenka  talked  to  him,  gave  him  tea,  and  her  heart  suddenly 
grew  warm  and  contracted  tenderly,  just  as  if  he  were  her 
own  son.  And  in  the  evening,  when  he  sat  down  in  her  din- 
ing-room and  prepared  his  lessons,  she  looked  at  him  with 
emotion  and  pity  and  whispered: 

"My  pretty  one,  my  precious  .  .  .  ,  my  little  child! 
Fancy  your  being  born  so  clever  and  so  fair ! " 

"An  island  is  a  portion  of  dry  land  surrounded  on  all  sides 
by  water,"  he  read. 

"An  island  is  a  portion  of  dry  land  ..."  she  repeated, 
and  that  was  the  first  opinion  she  expressed  with  conviction 
after  so  many  years  of  silence  and  absence  of  thought. 

And  she  already  had  opinions  of  her  own,  and  at  supper 
she  spoke  to  Sasha's  parents  of  how  difficult  it  was  for  chil- 
dren nowadays  to  learn  in  the  high-schools,  but  that  a  classical 
high-school  education  was,  all  the  same,  better  than  a  com- 
mercial one,  as  after  finishing  at  the  high-school  all  careers 
were  open  to  you,  whether  you  wished  to  be  a  doctor  or  an 
engineer. 

Sasha  began  going  to  the  high-school.  His  mother  went 
to  stay  with  her  sister  in  Kharkov,  and  did  not  return;  his 
father  went  away  somewhere  every  day  to  inspect  herds  of 
cattle,  and  would  sometimes  be  away  from  home  for  three 
days  at  a  time;  it  seemed  to  Olenka  that  they  had  quite 
abandoned  Sasha,  that  he  was  not  wanted  at  home,  that  he 
was  being  starved,  and  she  took  him  to  her  lodge  and  ar- 
ranged a  little  room  there  for  him. 


DARLING  487 

Half-a-year  has  already  passed  now  since  Sasha  came  to 
live  in  her  lodge.  Every  morning  Olenka  comes  into  his 
room;  he  is  fast  asleep  with  his  hand  under  his  cheek, 
scarcely  breathing.     She  is  sorry  to  wake  him. 

"Sashenka,"  she  would  say  sadly,  "get  up,  dear!  Time  to 
go  to  school." 

He  gets  up,  dresses,  says  his  prayers,  and  then  sits  down 
to  breakfast.  He  drinks  three  tumblers  of  tea  and  eats  two 
big  plain  cakes  and  half  a  French  roll  with  butter.  He  is  not 
quite  awake  yet,  and  therefore  not  in  a  good  temper. 

"But,  Sashenka,  you  did  not  quite  learn  your  fable," 
Olenka  says,  gazing  at  him  as  if  she  was  seeing  him  off  on  a 
long  journey.  "I  am  troubled  about  you.  You  must  take 
pains  to  learn,  dearest  .  .  .  and  obey  your  masters." 

"Oh,  do  leave  me  alone!"  says  Sasha. 

When  he  goes  along  the  street  to  school,  himself  small  but 
wearing  a  big  cap  and  with  a  satchel  on  his  back,  Olenka 
follows  him  noiselessly. 

"Sashenka!"  she  calls. 

He  turns  round  and  she  slips  a  date  or  a  caramel  into  his 
hand.  When  they  turn  into  the  side  street  where  the  school 
stands  he  feels  ashamed  of  being  followed  by  a  tall,  stout 
woman;  he  looks  round  and  says: 

"You  go  home,  auntie;  I  can  go  on  alone  now." 

She  stops,  and  follows  him  with  her  eyes  fixedly  until  he 
disappears  into  the  school  doorway.  Oh,  how  she  loves  him ! 
Not  one  of  her  former  attachments  had  been  so  deep,  never 
before  had  her  soul  surrendered  itself  so  freely,  so  disinter- 
estedly, and  so  joyously,  as  it  did  now  when  the  maternal 
feelings  grew  more  and  more  ardent  within  her.  For  this 
boy,  who  was  not  hers,  for  the  dimples  in  his  cheeks,  for  his 
peaked  cap,  she  would  have  laid  down  her  life,  given  it  gladly 
and  with  tears  of  emotion.     Why?     Who  can  tell  why? 

Having  seen  Sasha  to  school  she  returns  home  quietly,  so 


488  TOLSTOY  ON  ART 

content,  serene,  and  full  of  love.  Her  face,  which  has  grown 
younger-looking  during  the  last  half-year,  is  smiling  and 
radiant,  those  she  meets  look  at  her  with  pleasure,  and  say: 

"Good  morning,  Olga  Semenovna,  darling!  How  are  you, 
darling?" 

"The  work  at  the  high-school  is  very  difficult  nowadays," 
she  relates  when  she  goes  marketing.  "It's  no  joke, — in  the 
first  class  yesterday  they  had  a  fable  to  learn  by  heart,  a 
Latin  translation,  and  a  sum  as  well.  .  .  .  How  is  a  little 
fellow  to  do  it  all?" 

And  she  begins  talking  about  teachers,  lessons,  and  the 
lesson-books,  saying  just  what  Sasha  says  about  them. 

After  two  o'clock  they  dine  together,  and  in  the  evening 
they  do  Sasha's  home  work  and  cry  together.  When  tucking 
him  up  in  bed,  she  spends  a  long  time  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross  over  him  and  whispering  a  prayer;  then,  when  she  goes 
to  bed,  she  dreams  of  the  dim  and  distant  future  when  Sasha, 
having  finished  the  course  and  become  a  doctor  or  an  en- 
gineer, will  have  a  big  house  of  his  own  with  a  carriage  and 
horses,  and  will  marry,  and  children  will  be  borne  to 
him.  .  .  .  She  falls  asleep  still  thinking  of  the  same  thing, 
and  the  tears  roll  down  her  cheeks  from  under  her  closed  eye- 
lids. The  black  cat  lies  at  her  side  and  purrs.  "Prr  .  .  . 
prr  .  .  .  prr  ..." 

Suddenly  there  is  a  loud  knock  at  the  gate.  Olenka  wakes 
up  breathless  with  fear,  and  her  heart  beats  violently.  Haif- 
a-minute passes  and  the  knocking  is  repeated. 

"It's  a  telegram  from  Kharkov,"  she  thinks,  beginning  to 
tremble  all  over.  "His  mother  demands  that  Sasha  should 
be  sent  to  her  in  Kharkov.  .  .  .  Oh,  God!" 

She  is  in  despair.  Her  head,  her  feet  and  hands,  grow 
cold;  there  is  nobody  in  the  world  more  unhappy  than  she. 
But  another  minute  passes,  voices  are  heard:  it  is  the  veteri- 
nary surgeon  returning  from  the  club. 


DARLING  489 

"Well,  thank  God! "  she  thinks. 

The  weight  is  gradually  lifted  from  her  heart,  and  it  feels 
light  again.  She  lies  down  and  thinks  about  Sasha,  who  is 
fast  asleep  in  the  next  room  and  sometimes  mutters  in  his 
dream: 

"111  give  it  you !     Be  off !     Don't  fight ! " 


THE  END 


INDEX 

Academy,  Royal,  of  1897,  271. 

Albert,  a  story  by  Tolstoy,  8 

Alison,  Essay  on  the  Nature  and  Principles  of  Taste,  157-8 

American  publications,  385 

Amiel's  Journal,  18,  38-42 

Andre,  Pere,  Essai  sur  le  Beau,  146 

"  Animal  of  unspoilt  scent,"  268 

Appraisement  of  feelings  made  by  religious  perception,  278 

Approval,  a  matter  of  degree,  113 

Aristotle,  141,  184 

Arnold,  Matthew,  The  Function  of  Criticism,  382 

Art 

artisans  of,  237 

basis  of  action  of,  171 

blind  alley,  313 

"  can  evoke  reverence  for  the  dignity  of  every  man,"  332 

canon  of,  164 

Christian,  285,  288,  293-4 

a.  Religious,  296 

b.  Universal,  296,  333 

of  Church  Christianity,  179 

"  comprehensible  to  men  less  educated  than  our  labourers,"  226 

content  of,  85 

definition  of,  80-1,  171,  173,  362-3 

experimental,  169 

physiological  evolutionary,  169,  170 

metaphysical,  169,  170 
destiny  of,  333 

dramatic  form,  qualifications  needed  to  produce  in,  239 
effect  on  children,  198 
empty  and  vicious,  283 
essence  of,  237 
essential  organ,  298 
for  art's  sake,  77,  87 

for  enjoyment,  first  esteemed  by  whom,  182 
future,  313,  318,  320,  368 
good  of  two  kinds,  286 
impoverishment  of  subject-matter  of,  199 

491 


492  INDEX 

Art  (continued) 

indestructible  spiritual  organ,  309 

indispensable  means  of  communication,  175 

infection  by,  171 

influence  of,  287 

limited  sphere  of  our,  193 

means  of  intercourse,  170 

means  of  union,  173 

and  Science  :  the  difference,  225 

of  Middle  Ages,  179-81 

neo-esthetic  theories  of,  170 

organ  of  human  progress,  297 

organ  transmitting  man's  reasonable  perceptions  into  feelings,  331 

patriotic,  285 

productions  that  were  "  a  temporary  pastime,"  195 

prostitute  of  our  circle,  311 

realistic,  87 

recognized  by  early  Christians,  178 

should  cause  violence  to  be  set  aside,  331 

simple  feelings,  318 

subject  matter  of,  197,  287 

task  to  make  feeling  of  brotherhood  customary,  332 

tendencious,  87 

vehicle  to  draw  men  towards  perfection,  320 

which  has  left  no  trace,  166 

"  will  lay  in  the  souls  of  men  the  rails  along  which  their  actions  will   naturally 
pass,"  333 

will  be  an  organ  co-equally  important  with  science  for  the  life  of  mankind,  331 
Artist  of  the  future,  318,  368 
Artistic  impression,  when  produced,  231 

productions  that  are  "  as  unintelligible  as  Sanscrit,"  194 

sects  exclude  one  another,  130 

Bach,  J.  S.,  269,  292 

Ballet-dancers  receive  more  honour  than  the  Saints,  301 

Barge  with  kedge-anchors,  322 

Bastien- Lepage,  310 

Batteux,  146 

Baudelaire,  P.  C,  207-214,  334-6 

Duellum,  208,  334-5 

Fleur  du  mal,  207,  302,  334 

La  Soupe  et  les  nuages,  209,  335-6 

Le  Galant  Tireur,  210,  336 


INDEX  493 

Baudelaire  (continued) 

L'etranger,  209,  335 

Petits  poemes  en  prose,  204,  335 
Baumgarten,  A.  G.,  143,  187-8 
Bayreuth,  performances  at,  260,  262 
Bazin,  Ren£,  La  Terre  qui  meurt,  380 
Beauty,  83-5,  143,  148-163,  166-8,  182,  186-7,  189-90,  196,  293,  303,  361,  369 

definition  of,  163-4 

furnishes  no  criterion  of  art,  112 

is  "  that  which  pleases,"  163 

Truth  and  Goodness,  143-7,  156,  189-90 
Beecher-Stowe,  Harriet,  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  373 
Beethoven,  L.  von,  14,  245-6,  292 

Ninth  Symphony,  294-5 

Opus  101,  269 
Benards,  V  esthetique  d'Aristote,  142,  185,  187 
Bergmann,  J.,  Ueber  das  Schone,  154 
Boccaccio,  201 

Bodkin  Art  Gallery  (Moscow),  92 
Booby  Trap,  17,  18 
Books  for  the  people,  6 
Brandes,  Georges,  396,  444 
Brevity,  clearness  and  simplicity,  314,  320 
Bryulov,  K.  P.,  "  Art  begins  where  the  wee  bit  begins,"  247 
Burke,  Edmund  :  The  Sublime  and  Beautiful,  146 
Buttnerbauer,  Der,  by  W.  von  Polenz,  18,  378-87 
Byron,  201 

Caine,  Hall,  The  Christian,  384-5 
Caricatures,  293 
Cathedral  of  Victory,  284 
Cause  of  it  All,  The,  by  Tolstoy,  7 
Cervantes,  Don  Quixote,  290 
Chamber  music,  294 
Chekhov,  A.  P.,  18-19 

Darling,  18,  388-92,  474-89. 
Cherbuliez,  C.  V.,  156 
Children  perverted  in  service  of  art,  298 
Choir  of  peasant  women,  268 
Chopin,  F.  F.,  269 

Nocturne  in  E  flat  major,  292 
Christianity,  a  turning  point,  284 
Christ,  the  teaching  of,  308 


494  INDEX 

Church  music  and  ritual,  91 

Classification  (usually  accepted)  of  writers  is  harmful,  386 

Cloudy  conceptions  "  usually  presented  with  aplomb,"  137,  361 

Coins  that  "  resemble  real  money,"  234 

Cold-drawn  works  of  art,  238 

Comte,  Auguste,  450-1 

Condemnation  of  new  art  unjust,  222 

Conditions  of  production  of  art,  238 

counterfeit  art,  237-40 

tragedy,  420 
Cone  of  art,  the,  228 
Confession ,  Tolstoy's,  8-12 

Confusion  of  religious  cult  with  religious  perception,  280 
Corruption  of  class  nourished  by  false  art,  192 
Coster,  G.  H.  de,  156 
Counterfeits  of  art,  how  manufactured,  237-240 

caused  by  : 

a)  Professionalism  \ 

b)  Art  Criticism     \  241-6 

c)  Schools  of  Art   j 
Cousin,  Victor,  154 
Criticism,  382,  386-7 

great  importance  of,  387 
Critics,  242 
Crosby,  Ernest  H.,  Shakespeare  on  the  Working  Classes,  393 

Dancer,  248 

Dante,  296 

Darling,  by  A.  P.  Chekhov,  18,  388-92,  474-89- 

Darwin,  Charles,  169,  450-1 

Descent  of  Man,  158 

Erasmus,  158 
Dealers  in  the  temple  of  art,  316 
Decadent  art,  233 

Decadents,  207,  214,  217,  221-2,  228 
Definition  of  art,  80-81,  171,  173,  362-3 

needed,  of  art,  133 

of  any  human  activity,  166 
Diamonds  differ  from  paste,  267 

selecting  by  touch,  455 
Dickens,  Charles,  7,  288,  310,  385 

Christmas  Carol,  7,  107 

David  Copperfield,  290 


INDEX  495 

Dickens,  Charles  (continued) 

Pickwick  Papers,  290 
Diderot,  D.,  146 
Dostoevski,  F.  M.,  288-9,  310 

Memoirs  from  the  House  of  Death,  289 
Doumic,  Rene,  Les  Jeunes,  201,  206-7 
Dragon,  the,  in  Siegfried,  257-8 
Drama,  219,  232,  247,  452-5 

physiological  effects  in,  235 
Dreyfus  affair,  449-450 
Druzhinin,  A.  V.,  46 
Durand-Ruel,  art  gallery,  218 

Elementary  Schools,  314-5 
Eliot,  George,  385 
Adam  Bede,  289 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  385 
Erections  of  lies  obstruct  study  of  life,  324 
Essays  and  Letters,  Tolstoy's,  8 
Essence  of  art  :  "  that  simple  feeling  compelling  us  to  mingle  souls  with  another," 

273 
Esthetic  theory,  the,  of  indifference  of  art  to  good  or  evil,  456-7,  460 
Euphuism,  203,  438 
Exclusive  art,  365 

Fairy-tale,  lullaby,  riddle,  jest,  or  sketch,  318 

Falstaff,  431-2 

Fashionable  art  depends  on  the  slavery  of  the  masses,  194 

Feelings,  the  highest,  367 

conveyed,  quality  of  feelings,  107 

simple,  362 

three,  the  subject-matter  of  upper-class  art,  200 
Fichte,  J.  G.,  148-9 
First  Distiller,  The,  by  Tolstoy,  7 
Folgeldt,  on  art,  165 
Folk-art  and  children's  art,  7,  318 
Food,  223-4,  369 

for  body  and  mind,  93 

question,  the,  166-7 
Form  of  art,  364-5 

Fourier,  F.  M.  C,  phalansteries,  450-1 
Francis  of  Assisi,  181,  183 
French  drama,  454 


496  INDEX 

Gsirshin,  V.  M.,  46 

Gauthier,  Theophile,  204 

Gay,  N.  N.,  The  Last  Supper,  17,  29-32 

What  is  Truth  ?  36-7 

Judgment ,  289 
Genesis,  "  the  epic  of,"  224 
George,  Henry,  104 
Gerome,  Leon,  Pollice  Verso,  290 
Gervinus,  Dr.  G.  G.,  438-444 
Gevaert,  Fierens,  Essay  sur  I'art  contemporain,  157 
Goethe,  J.  W.,  296,  455,  458,  461 

Wilhelm  Meister,  165 

Faust,  234 
Goncharov,  I.  A.,  199 
"  Good  art  pleases  everyone,"  224 
Gospel  parables,  224,  226 

Gourmont,  Remy  de,  Les  Chevaux  de  Diomtde,  202 
Grant  Allen,  169 

Physiological  ^Esthetics,  159 
Greeks,  ancient,  184,  187,  279-80,  367 

a  small,  semi-savage,  slaveholding  people,  188 
Grot,  Professor,  117,  118 
Guyau,  Les  ProbUmes  de  Vesthetique  contemporaine,  136,  156 

Habituation  to  bad  art,  224,  366 
Hallam,  Henry,  395 
Hamlet,  272,  394.  432-5,  444 

lack  of  character,  432-4 
Harsnet,  Dr.  Samuel,  409 
Hartmann,  Edward  von,  153 
Hauptmann,  G.,  Hanneles  Himmelfaht,  235 

Die  versunkene  Glocke,  220 
Hauser,  Kaspar,  174 
Hazlitt,  William,  395 
Hebrew  art,  280 

prophets,  198,  203 
Hegel,  G.  W.  F.,  150-1,  450-1 
Heine,  Heinrich,  201 
Helmholz,  H.  von,  154 
Hemsterhuis,  Frans,  147 
Herbart,  J.  F.,  152 
Herder,  J.  G.  von,  144 
Hero,  with  hat  a  la  Guillaume  Tell,  230,  257 


INDEX  497 

Home,  Henry  (Lord  Karnes),  146 
Homer,  102,  198,  4389 

Iliad  and  Odyssey,  226 

and  Shakespeare,  438 
How  to  Read  the  Gospels,  376 
Hugo,  Victor,  50,  310,  288,  396 

Les  Miserables,  50,  310,  396 

Les  Pauvres  Gens,   288 
Human  life  filled  with  art,  363 
Humboldt,  W.,  148 
^^Jluijjgirian  csdrdds,  269 
Huret,  Jules,  206" 

Hutcheson,  Francis,  Inquiry  into  the  Original  of  our  Ideas  of  Beauty  and  Virtue,  145 
Huysmans,  J.  K.,  Ld-Bas,  221 
Hypnotic  and  epidemic  suggestions,  263,  448-51,  453-9 

Ibsen,  Henrik  :  The  Master  Builder  and  Little  Eyolf,  219-220 
Imitation  art,  methods  of  producing  : 

a.  Borrowing  \ 

b.  Imitating 

a  ^  230-6,  261 

c.  Action  on  nerves 

d.  Interesting 

Important  what  feelings  spread,  366-7 
Impressionist  and  Neo-impressionist  art,  218-9 
Infectiousnesss  of  art,  364-8 

Injurious  effect  of  security  and  luxury  on  artist,  316 
Internal  test  of  art,  365 

Japanese  art,  365 

Jest,  riddle,  fairy-tale,  lullaby,  or  sketch,  318 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  395 

Joseph,  the  story  of,  225,  290 

Jouffroy,  T.  S.,  154-5 

Jungmann,  J.,  154 

Kant,  I.,  145,  147-8 
Karr,  Alphonse,  220 

Ker,  W.  P.,  Essay  on  the  Philosophy  of  Art,  159 
King  Lear,  394  et  seq. 

King  Leir,  superior  to  Shakespeare's  King  Lear,  424-429 
Kipling,  Rudyard,  221,  270,  385 
Kirchmann,  Julius  von,  153-4 

Knight,  Wm.,  Philosophy  of  the  Beautiful,  159-160,  185 
R.,  An  Analytical  Enquiry  into  the  Principles  of  Taste,  158 


498  INDEX 

Kralik,  R.,  Weltschdnheit,  134-6,  140 

Kramskoy,  I.  N.,  289 

Krause,  K.  C.  F.,  150 

Krasota  (Russian  word) — how  used,  138 

Kreutzer  Sonata,  14-16 

Labour,  enormous,  expended  on  art,  125  et  seq. 

La  Bruyere,  Jean  de,  466 

Lachelier,  J.,  155 

Langley,  W.,  272,  289 

Language  of  art  understood  by  all,  225 

La  Rochefoucauld,  F.,  Due  de,  466 

Latin  grammar,  299 

Lear's  inappropriate  talk  with  fool,  401 

unnatural  credulity  and  distrust,  399,  420 

verbose  absurdities,  405-6 
Leopardi,  J.,  201 
Lepage,  Bastien,  310 
Lermontov,  M.  Yu.,  384 
Lessing,  G.  E.,  144 
Levgque,  C,  138,  140,  154-5 
Lhermitte,  Leon,  310 
Life,  understanding  of,  176 
Loss  of  capacity  to  be  infected  by  art,  298 
Lowell,  J.  R.,  385 
Lucent ,  by  Tolstoy,  8 

Lullaby,  fairy-tale,  riddle,  jest,  or  sketch,  318 
Lyric  poetry,  251-2 

Macbeth,  394 
Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  214 

Les  Aveiigles,  220 
Mallarme\  S.,  205-6,  214-5 

Devagations,  215 
Malthus,  T.  R.,  188 

"  Man  sieht  die  Absicht  und  man  wird  verstimmt,"  422 
Marcus  Aurelius,  66 
Marx,  Karl,  188 
Materialism,  109 
Maupassant,  Guy  de,  17,  46-71,  290 

Bel-ami,  52,  54,  55,  57,  59,  64 

Fort  comme  le  mort,  55-8 

Histoire  d'une  fille  deferme,  48,  50 


INDEX  499 

Maupassant,  Guy  de  (continned) 

Horla,  67 

La  Femme  de  Paul,  48,  50 

La  Maison  Tellier,  46 

La  Petite  Roque,  66 

Uarmoire,  66 

Le  champ  d'oliviers,  66 

Le  papa  de  Simon,  50 

L'ermite,  66 

Miss  Harriet,  66 

Monsieur  Parent,  66 

Mont  Oriol,  54-5,  58 

Notre  cceur,  55-6,  58,  65 

Pierre  etjean,  55,  58,  60 

Solitude,  67 

Sur  I'eau,  50,  66 

Un  cas  de  divorce,  66 

Une  vie,  50-2,  54,  57,  64 

C/ne  />arft«  rfc  campagne,  48,  50 

Yw«e,  58-9,  65 
Mayer,  von  Liesen,  Signing  the  Death  Warrant,  289 
Melody,  291-2 

Men  seldom  recognise  truth  that  exposes  falsity  of  their  pet  beliefs,  265 
Mendelssohn,  144 
Middle  Ages,  86,  198 
Millet,  Jean  Francois,  310 

The  Man  with  a  Hoe,  289 
Mithalter,  Julius,  Ratsel  des  Schonen,  137 
Moliere,  290 

Montaigne,  M.  E.  de,  466 

Montesquieu,  C.  de  S.,  Baron  de  la  Breda,  et  de,  466 
Montesquiou-Fezensac,  le  comte  Robert  de,  207,  217,  350-2 
Moralities  (plays),  452 

Morality  regarded  as  "  an  antiquated  affair,"  303 
Morality  and  art,  364,  371-2 
Morel,  E.,  Terre  Promise,  221 
Morris,  William,  94-6 
Moscow,  performance  of  Siegfried,  253-60 
Mozart,  W.  A.  C,  269,  292 

Magic  Flute,  250 
Miiller,  Adam,  149 
Muratori,  L.  A.,  147 
Music,  6,  13,  14-16,  17,  220,  232-3,  235-6,  245,  247-8,  291-2,  294-5 


500  INDEX 

Musical  art,  qualifications  needed  to  produce,  239 

Muther,  Richard,  The  History  of  Art  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  165 

Mysteries  (plays),  452 

Mysticism,  109 

Mythological  allusions,  203 

Nadson,  S.  Ya.,  385 

Natasha  Rostova  (in  War  and  Peace),  8 

Negro  melodies,  102 

Nekrasov,  N.  A.,  385 

Nicholas  Rostov,  (in  War  and  Peace),  8,  16 

Nietzsche,  F.  W.,  206,  303,  385,  451 

Obscurity  in  art  esteemed,  203-4 
On  Art,  75-90 

"  One  touch  of  nature,"  362 
Opera,  rehearsal  of  an,  125-9 

Siegfried,  253-60 
Orators,  362,  370-1 
Ornaments,  293 
Ostrovski,  A.  N.,  461 

Minin,  244 
Othello,  429-31 

powerful  movement  of  feeling  in,  430 

Pagano,  F.  M.  S.  A.  C.  P.,  147 
Painting,  232,  244,  292 

and  sculpture,  qualifications  necessary  to  produce,  239,  293 
Paris  exhibitions,  218 
Parnassians,  205-6,  213 
Pascal,  Blaise,  40,  190,  466 

Pastime  for  the  idle  crowd  of  rich,  some  art  merely  a,  366 
Patti,  Adelina,  302 
Peasant  art,  277 

labourers,  105 
Peladan,  Josephin,  157,  207 
Perplexity  of  plain  folk,  300 
Peter  of  Chelczic,  183 
Petersburg,  9 
Pleasure  of  art,  82 
Pickwick  Papers,  The,  435 
Pictet,  Adolph,  155 
Pierre  Loiiys,  Aphrodite,  202 


INDEX  501 

Pilate,  Pontius,  36-7 

Pilo,  Mario,  La  Psychologie  du  Beau  et  de  I'Art,  156-7 

Pissaro,  Camille,  218 

Plato,  92,  141,  183-7 

The  Republic,  175,  307 
Poems,  qualifications  needed  to  write,  238 
Poetic,  "  means  borrowed,"  234 

subjects,  261 
Polenz,  W.  von,  Der  Bilttnerbauer ,  18,  378  et  seq. 
Popularity,  103 

Pozdnyshev  (in  The  Kreutzer  Sonata),  12-15 
Predetermination  (an  author's)  evokes  distrust,  259 
Prevost,  Marcel,  201 
Printed  matter  a  vast  obstacle  to  enlightenment,  383 

the  necessity  of,  73 
Printing,  383 
Purpose  of  art,  the,  278 
Pushkin,  301-2,  384,  461 

Tales,  290,  384,  461 

Boris  Godunov,  244 

Evgeni  Onegin,  244 

The  Gipsies,  244 
Puvis  de  Chavannes,  P.  C,  218 

Qualities,  Three — of  works  of  art 

a)  Content     'j 

b)  Beauty       l  445-6 

c)  Sincerity   J 

Ragnar  Redbeard,  303 

Raphael,  296 

Ravaisson,  F.,  La  Philosophie  en  France,  155 

Realism  in  art,  77-8,  234 

Re-appraisement  of  knowledge  needed,  330 

Reformers'  objection  to  art,  91 

Reid,  Thomas,  157 

Religion  and  Morality,  by  Tolstoy,  375 

Religious  art,  310 

Religious  perception,  108, 176-8,  197-200,  278,  281-5,  310,  317,  322,  367,  372,  374-5 

lack  of,  182 

the  consciousness  of  the  brotherhood  of  man,  331 
Renaissance,  The,  182,  200,  282,  453,  460 


502  INDEX 

Renan,  Ernest,  Marc  Aurkle,  61,  62,  134 

L'Abbesse  de  Jouarre,  62 
Resurrection,  by  Tolstoy,  111 
Riddle,  fairy-tale,  lullaby,  jest,  or  sketch,  318 
Rider  Haggard,  385 
Romanticists,  221 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  394 
Rossi,  Ernesto,  272 
Royal  Academy  of  1897,  271 
Ruge,  Arnold,  151 
Ruskin,  John,  94-5,  378 
Russian  poetry,  384 

St.  Anthony,  The  Temptation  of,  271 
Sand,  George,  49,  450-1 

La  petite  Fadette,  49 

La  mere  awe  diables,  49 
Schasler,  M.,  Kritische  Geschichte  der  Aesthetik,  140-1,  186-7 
Schelling,  F.  W.  J.,  149,  150 
Schiller,  J.  C.  F.  von,  148,  169,  288,  295 
Schlegel,  F.,  149 

Schnaase,  Karl,  Geschichte  der  bildenden  Kiinste,  153 
Schopenhauer,  A.,  153,  246 
Science,  30,  321-29 

and  art  closely  united,  322 

for  science's  sake,  324 

inventions  in  natural,  324 

of  esthetics  has  failed,  The,  361 

purpose  of  real  and  pretended,  325-6 
Sexual  relations,  305 
Shaftesbury,  A.  A.  C,  third  Earl  of,  145 
Sketch,  fairy-tale,  lullaby,  riddle,  jest,  318 
Shakespeare,  William,  18,  19,  393  463 

devoid  of  sense  of  proportion,  437 

his  apt  use  of  gestures,  435 

his  characters  are  borrowed  from  earlier  works,  424 
do  not  accord  with  their  period  or  place,  421 
lack  individuality  of  language,  422 
talk  as  real  people  never  could  talk,  423 

his  delineation  of  character,  422 

effect  on  the  young  of  laudation  of  Shakespeare,  462-3 

his  exaggeration,  438 

his  fame  :  first  cause  of,  456 


INDEX  503 

Shakespeare  (continued) 

King  Lear,  394-429,  436-7 

Albany 's  unnatural  speech,  410 

Edgar  and  Kent  not  recognized  by  people  who  knew  them  well,  406 

Gloucester's  unnatural  credulity,  400,  403,  412 

his  Kings,  399,  423 

his  masterly  development  of  scenes,  455 

movement  of  feeling  powerfully  expressed  by,  435 
not  an  artist,  438 

his  patriotism,  445 

his  practical  mastery  of  stage-craft,  19 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  165 

"  The  end  justifies  the  means,"  445 

Thoughts  arising  from  sound  of  words,  409 
Shaw,  Bernard,  17 
Shelley,  P.  B.,  395 

"  Sick  send  the  hale  to  bed,  the,"  227 
Simple  direct  artistic  impression,  455 
Sincerity  in  Art,  84-5 
Socrates,  141,  184,  186,  190 
Solger,  K.  W.  F.,  Vorlesungen  uber  Msthetik,  150 
Spaletti,  Saggio  sopra  la  bellessa,  147 
Spectrum  Analysis  of  Milky  Way,  lecture  on,  318 
Speech,  170,  i73"4>  224,  297 
Spencer,  Herbert,  158,  169 
Spiritual  Censor  (Russian),  119 
Spiritualists,  262 
Stead,  W.  T.,  7 
Stenka  Razin,  304 
Story  of  an  Easter  Cake,  270 
Story  or  novel,  qualifications  needed  to  write,  238 
Subject,  and  subject-matter,  369 
Subject-matter  of  art,  364 
Sue,  Eugene,  450-1 

Sully,  James,  Sensation  and  Intuition,  160,  169,  170 
Sulzer,  George,  144 

"  Supremacy  of  Artistic  Element  in  Literature,"  4 
Swinburne,  A.  C,  396 
Symbolic  pictures,  294 
Symbolists,  207,  218,  219 

Taglioni,  Maria,  302 
Taine,  Henri,  156 


504  INDEX 

Tasso,  Torquato,  Jerusalem  Delivered,  296 

Tatiana  Lvovna  (Mme.  Sukhotin),  218 

"  Tendencious  art,"  77 

Test  of  great  philosophy,  369 

Thackeray,  W.  M.,  385 

Three  religions,  375 

"  To  be  or  not  to  be,"  433 

Todhunter,  John,  Theory  of  the  Beautiful,  158-9 

Tolstoy's  final  conclusions  on  art,  377 

fitness  to  deal  with  the  problem,  97,  98,  373 

lecture  on  literature,  4 

view  of  life,  367 
Tolstoy,  Alexey,  385,  461 

Tsar  Boris,  244 
Truth,  190 
Turgenev,  K.  S.,  The  Quail,  271 

A  Sportsman's  Notebook,  199 
Twenty-three  Tales,  by  Tolstoy,  7,  8 
"  Two  live  leaves  cannot  be  exactly  alike,"  251 
Tyuchev,  Th.  I.,  384 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  288,  373 

"  Understand  the  error  we  are  involved  in,"  307 

Understood  by  men  less  educated  than  our  labourers,  ait  was,  226,  365 

Unintelligible  art,  223 

Union  with  men  of  the  past  and  the  future,  through  art,  287 

Universal  art,  106,  229,  310,  365 

Vasnetsov,  V.  M.,  271 

Vauvenargues,  Marquis  de,  466 

Vedas,  hymns  of  the,  226 

Verbal  art,  232 

Verlaine,  Paul,  207,  210-4,  302,  33°-7 

Ariettes  oubliees,  211,  212 

La  Sagesse,  212,  213 
Veron,  Uesthetique,  157,  169,  170 
Versifiers,  with  broken  tongues,  253 

Villiers  de  l'Isle  Adam,  Contes  Cruels,  V Annonciateur ,  221 
View  of  life,  9 

View  of  life  unconsciously  permeating  artistic  work,  457 
Vischer,  Theodor,  152 
Vogue,  C.  J.  M.  Marquis  de,  394 
Vogul  play,  272 


INDEX  505 


Voltaire,  F.  M.  A.  de,  147,  227 

Wagner,  Richard,  206,  233,  250-64 

"  a  limited  self-opinionated  German  of  bad  taste,"    259 

explanation  of  his  success,  260-262 

his  great  ability,  261 

his  "  model  work  of  counterfeit  art,"  253 
Walkley,  A.  B.,  18 
Walter,  Geschicht  der  /Esthetik  im  Alter  turn,  142 

on  Plato,  187 
War  and  Peace,  8,  16 
Weisse,  C.  H.,  151 
Welfare  lies  in  union,  309 
What  is  Art,  1,  91-377 

premature  publication  of  in  Paris,  3 
What  Then  Must  We  Do?  12 
Whittier,  J.  G.,  385 
Wilde,  Oscar,  303 
Winckelmann,  J.  J.,  144 
Wolf,  encounter  with  a,  172 

Yakutsk  ornaments,  293 
Yasnaya  Polyana,  4,  21 
Yawning,  171 

Zola,  £mile,  270 
La  Terre,  49 


Concerning  the  Proposed  Centenary  Edition 
of  Tolstoy's  Works 

In  February  1922,  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  addressed  the  following  letter  to 
the  Press  and  it  appeared  in  The  Times,  Daily  Telegraph,  Manchester 
Guardian  and  many  other  papers,  receiving,  then  and  subsequently, 
the  endorsement  of  the  numerous  distinguished  people,  here  and  in 
America,  whose  signatures  are  appended. 

10  Adelphi  Terrace, 

W.C.2. 

28  February  1922. 
Sir, 

We  desire  to  call  public  attention,  especially  in  circles  interested  in  literature 
and  in  general  cultural  questions,  to  the  lack  of  a  complete  edition  of  the  works  of 
Leo  Tolstoy  in  the  English  language.  Unfortunately  the  means  adopted  by  Tolstoy 
to  secure  the  widest  possible  circulation  for  his  books  had  just  the  opposite  effect. 
He  invited  all  publishers  in  all  countries  to  take  the  fullest  advantage  of  the  absence 
of  international  copyright  between  Russia  and  other  countries  by  publishing  his 
writings  in  such  translations  as  they  could  procure  without  any  reference  to  his 
moral  or  legal  rights.  In  the  case  of  any  less  famous  author  this  step  would  have 
prevented  his  works  being  translated  at  all,  as  it  is  practically  impossible  to  engage 
modern  capital  in  publishing,  or  any  other  enterprise,  without  property  rights.  In 
Tolstoy's  case  it  led  to  the  appearance  of  a  great  number  of  translations,  including 
some  very  incompetent  ones,  of  a  few  of  his  books  which  were  considered  specially 
interesting  as  stories,  or  were  capable  of  being  turned  to  account  for  propaganda. 
These  few  books  have  consequently  become  more  or  less  well  known  ;  but  the 
profits  of  their  publication  have  been  so  divided  that  they  have  in  no  instance  been 
able  to  carry  a  complete  edition  on  their  backs.  Accordingly,  no  complete  edition  has 
yet  appeared  ;  and  the  one  projected  for  the  Tolstoy  Centenary  of  1928  by  the 
Oxford  University  Press,  translated  by  Aylmer  Maude,  whose  competence  and 
acceptance  by  Tolstoy  himself  are  unquestionable,  may  prove  commercially  im- 
possible unless  the  public,  by  spontaneously  giving  it  the  privileges  of  a  copyright 
edition,  both  by  subscribing  for  complete  sets  and  specifying  this  edition  in  their 
purchases  of  separate  volumes,  makes  up  for  the  absence  of  legal  rights  and  for  the 
miscarriage  of  Tolstoy's  public-spirited  intention  in  the  matter. 

The  Oxford  Press  translation  will  be  complete  and  unique,  and  certain  to  remain 
so,  as  it  is  not  now  possible  for  any  new  English  writer  to  bring  to  a  translation  of 
Tolstoy's  works  the  personal  knowledge  of  the  author,  and  the  peculiar  experience 
of  Russian  life  and  of  the  Tolstoyan  social  experiments  that  followed  the  first 
publication  of  his  writings,  enjoyed  by  Mr.  Aylmer  Maude  and  his  wife  and  col- 
laborator, who  is  a  native  of  Russia.  We  feel  that  its  failure  to  appear  would  be  a 
grave  loss  to  our  national  literary  equipment  ;  and  we  earnestly  hope  that  the 
opportunity  of  completing  the  nineteenth-century  bookshelf  both  of  our  public  and 
private  libraries  by  a  complete  edition  of  his  works  in  English  will  not  be  missed. 

Yours  truly, 

G.  Bernard  Shaw. 


LIST  OF  SIGNATORIES  TO  SHAW'S  LETTER. 

Henry  Ainley  (Fedya  of  Reparation) 

Meggie  Albanesi  (Alexandra  of  Reparation) 

Rev.  Cyril  Alington,  D.D.,  Head  Master  of  Eton 

William  Archer 

Lena  Ash  well  (Katusha  of  Resurrection) 

J.  F.  Baddeley 

John  Bailey 

Hon.  Maurice  Baring,  O.B.E. 

Dr.  Ernest  Barker,  Principal,  King's  College 

Sir  Alfred  Bateman,  K.C.M.G. 

H.  Wansey  Bayly,  M.R.C.S. 

Ian  Hay  Beith,  C.B.E. 

Marie  Belloc-Lowndes 

Arnold  Bennett 

J.  D.  Beresford 

Rt.  Hon.  Sir  Geo.  W.  Buchanan,  P.C.,  G.C.B.,  C.V.O.,  formerly  Ambassador, 

Petrograd 
Rt.  Hon.  Lord  Carnock,  P.C.,  G.C.B.,  K.C.V.O.,  formerly  Ambassador,  Petro- 
grad 
Sir  Hall  Caine,  K.B.E. 
Edward  Carpenter 

Clementine  S.  Churchill  (Mrs.  Winston  Churchill) 
A.  Clutton  Brock,  BA. 

W.  L.  Courtney,  L.L.D.,  Editor  of  Fortnightly  Review 
A.  Emil  Davies,  L.C.C. 
H.  Walford  Davies,  F.R.C.O. 

Brig.-Gen.  Guy  Payan  Dawnay,  C.M.G.,  M.V.O.,  D.S.O. 
James  Douglas,  Editor  of  Sunday  Express 
J.  D.  Duff,  Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle,  LL.D. 

Havelock  Ellis,  L.S.H. 

Nevill  Forbes,  Ph.D.,  Reader  in  Russian,  Oxford 

J.  L.  Garvin,  Editor  of  Observer 

G.  P.  Gooch,  D.Litt. 

L.  Haden  Guest,  M.R.C.S.,  M.P. 

Cicely  Hamilton 
Austin  Harrison 

Sir  Anthony  Hope  Hawkins 

John  H.  Hobson,  M.A. 

Silas  K.  Hocking 

E.  A.  Brayley  Hodgetts,  Chairman  of  Russian  Section,   London   Chamber  of 
Commerce 

Sonia  E.  Howe,  Authoress  of  A  Thousand  Years  of  Russian  History 

W.  W.  Jacobs 

Edgar  Jepson,  B.A. 

Jerome  K.  Jerome 

Henry  Arthur  Jones 

Commander  Oliver  Locker- Lampson,  C.M.G.,  D.S.O. ,  M.P. 

Sir  Oliver  Lodge,  F.R.S.,  D.Sc. 

Lady  Constance  Lytton 

Sir  Lynden  Macassey 

Justin  Huntly  M'Carthy 

Miles  Malleson 

Hugh  Macnaughten,  Vice-Provost  of  Eton 

W.  Somerset  Maugham,  M.R.C.S. 

Dorothy  Massingham 

H.  W.  Massingham 

Cyril  Maude 

W.  B.  Maxwell 

P.  E.  Meadon 


Baron  A.  Meyendorff 

Eustace  Miles,  M .A. 

Gilbert  Murray,  D.Litt.,  Regius  Professor,  Oxford 

Cathleen  Nesbitt 

Henry  W.  Nevinson 

Sir  Sidney  Olivier 

Sir  Bernard  Pares,  K.C.B.,  Professor  of  Russian  History,  University  of  London 

Rt.  Hon.  Sir  Gilbert  Parker,  P.C.,  D.S.L. 

Geo.  Pas  ton 

Edw.  R.  Pease 

John  Pollock,  MA. 

H.  Hesketh  Prichard,  D.S.O. 

Sir  Henry  Penson,  K.B.E. 

Arthur  Rackham 

Rt.  Hon.  Lady  Rhondda 

Rt.  Hon.  G.  H.  Roberts,  J.P. 

Sir  E.  Denison  Ross,  Ph.D. 

Hon.  Bertrand  Russell,  F.R.S. 

St.  John  Ervine 

May  Sinclair 

Rt.  Hon.  Lady  Sybil  Smith 

A.  B.  Stodart,  Hon.  Sec.  British  Russia  Club 

Marie  C.  Stopes,  D.Sc,  Ph.D. 

Lord  Treowen,  C.M.G. 

Mrs.  Alec-Tweedie,  F.R.G.S. 

Leslie  Urquhart 

Sir  Paul  Vinogradoff,  Professor  of  Jurisprudence,  Oxford 

Graham  Wallas 

A.  B.  Walkley,  F.R.S.L.,  Dramatic  Critic  of  The  Times 

Hugh  Walpole 

Lt.-Col.  John  Ward,  C.B.,  M.P. 

Rt.  Hon.  Lord  Weardale 

H.  G.  Wells 

Rebecca  West 

Rt.  Hon.  J.  H.  Whitley,  P.C. 

Norman  Wilks 

Harold  Williams 

C.  Hagberg  Wright,  LL.D.,  Librarian,  London  Library 


American 

Jane  Addams  Robert  Morse  Lovett 

James  Lane  Allen  Edwin  Markham 

Sherwood  Anderson  H.  L.  Mencken 

James  Branch  Cabell  Harriet  Monroe 

George  W.  Cable  Eugene  O'Neill 

Theodore  Dreiser  William  Lyon  Phelps 

Horace  Howard  Furness  Chas.  Ed.  Russell 

Hamlin  Garland  Booth  Tarkington 

Ellen  Glasgow  Lucy  E.  Textor 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson  Hon.  Henry  Vandyck 
Owen  Wister 


Beside  those  who  have  signed  Shaw's  letter,  Thomas  Hardy  wrote  : — 

1  Although  I  have  no  first-hand  knowledge  of  the  details  mentioned  in  Mr. 
Bernard  Shaw's  letter  on  translations  of  Tolstoy,  I  agree  with  the  opinion  that  a 
good  rendering  of  his  works  into  English — so  far  as  that  is  possible — should  be  made 
practicable  by  the  concentration  of  effort  on  one  production  ;  and  I  believe  that 
Mr.  Aylmer  Maude's  competence  for  the  task  is  special  and  trustworthy.' 

iii 


Sir  Edmund  Gosse  wrote  to  Mr.  Aylmer  Maude  : — 

'  I  wish  to  express  my  appreciation  of  your  admirable  labours  and  those  of  Mrs . 
Maude.* 

Mr.  Joseph  Hergesheimer  wrote  : — 

*  I  fully  agree  with  contents  of  the  letter.' 

Professor  Gilbert  Murray  wrote  : — 

'  I  am  in  the  most  cordial  agreement  with  Shaw's  letter  and  will  most  gladly  sign 
it.  It  is  a  great  public  service  that  you  and  the  Oxford  Press  between  you  are  under- 
taking. The  wonder  to  me  has  always  been  how  Tolstoy  contrived  to  make  such  a 
tremendous  and  characteristic  impression  through  such  an  opaque  and  distorting 
medium  as  the  average  Anglo-American  translation.' 


A  score  of  letters  containing  Tolstoy's  very  emphatic  authorization  and 
endorsement  of  the  Maude  versions  of  his  work  (such  as  he  gave  to  no 
other  translator)  have  been  deposited  with  the  Oxford  University  Press. 
These  expressions  of  approval  begin  in  1897,  when  Mr.  Maude  translated 
What  is  Art,  and  were  continued  till  1910,  the  year  of  Tolstoy's  death. 
The  following  are  a  few  extracts  from  these  letters  of  Tolstoy's  : 

5  Sept.  1897.  '  I  have  written  to  Tchertkoff  asking  him  to  leave  it  to 
you  to  do  the  translation.  That  will  give  me  more  satisfaction.' 

18  Oct.  1897.  '  You  have  filled  in  correctly  the  word  omitted  on  p.  31. 
In  general  I  see  that  you  are  doing  the  translation  with  great  care,  for  which 
I  am  very  grateful.  I  am  almost  certain  I  shall  be  in  accord  with  all  your 
comments,  but  still  send  them  to  me.  I,  too,  will  examine  them  carefully.' 

Nov.  1897.  ■  I  will  begin  to  reply  in  sequence  to  your  admirable  remarks, 
which  are  of  great  use  to  the  undertaking.  .  .  .  With  all  the  rest  of  your 
remarks  I  quite  agree,  and  prompted  by  them  I  have  made  alterations  in 
my  (Russian)  text.  Please  make  more  such.' 

Dec.  1897.  '  I  yesterday  received  both  your  letters,  dear  friend,  and 
hasten  to  answer  them.  I  also  received  the  translation.  I  have  gone  through 
it  and  have  not  found  anything  that  held  me  up,  except  the  words 
"  admirable  book  of  Verm  "  (p.  22).  It  should  be  "  very  good  "  and  not 
"  admirable  ".  The  translation  seems  to  me  to  be  very  good.' 

Dec.  1898. '  I  have  received  your  letter,  dear  friend  Maude,  and  am  very 
glad  that  you  are  again  in  England  and  wish  to  work  at  translating  my 
writings.  I  do  not  desire  a  better  translator,  both  on  account  of  your  know- 
ledge of  the  two  languages  and  of  your  strictness  with  yourself  in  every- 
thing ' 

Jan.  1899.  '  I  am  very  glad  that  your  dear  wife  is  doing  the  translation 
of  Resurrection.' 

May  1900.  'Your  translations  are  very  good  because  you  have  an  ad- 
mirable mastery  of  both  the  languages,  and  besides  that,  to  my  great 
pleasure,  you  love  the  thoughts  you  transmit.' 


Sept.  1900.  'To  lose  such  translators  as  you  and  your  wife  would  be 
very,  very  unpleasant.  Better  translators,  both  in  your  knowledge  of  both 
languages  and  in  your  penetration  into  the  very  meaning  of  the  matter 
translated,  could  not  be  invented.' 

Feb.  1 90 1.  '  I  think  that  your  and  your  wife's  splendid  translation  of 
what  has  previously  been  published  and  badly  translated  should  find  a 
publisher.' 

Nov.  1901.  (From  a  letter  written  by  the  Countess  Olgo  Tolstoy.)  '  I 
am  writing  instead  of  Leo  Nikolaevich,  who  sends  many  excuses  for  not 
having  sooner  replied  to  your  two  letters,  and  about  the  fine  book,  Sevas- 
topol, you  have  sent.  All  this  time  Leo  Nikolaevich  has  been  very  unwell. 
....  He  asks  me  to  convey  to  you  his  great  gratitude  for  the  letters  and 
for  Sevastopol.  He  finds  both  the  translation  and  the  edition  excellent,  and 
that  one  could  not  desire  anything  better.' 

23  Dec.  1 90 1.  'I  think  I  have  already  written  you  how  unusually 
pleased  I  was  with  the  first  volume  of  your  edition.  All  is  excellent — the 
edition,  the  notes,  and  chiefly  the  translation,  and  even  more  the  con- 
scientiousness with  which  all  this  has  been  done.  I  opened  it  accidentally 
at  the  Two  Hussars  and  read  on  to  the  end  just  as  if  it  were  something  new 
and  had  been  written  in  English.' 

6  Oct.  1903.  A  common  friend  in  replying  to  an  inquiry  Mr.  Maude  made 
concerning  his  re-translation  of  a  work,  the  previously  published  (Free 
Age  Press)  edition  of  which  appeared  faulty .  '  L.  N.  (Tolstoy)  asks  me  to 
reply  to  your  inquiry  about  the  exactness  of  your  translation  of  What  is 
Religion  ?  that  your  translation  expresses  his  meaning  more  exactly,  and  he 
is  quite  satisfied.' 

11  Dec.  1903.  '  Thank  your  kind  friend  Maude  for  sending  me  the 
volume  of  Essays  and  Letters  (World's  Classics  series).  The  edition  is  very 
good.' 

1  Aug.  1909.  '  I  am  always  glad  to  hear  news  of  you  and  of  your  occu- 
pation, so  closely  connected  with  me,  on  excellent  translations  of  my 
writings.  Your  loving  Leo  Tolstoy.' 

18  Jan.  1 9 10.  'I  am  better  now  and  add  a  line  to  say  a  few  words, 
namely  that  the  edition  of  your  translations  of  my  writings  can  only  give 
me  pleasure,  because  your  translations  are  very  good  and  I  do  not  desire 
better  ones.  .  .  .  My  approval  of  your  translations  in  my  letters,  you  can, 
of  course,  publish.' 

The  Tolstoy  Centenary  occurs  in  1928,  and  the  form  the  projected 
complete  Maude-Tolstoy  Centenary  Edition  may  take  has  not  yet  been 
decided,  but  the  material  for  it  is  being  prepared  and  a  pocket  edition  of 
as  much  of  it  as  is  quite  ready  is  appearing  in  the  World's  Classics  series, 
which  already  contains  the  following  twelve  volumes. 


THE   'MAUDE'  TOLSTOY 

The  *  World's  Classics  '  Series 

Pocket  size,  6  by  4  inches.  On  thin  opaque  paper.  Cloth,  2s.  net ;  sultan-red 
leather,  3s.  6d.  net. 

The  Cossacks  and  Tales  of  the  Caucasus. 

Including  :  The  Raid,  The  Wood-Felling  and  Meeting  a  Moscow  Ac- 
quaintance in  the  Detachment. 

1  The  best  story  that  has  been  written  in  our  language.' — Turgenev. 

War  and  Peace  (3  vols.). 

1  We  feel  that  we  were  ourselves  there  ;  that  we  knew  those  people  ; 
that  they  are  a  part  of  our  very  own  past.' — Maurice  Baring. 

'  It  is  among  the  greatest  works  ever  made  by  man,  and  the  country  is 
under  a  debt  to  Louise  and  Aylmer  Maude  for  rendering  it  into  English.' — 
New  Labour  Leader. 

Anna  Karenina  (2  vols.). 

1  Anna  Karenina  as  an  artistic  production  is  perfection  ...  a  thing  to 
which  European  literature  of  our  epoch  offers  no  equal.' — Dostoevski. 

Confession  and  What  I  Believe  (1  vol.). 

One  of  the  sincerest  and  most  remarkable  confessions  in  all  literature. 

Twenty-Three  Tales. 

Containing :  God  Sees  the  Truth ,  A  Prisoner  in  the  Caucasus,  What  Men 
Live  By,  Two  Old  Men,  Where  God  is  Love  is,  Ivan  the  Fool,  The  Three 
Hermits,  The  Imp  and  the  Crust,  How  Much  Land  does  a  Man  Need  ?  The 
Empty  Drum,  Too  Dear,  etc. 

1  I  regard  them  as  the  most  perfect  tales  ever  written.' — Carmen  Sylva, 
Queen  of  Roumania. 

The  Kreutzer  Sonata,  Family  Happiness,  aii</Polikushka  (1  vol.). 

The  first  full  translation,  giving  the  passages  suppressed  by  the  censor. 
It  is  the  most  powerful  and  the  most  widely  discussed  of  Tolstoy's  shorter 
novels. 

Plays. 

A  complete  edition  (including  the  posthumous  plays) :  The  First  Distiller, 
The  Power  of  Darkness,  The  Fruits  of  Enlightenment,  The  Live  Corpse, 
The  Came  of  it  All,  The  Light  Shines  in  Darkness. 

1  Nothing  in  the  whole  range  of  drama  fascinated  me  more  than  the  old 
soldier  in  The  Power  of  Darkness.' — Bernard  Shaw. 

vi 


Essays  and  Letters. 

Including :  Why  Do  Men  Stupefy  Themselves  ?  Afterword  to  the  Kreut- 
zer  Sonata,  The  First  Step,  Non-Acting,  Religion  and  Morality,  Shame  ! 
Letters  to  Verigin,  Non-Resistance,  How  to  Read  the  Gospels,  Letters  on 
Henry  George,  Modern  Science,  Patriotism  and  Government,  '  Thou  Shalt 
Not  Kill ',  Reply  to  Synod's  Excommunication,  What  is  Religion  ?  An 
Appeal  to  the  Clergy,  and  fifteen  other  articles. 

1  Gives  an  excellent  idea  of  the  vast  range  of  Tolstoy's  intellectual 
activities.' — Daily  News. 

Resurrection. 

1  Undoubtedly  the  most  important  novel  that  has  appeared  in  Europe 
for  many  years.' — Edward  Garnett. 

Ready  Shortly. 

What  then  must  we  do  ? 

Tolstoy's  remarkable  study  of  social  conditions. 

Other  Volumes  in  Preparation 


WHAT  IS  ART? 

(Now  included  in  the  volume,  Tolstoy  on  Art.) 

'  This  book  is  a  most  effective  booby  trap.  It  is  written  with  so  utter  a 
contempt  for  the  objections  which  a  routine  critic  is  sure  to  allege  against 
it,  that  many  a  dilettantist  reviewer  has  already  accepted  it  as  a  butt  set  up 
by  Providence.  .  .  .  Whoever  is  really  conversant  with  Art,  recognizes  in 
it  the  voice  of  the  master.' — G.  Bernard  Shaw  in  The  Daily  Chronicle. 

1  This  calmly  and  cogently  reasoned  effort  to  put  Art  on  a  new  basis  is 
a  literary  event  of  the  first  importance.  ...  I  have  never  come  across 
anything  so  good  in  its  way  as  Mr.  Maude's  version  of  Tolstoy.  The  trans- 
lation reads  like  an  original  :  you  feel  that  Tolstoy  has  lost  nothing  in 
transit.  And  what  a  wonderful  artist  in  prose  this  Tolstoy  is  !  How  vigorous 
and  succinct !  How  persuasive  !  ' — A.  B.  Walkley. 

1  Tolstoy's  book  is  the  most  important  essay  in  pure  criticism  of  recent 
years,  and  it  is  destined  to  become  a  classic' — Star. 

*  The  powerful  personality  of  the  author,  the  startling  originality  of  his 
views,  grips  the  reader,  and  carry  him,  though  his  deepest  convictions  be 
outraged,  protesting  through  the  book.' — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

*  Mr.  Aylmer  Maude's  translation  is  admirable — a  better  piece  of  work 
has  rarely  been  performed  ;  and  Mrs.  Maude's  English  renderings  of  the 
French  poems,  whether  as  to  meaning,  spirit  or  rhythm,  are  so  felicitous 
that  they  amount  to  a  tour  deforce.' — M.  H.  Spielmann  in  Literature. 

Oxford  University  Press,  Amen  House,  London,  E.C.4. 
vii 


THE  LIFE  OF  TOLSTOY. 

First  Fifty  Years.  By  Aylmer  Maude.  Seventh  Edition.  8  Illustrations. 
Demy  8vo.  12s.  6d.  net. 

*  Will  stand,  I  think,  among  the  big  biographies  of  our  literature.' — 
G.  Bernard  Shaw. 

1  The  book  is  no  sooner  opened  than  it  begins  to  exercise  a  sort  of  charm 
from  which  it  is  impossible  to  escape.' — Westminster  Gazette. 

(The  Second  Volume  :   Later  Years  is  out  of  print,  and  will  be  revised.) 

THE  'MAUDE'  TOLSTOY. 

Resurrection.  With  14  Illustrations  by  Pasternak.  7s.  6d.  net. 

1  A  special  word  of  praise  must  be  given  to  the  illustrations.  They  illus- 
trate the  author  with  a  sympathy  and  an  insight  which  Tolstoy  has  never 
before  enjoyed.' — Glasgow  Herald. 

Plays.  (Complete  Edition.  Six  Plays.)  7  Illustrations.  7s.  6d.  net. 

1  A  vivid  picture  of  life,  full  of  light  and  colour  and  contrast ;  full,  too, 
of  wisdom  and  the  wit  that  knows  just  where  to  hold  its  hand.' — The  Times 
on  '  Fruits  of  Culture.' 

Sevastopol  and  Other  Stories,  (including  Two  Hussars,  etc.).  Photo- 
gravure Portrait  and  Map.  is.  6d.  net. 

1  In  these  thrilling  "  Letters  from  the  Front  "  Tolstoy  realizes  war  .  .  . 
as  no  other  writer  has  ever  done  before  or  since.' — Contemporary  Review. 

Constable  and  Co.,  10  Orange  Street,  W.C.2. 


Leo  Tolstoy.    By  Aylmer  Maude.  8vo.  7  Illustrations.  6s.  net. 

A  complete  biography,  with  an  account  of  Tolstoy's  home-leaving  and 
death,  and  an  explanation  of  what  led  to  it. 

1  Mr.  Maude  is  our  best  English  authority  on  Tolstoy,  not  alone  because 
he  knew  Tolstoy  intimately,  but  because,  whilst  admiring  and  loving  him 
for  his  genius  and  his  sincerity,  he  judges  calmly,  and  is  not  carried  away 
by  hero-worship.' — Yorkshire  Post. 

Methuen  and  Co.,  36  Essex  Street,  London,  W.C.2. 


The  Life  of  Marie  G.  Stopes.   By  Aylmer  Maude.  With  14  Illustra- 
tions.   5s.  net. 

An  authorized  biography  giving,  for  the  first  time,  the  story  of  her 
childhood,  academic  life,  marriage,  writings,  opponents  and  inner  life. 

Williams  and  Norgate,  14  Henrietta  Street,  W.C.2 

viii 


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