Leo Tolstoy: His Life and Work/Chapter 7

The Caucasus
The unsuccessful attempt to keep house, the impossibility of establishing good relations with the peasants, and the passionate, perilous life, full of all kinds of excesses, which was mentioned in the previous chapter, induced Tolstoy to search for a means of changing his mode of life. According to his own testimony, his life was so insipid and dissipated that he was ready for any change in it. For instance, his brother-in-law, Valerian Petrovich Tolstoy, being engaged, was going back to Siberia to arrange some business matters there before his marriage, and, as he was leaving the house, Tolstoy jumped into his tarantas [Russian traveling cart], without a hat, and in his blouse only; and it seems as if the only reason why he did not join in the journey to Siberia was simply that he found there was no hat on his head. At last a serious incident took place that induced a change of life. In April, 1951, Nikolay, Tolstoy's eldest brother arrived from the Caucasus; he was an officer in the Caucasian army and on leave of absence, and had shortly to return. Tolstoy seized this opportunity, and in spring, 1951, started with him for the Caucasus. They left Yasnaya Polyana on April 20, and spent two weeks in Moscow, and from there he wrote to his aunt Tatyana at Yasnaya:

"I have been to the promenade at Sokolniki during detestable weather, and therefore have not met any of the society ladies I wish to see. As you assert that I am a man of resources, I went among the plebians in the gypsy tents.  You can easily imagine the inner struggle which there took place for and against.  However, I came out victorious, i.e., having given nothing but my blessing to the merry descendants of the illustrious Pharaohs.  Nikolay has made the discovery that I should be a very agreeable traveling companion, were it not for my cleanliness.  He gets irritated over my changing my underclothing, as he says, a dozen times a day.  For my part I find him a very pleasant companion, were it not for his uncleanliness.  I don't know which of us is right."

From Moscow they passed through Kazan, where they visited V. T. Yushkov, their guardian-aunt's husband, with whom they had lived in Kazan, and also saw Madame Zagoskin, a friend of this aunt's, the directress of the Kazan Institute, an eccentric and clever woman. In Zagoskin's house Tolstoy met Z. M., an ex-pupil of the Institute, and conceived for her a sentimental kind of love, which, as usual, owing to his bashfulness, he could not make up his mind to express, and which he took away with him to the Caucasus. In Madame Zagoskin's house, as that lady always secured the young men who were the most comme il faut, he met and almost made friends with a young lawyer, the procurator Ogolin, and took a journey with the latter into the country to pay a visit to V. [J.] Yushkov. Ogolin was a new type of the official of that late period. Tolstoy used to relate how Yushkov was--being accustomed to see a procurator as a grave, respectable, and hoary personage in a uniform, with a cross on his breast and a star--when he beheld Ogolin, and got acquainted with him, under circumstances of ease and freedom.

"When Ogolin and I had arrived and approached the house, opposite which was a group of young birch trees, I suggested to Ogolin that, while the servant was announcing our arrival, we should compete as to which of us would climb these birches best and highest. When Yushkov came out and saw the procurator climbing up a tree, he could not recover himself for a long time."

Tolstoy, as he told me himself, was in his most stupid and worldly mood during this trip. He related to me how his brother made him feel his stupidity in Kazan. They were walking about the town when a gentleman drove past them in a dolgusha [a kind of jaunting-car on four wheels], leaning with ungloved hands on a stick resting on the step of the carriage.

"How evident it is that this man is some sort of `scallywag,'" said Lev Tolstoy, addressing his brother. "Why?" asked Nikolay. "Why, because he has not no gloves." "Why should he be good-for-nothing because he has no gloves?" asked Nikolay, with his hardly noticeable, kind, clever, and mocking smile." Nikolay always thought and did everything, not because others thought and did so, but because he himself believed it to be right, and he always thought and did what he believed to be right. Thus he planned to go to the Caucasus not via Voronezh and through the territory of the Don Cossacks, as was the rule, but on horseback to Saratov, from Saratov in a boat down the Volga to Astrakhan, and from Astrakhan in a post-chaise to the Stanitsa, and this plan he put in execution. They hired a fishing-boat, placed the tarantas in it, and being assisted by a pilot and two oarsmen, sailed here and there, sometimes rowing, sometimes carried by the current.  The trip lasted about three weeks, when they reached Astrakhan.  From then, Lev wrote to his aunt: "We are at Astrakhan, and on the point of leaving it, thus having still a journey of 400 versts to do. I have passed a most agreeable week at Kazan. My journey to Saratov was disagreeable, but, as compensation, the passage from there to Astrakhan in a little boat was very poetical and full of charm, owing to the novelty of the locality, and for me even from the very method of traveling. Yesterday I wrote a long letter to Marie, in which I tell her about my sojourn at Kazan. I do not tell you anything about it, for fear of repeating myself, although I am sure you will not confuse the two letters. So far as it has gone, I am exceedingly satisfied with my journey. There are many things which make me think, and then the very change of locality is pleasant. In passing through Moscow, I subscribed to a lending-library, so that I have plenty of reading, which I do even in the tarantas, and, besides, as you can well imagine, Nikolay's society greatly contributes to my enjoyment. I do not cease to think of you and of all ours; sometimes I even reproach myself for having abandoned the life which your affection rendered so sweet; but it is merely a postponement, and I shall have only the more pleasure in seeing you again. Were I not pressed, I would write to Sergey; but I put this off until I shall be quietly settled down. Embrace him on my behalf, and tell him that I greatly repent of the coldness which there was between us before my departure, and for which I blame myself alone."

A few words must be said as to what the Caucasus is, to make the reader understand the facts of Tolstoy's Caucasian life, as well as his Caucasian tales. When the kingdom of Moscow became so strong as to be able to make head against the Tartar tribes, it gradually pushed them to the southeast, and, having conquered the kingdoms of Kazan and Astrakhan, it came into conflict with wild tribes of mountaineers, who inhabited the northern slopes of the Caucasian mountains. To keep them in check, the Russian Government had, about the beginning of the nineteenth century, erected a whole line of Cossack outposts on the left bank of the Terek and the right bank of the Kuban. On the other hand, the Georgian kingdom, which lies on the southern slope of the Caucasian mountains, and which was up to that time independent, had, with its King Heraclius II, become subject to Russia in the beginning of the nineteenth century. The subjugation of the mountain tribes between Georgia and Russia became indispensable on political grounds, and the struggle went on for over fifty years. From the Cossack posts along the banks of the Terek and the Kuban, the Russians gradually pushed on farther to the very edge of the mountains. But they confined themselves chiefly to making raids: a military detachment attacked the villages in the mountains, destroyed pastures, drove off cattle, captured as many inhabitants as possible, and with such booty returned to their posts. The mountaineers in their turn made reprisals: they pursued the detachments on their way back, and with their well-aimed carbine shots inflicted on them great losses; they would hide behind the ramparts in the woods and narrow ravines, and sometimes even appear suddenly at the very posts, where they massacred many, and carried off men and women to the mountains. From time to time the struggle abated, but became fiercer when, taking advantage of our ill fortune, there arose leaders who managed to unite under their command the more powerful and warlike tribes. The fanaticism of the latter was them kindled by the preaching of a holy war against the infidels. The Russians had to encounter great difficulties, and suffered heavy losses from the most warlike of the Caucasian tribes, the Chechens, who live on the forest-clad plains of the right bank of the Terek, near its tributaries Sunzha, Agurniy [sp], and others, and higher up in the mountain gorges of Ichkeriya [sp]. Our spirit of enterprise grew stronger or slackened, according to the talent and energy of the commander who happened to be directing the military operations. The appointment in 1856 of Prince Baryatinskiy as governor of the Caucasus, events took a decisive turn. Profiting by his personal influence over the Emperor Aleksandr II, he summoned an army of 200,000 men, a greater one than was ever before seen in the Caucasus. A considerable part of this army he directed against Checheniya, Ichkeriya, and Dagestan, then under the leadership of the well-known Shamyl. The talent and energy of this leader, and the fanaticism of the mountaineers, who recognized him as their Imaum, were all crushed under the weight of this powerful army led by Yevdokimov, whom nothing could stop. In 1857 Shamyl's residence, the village Vedeno in the center of Ichkeriya, capitulated, and in 1859, Shamyl himself surrendered to Prince Baryatinskiy in his new Dagestan stronghold--Guniba [sp]. At the beginning of the fifties, before his appointment as governor of the Caucasus, Prince Baryatinskiy appeared in the Northern Caucasus as commander of the left wing of the Russian army. Just about this time Tolstoy arrived in the Caucasus, and the events described in his Caucasian tales, The Invaders, The Cossacks, a Wood-Cutting Expedition, and An Old Acquaintance, took place about this time and in this locality. From Astrakhan both brothers traveled in a post-chaise through Lizliar to the village of Starogladovskaya, where the eldest brother was stationed. Tolstoy came to the Caucasus in a private capacity and settled down with his brother. The first impression which the Caucasus made on him was not a profound one. Shortly after he reached the country he thus describes it in a letter to his aunt: "I have arrived well and whole, but am now, toward the end of may, at the Starogladovskaya. I am feeling rather sad.  I have here seen at close quarters the kind of life Nikolay is leading, and I have made the acquaintance of the officers who form the local society.  The kind of life led here is not very attractive as it has at first presented itself to me, for the country, which I had expected to find very fine, is not at all so.  As the village is situated on low land there is no outlook, and besides the lodgings are bad, as well as everything that constitutes the comfort of life.  As to the officers, they are, as you can imagine, people without education, but at the same time very good fellows, and, above all, they are very much attached to Nikolay. "Alekseyev, the commander, is a little chap, with light hair approaching red, with mustaches and whiskers, and a piercing voice, but an excellent Christian, somewhat reminding one of Volkov, but not canting like him. Then B---, a young officer, childish and good-natured, reminding one of Petrusha. Then an old captain, Bilkovskiy of the Ural Cossacks, an old soldier, simple but noble, brave and good. I will confess to you that at first many things in this society shocked me, but I have become accustomed to it, without, however, becoming intimate with the gentlemen. I have found a happy medium in which there is neither pride nor familiarity. In this, however, I had merely to follow Nikolay's example."

However, he did not stay very long in Starogladovskaya. He and his brother moved to Stariy Yurt, a fortified camp, to shelter the sick in Goryachevodsk, where, shortly before, hot springs possessing strong healing virtues had been discovered. Again we quote the description of this place from Tolstoy's letter to his aunt, written on his arrival there in July 1851. "Nikolay left a week after his arrival, and I followed him, so that we have been here for almost three weeks, and we live in a tent, but, as the weather is fine and I am somewhat adapting myself to this kind of life, I am feeling very well. Here there are beautiful views.  To begin with the place where the springs are. It is an enormous mountain of rocks lying one upon the other, some of which have become detached, forming a sort of grotto, others remain suspended at a great at a great height.  They are all intersected by torrents of warm water, which in some places fall with much noise, and, especially in the morning, cover all the elevated part of the mountain with a white vapor which is continually rising from this boiling water.  The water is so hot they can boil eggs hard in it in three minutes.  In the middle of the valley, on the chief torrent, there are three watermills, one above the other, constructed in a peculiar and very picturesque way. All day the Tartar women keep coming to wash their clothes above and beneath these mills. I should mention that they wash them with their feet. It's like an ant heap in continual motion. The women are for the most part handsome and well built. The costume of Oriental women is graceful, notwithstanding their poverty; the picturesque groups formed by the women, together with the savage beauty of the place, make a truly beautiful sight. I sometimes remain for hours admiring the landscape. Then the view from the top of the mountain is still finer and of quite another kind, but I am afraid of boring you with my descriptions. "I am very glad to be at the waters, as I benefit by them. I take mineral baths, and I no longer feel pain in my feet.  I always have rheumatism, but during my journey on the water I think I took cold.  I have seldom felt so well as now, and notwithstanding the great heat I take much exercise. "Here the type of officers is the same as that of which I have already spoken to you. There are many of these, I know them all, and my relations with them are the same."

According to Tolstoy, Yurt was a large village with a population of 1,500 and remarkable for its beautiful mountain situation. In the mountains above the village rose a hot sulfur spring. Its temperature was so high that, according to Tolstoy, his brother's dog after falling into the spring scalded himself so much that he died from the effects. The spring divides itself into many small brooklets which run down the mountain-side. These brooklets were so small that it was easy to bank them up. The inhabitants of the village used them for working watermills. The properties of the spring are superior to those of Pyatigorsk. From this village Tolstoy joined in a raid as a volunteer. Here he had glorious moments of youthful poetical enthusiasm. Especially memorable to him was one night, which he has described in his diary in terms of unique spiritual beauty.

"Stariy Yurt, 11th June 1851.

"Yesterday I hardly slept all night. Having written in my diary, I began to pray to God.  It is impossible to convey the sweetness of the feeling which I experienced during prayer.  I repeated the prayers I generally say:  Our Father, to the Virgin, to the Trinity, `the gates of mercy,' the appeal to the guardian angel, and then I still remained at prayer.  If one were to define prayer as petition or thanksgiving, then I did not pray.  I longed for something sublime and good, but what, I cannot convey, although I was clearly conscious that I desired it.  I wished to blend into unity with the all-enfolding Being.  I asked Him to pardon my crimes; yet no, I did not ask this, for I felt that He had given me this blissful moment.  He had pardoned me.  I asked and at the same time felt that I had nothing to ask, that I could not and did not know how to ask.  I thanked Him, but not in words, not in thoughts. I combined all in one feeling, both petition and thanksgiving. The feeling of fear completely vanished. None of the feelings - Faith, Hope, and Love - could I have disengaged from the general feeling. No, here it is, the feeling which I experienced yesterday - it was love to God, an elevated love combining in itself all that is good, and repudiating all that is evil. How dreadful it was for me to look at all the trivial and vicious side of my life. I could not comprehend how it was this had attracted me. How I prayed God from a pure heart to accept me into His bosom. I did not feel the flesh, I was...but no, the carnal, trivial side again asserted itself, and an hour had not passed before I almost consciously heard the voice of vice, of vanity, and of the empty side of life. I knew whence this voice came, I knew it had ruined my bliss; I struggled, yet yielded to it. I fell asleep in dreams of fame and of women. But it was not my fault, I could not help it. Eternal bliss here is impossible. Suffering are necessary. Why? I do not know? But how dare I say, I do not know? How dared I think it was possible to knew the ways of Fate? It is the source of reason, and the reason wishes to fathom it!... "The mind is lost in these depths of wisdom and emotion, and is afraid of insulting Him. I thank Him for the moment of bliss which showed me both my insignificance and my greatness.  I wish to pray, but I do not know how.  I wish to attain comprehension, but dare not - I surrender myself to Thy will. "Why have I written all this? How flabbily, how lifelessly, even how senselessly have my feelings found expression; and yet they were so elevated."

These outbursts of religious emotion were often succeeded by periods of depression and apathy. Thus on the 2nd of July, while yet living in the Stariy Yurt, he put down the following thoughts: "I am just now meditating, recalling all the unpleasant moments of my life, which in times of depression alone creep into one's mind....No, there is too little delight - man is too capable of imagining happiness and too often in one way or another Fate strikes him, painfully, very painfully catching his tender chord - for us to love life, and, besides, there is something specially sweet and great in indifference to life, and I delight in this feeling. In face of everything, how strong I appear to myself in this firm conviction that there is nothing to expect here except death....Yet at this very moment I am thinking with delight about a saddle I have ordered in which I will ride in Circassian attire, and about how I will flirt with Cossack girls, and feel despair that my left mustache is higher than the right one, and I shall spend two hours arranging it."

Thus Tolstoy often had to change his abode. The headquarters and the staff-battery, where his brother served, were at Starogladovskaya, but he was often sent to the outposts, to which Tolstoy accompanied him. These wild Cossack and Caucasian villages were destined to become historic. Here the artistic forms of Tolstoy's works were conceived, and the first fruit of his creative power came forth. The wonderful scenery of the Northern Caucasus, its mountains, the river Terek, and the Cossack bravery, and the almost primitive simplicity of life - all this in one harmonious whole served to cradle these early creations, and to point out the work of the world-wide genius, who was to struggle for an ideal, to search for truth and the meaning of human life. Here we give a description of Tolstoy's arrival at Stariy Yurt, taken from his novel The Cossacks, in which he so very vividly depicts the impression made on him by the majesty of the Caucasian Mountains. "It was a very clear morning. Suddenly he saw, some twenty steps from him, as he thought at first, pure white masses, with their delicate contours, and the fantastic and sharply defined outline of their summits, against the distant sky.  And when he became aware of the great distance between him and the mountains and the sky, and of the immensity of the mountains, and felt the immeasurableness of that beauty, he was frightened, thinking that it was a vision, a dream.  He shook himself, in order to be rid of his sleep.  The mountains remained the same. "`What is this? What is it?' he asked the driver. "`The mountains,' the Nogay answered, with indifference. "`I have been looking at them myself for a long time,' said Vanyusha. `It is beautiful! They will not believe it at home!' "In the rapid motion of the vehicle over the even road, the mountains seemed to be running along the horizon, gleaming in the rising sun with their rosy summits. At first they only surprised Olenin, but later they gave him pleasure.  And later, as he gazed longer at this chain of snow-capped peaks, which were not connected with other black ones, but rose directly from the steppe, he began by degrees to understand their full beauty, and to `feel' them. "From that moment everything he saw, everything he thought, everything he felt, assumed for him a new severely majestic character, that of the mountains. All the Moscow reminiscences, his shame and remorse, all the trite dreams of the Caucasus, everything disappeared, and never returned again. `Now it has begun,' a solemn voice said to him. And the road, and the distant line of the Terek, and the villages, and the people, all that appeared to him no longer so many trifles. "He looked at the sky, and he thought of the mountains. He looked at himself, and at Vanyusha - and again at the mountains. There, two Cossacks rode by, and their muskets in cases evenly vibrated on their backs, and their horses intermingled their chestnut and gray legs - and the mountains.  Beyond the Terek was seen the smoke in a native village - and the mountains. "The sun rose and glistened on the Terek beyond the reeds - and the mountains. From the Cossack village came a native cart, and women, beautiful women, walking - and the mountains. `Abreks [mountain braves] race through the steppes, and I am traveling, and fear them not: I have a gun, and strength, and youth' - and the mountains." In August he is again at Starogladovskaya. From the story The Cossacks, which bears an autobiographical character, we can form an approximate idea of how he passed his time in the Cossack Village. His attempt to come more in touch with the people - Cossacks, sport, the contemplation of the beauties of nature, and the incessant inner strife which never abandoned this man, and is vividly expressed in his works, such was Tolstoy's life of that period. "`Why am I happy, and why have I lived before?' he thought. `How exacting I used to be! How I concocted and caused nothing but shame and woe for myself!' And suddenly it seemed that a new world was open to him. `Happiness is this,' he said to himself: `happiness consists in living for others. This is clear. The desire for happiness is inborn in man; consequently it is legitimate. In attempting to satisfy it in an egotistical manner, that is, by seeking wealth, glory, comforts of life, and love, the circumstances may so arrange themselves that it is impossible to satisfy these desires. Consequently these desires are illegitimate, but the need of happiness is not illegitimate. Now, what desires are these that can always be satisfied, in spite of external conditions? What desires? Love, self-sacrifice!"

He was so rejoiced and excited when he discovered this truth, which seemed to be new, that he leaped up and impatiently began to look around for some one to sacrifice himself for, to do good to, and to love. "I do not need anything for myself," he proceeded in his thought; "then why should I not live for others?" Already then the voice of love touched a powerful chord in the soul of the young man, who had hardly entered the life of social activity. But outward events were still running their course, carrying the strong animal nature of man along its customary path. The life of the passionate young man in the Cossack village was not devoid of romance. The story of his love is described in the tale The Cossacks. All the stages of this unreturned affection are vividly pictured in that story, and even still better presented in a letter to his Moscow friends. That letter shows the author's love of wild nature, his passionate desire to live in perfect harmony with her, and his sufferings from inability to do so. He knew his life in civilized surroundings had torn him away from nature and created between them an abyss impossible to overcome. Here is the most striking and essential part of this letter: "How contemptible and pitiable you all appear to me! You do not know what happiness nor what life is!  You have first to taste life in all its artless beauty; you must see and understand what I see before me each day:  the eternal, inaccessible snows of the mountains, and majestic woman in her pristine beauty, as the first woman must have issued from the hands of her Creator - and then it will be clear who it is that is being ruined, and who lives according to the truth, you or I. "If you only knew how detestable and pitiable you are to me in your delusions! The moment there rise before me, instead of my cabin, my forest, and my love, those drawing-rooms, those women with pomaded hair, through which the false locks appear, those unnaturally lisping lips, those concealed and distorted limbs, and that prattle of the drawing-rooms, which pretends to be conversation, but has no right to be called so - an insufferable feeling of disgust comes over me. I see before me those dull faces, those rich, marriageable girls, with an expression on the face which says, `That's all right, you may--. Just come up to me, even thought I am a rich, marriageable girl'; that sitting down and changing of places; that impudent pairing of people, and that never-ending gossip and hypocrisy; those rules - to this one your hand, to that one a nod, and with that one a chat; and finally, that eternal ennui in the blood, which passes from generation to generation (and consciously even then, with the conviction of its necessity). You must understand, or believe it. You must see and grasp what truth and beauty are, and everything which you say and think, all your wishes for your own happiness and for mine, will be dispersed to the winds. Happiness consists in being with Nature, in seeing it, and holding converse with it. `The Lord preserve him, but he will, no doubt, marry a Cossack woman, and will be entirely lost to society,' I imagine them saying about me, with genuine compassion, whereas it is precisely this that I wish; to be entirely lost, in your sense of the word, and to marry a simple Cossack woman; I dare not do it, because that would be the acme of happiness, of which I am unworthy. "Three months have passed since I for the first time saw the Cossack maiden, Maryanka. The conceptions and prejudices of the society from which I had issued were still fresh in me.  I did not believe then that I could fall in love with this woman.  I admired her, as I admired the beauty of the mountains and of the sky, nor could I help admiring her, for she is as beautiful as they.  Then I felt that the contemplation of this beauty had become a necessity of my life, and I began to ask myself whether I did not love her; but I did not find in myself anything resembling the feeling such as I had imagined it to be.  This sentiment resembled neither the longing for solitude nor the desire for matrimony, not platonic love, still less carnal love, which I had experienced.  I had to see and hear her, to know that she was near, and I was not exactly happy, but calm.  After an evening party which I had attended with her, and at which I had toucher her, I felt that between this woman and myself existed an indissoluble, thought unacknowledged bond, against which it would be vain to struggle. But I did struggle. I said to myself: `Is it possible for me to love a woman who will never comprehend the spiritual interests of my life? Can I love a woman for her mere beauty, and I love a statue of a woman?' I asked myself, and I was loving her all the time, though I did not trust my own sentiment. "After the party, when I had spoken to her for the first time, our relations were changed. Before that time she was to me a foreign, but majestic, object of external Nature; after the party she became a human being for me.  I have met her and spoken with her; and I have been with her father at work, and have passed whole evenings in their company.  And in these close relations she has remained to my thinking, just as pure, inaccessible, and majestic. To all questions she has answered in the same calm, proud, and gaily indifferent manner.  At times she has been gracious, but for the most part every glance, every word, every motion of hers, has expressed the same, not contemptuous, but repressing and enticing indifference. "Each day I tried, with a feigning smile on my lips, to dissemble, and, with the torment of passion and of desires in my heart, I spoke jestingly to her. But she saw that I was dissembling, and yet looked gaily and simply at me. This situation grew intolerable to me. I did not wish to tell lies before her, and wanted to let her know everything I thought and everything I felt. I was very much excited; that was in the vineyard. I began to tell her of my love in words that I am ashamed to recall. I am ashamed to think of them, because I ought never to have dared to tell her that, and because she stood immeasurably above the words and above the feeling which I intended to express to her. I held my tongue, and since that day my situation has been insufferable. I did not wish to lower myself by persisting in the former jocular relations, and I was conscious that I was not yet ripe for straightforward, simple relations with her. I asked myself in despair, `What shall I do?' "In my preposterous dreams I imagined her now as my mistress and now as my wife, and I repelled both thoughts in disgust. It would be terrible to make a mistress of her.  It would be still worse to make a lady of her, the wife of Dmitriy Andreyevich Olenin, as one of our officers has made a lady of a Cossack girl of this place, whom he has married.  If I could turn Cossack, become a Lukashka, steal herds of horses, fill myself with red wine, troll songs, kill people, and, when drunk, climb through the window to pass the night with her, without asking myself who I am and why I am - it would be a different matter; then we could understand each other, and I might be happy."

But he could not become another Lukashka, and could not therefore find happiness in that direction. In September he writes a letter to his aunt, through which the future writer can already be clearly seen. It is his serious attitude in the expression of thought that particularly strikes one; probably by that time numberless thoughts and images were overcrowding in his mind, and he chose only those which he could set forth on paper. He thus expresses this sensation: "You have told me several times that you are not in the habit of writing drafts of your letters; I follow your example, but I don't manage it as well as you do, for it very often happens that I tear up my letters after rereading them. I do not do so from vanity - a mistake in spelling, a blot, a sentence badly turned do not trouble me, but it is that I cannot manage to learn to direct my pen and my ideas.  I have just torn up a letter to you which I had finished, because I had said in it many things I did not wish to say to you, and nothing of what I did wish to say.  perhaps you will think that this is dissimulation, and you may say that it is wrong to dissimulate with those one loves and by whom one knows one is loved.  I agree, but you will also agree that one says everything to a person toward whom one is indifferent, but that the more a person is dear to one, the more things there are one would like to conceal from him."

Feeling an excess of youthful energy, and having no outlet for it. Tolstoy often risked his life in taking part in dangerous excursions. Thus, in company of his friend, the Cossack Epishka (described in The Cossacks as Yeroshka), he once went to the village Hossaf-Yurt, in the mountains. The journey was a dangerous one, for the mountaineers sometimes attacked travelers. On his safe return from the excursion Tolstoy met the commander-in-chief of the left wing, Prince Baryatinskiy, accompanied by his own relation, Ilya Tolstoy. The latter invited Tolstoy to join their company, and this gave him a chance of getting well acquainted with the commander-in-chief. He expressed on one occasion his satisfaction and praise at Tolstoy's cheerful and brave appearance, which he noticed on seeing him once after a raid. Then and there he advised him to enter military service at once, as Tolstoy still remained a civilian, but took part in all the expeditions as a volunteer. The flattering opinion of the commander-in-chief and the advice of his relations induced Tolstoy at last to hasten his decision and send in his petition to join the army. He remained at Starogladovskaya during August and September. In September he went with his brother Nikolay to Tiflis. His brother soon returned, but Tolstoy stayed on in Tiflis to pass his examinations and enter the service. "We did indeed leave on the 25th, and after a seven days' journey, very dull owing to the want of horses at almost every posting-house, and very agreeable owing to the beauty of the country through we passed, we arrived on the first of the present month. "Tiflis is a very civilized town, which to a great extent apes St. Petersburg, and greatly succeeds in the imitation. The society is choice and rather numerous; there is a Russian theater and an Italian Opera, of which I avail myself as much as my restricted means allow. I am living in the German colony. It is a suburb, but has for me two great advantages, one of being a very pretty place surrounded by gardens and vineyards, so that one feels more in the country than in town. It is still very warm and very fine, and up to the present there is neither snow nor front. The second advantage is that for two tolerably clean rooms I pay five rubles a month, whereas in town one could not have similar apartments for less than forty rubles a month. Into the bargain I get practice in the German language for nothing, have books, occupations, and leisure, since no one comes to disturb me, so that on the whole I am not dull. "Do you remember, good Aunt, some advice you gave me in bygone days - that I should write novels? Well, I am following your advice, and the occupations I am speaking of consist in literary work.  I do not know whether what I write will ever see the light, but it is work which amuses me, and in which I have persevered too long to abandon it."

This letter is interesting, because it shows us with what modesty this great talent was developing its unsuspected excellence. He was ailing and doctoring himself for two months, and wrote his first story, availing himself of occasional leisure and solitude. Besides, part of his time was occupied with attempts to get an official appointment, which was a difficult matter owing to the want of the necessary papers. December 23, 1851, he writes the following letter to his brother Sergey, giving characteristic details concerning life in Tiflis and the village: "In a few days the long-desired announcement is to be gazetted of my nomination as volunteer private in the 4th Battery, and I shall have the pleasure of saluting and following with my eyes passing officers and generals. Even here, when walking about the streets in my fashionable overcoat and opera hat, which I bought here for ten ruble, despite all my splendor in this attire, I have become so accustomed to the idea of putting on a gray soldier's coat that my hand involuntarily wishes to seize my hat by the springs and flatten it down.  However, if my nomination takes place, on that very day I will leave Stargladovskaya and proceed thence immediately for the front, where I will walk or ride in a soldier's cloak or a Sackashan coat and will, according to my powers, contribute, by the aid of the cannon, to the slaughter of the wild, rebellious Asiatics. "Seryozha.--You see by my letter that I am at Tiflis, where I arrived as long ago as the 9th of November, so that I have had time to hunt a little with the dogs I bought there (Stargladovskaya), but the dogs that have been sent here I have not yet seen. Sport here (i.e., in Sackashan village) is splendid: open fields, marshy ground, full of hares, clusters, not of trees, but of rushes, in which foxes find cover. I have been out hunting nine times in all, about ten or fifteen versts from the village, with two dogs, of which one is excellent and the other a good-for-nothing. I caught two foxes and upward of sixty hares. In course of time I shall attempt to hunt deer. I have more than once been present in shooting expeditions for wild boar and stags, but have killed nothing myself. This sport is also very pleasant, but, after becoming accustomed to hunt with greyhounds, one cannot care for it. Even as he who has become accustomed to smoke Turkish tobacco cannot care for the common zhukov, although one may argue that the latter is the best. "I know your weakness. You will probably wish to know who have been and are my acquaintances here and in what relations I stand toward them.  I must tell you here that this point does not in the least interest me, but I will hasten to satisfy you.  In battery here there are not many officers; I am therefore acquainted with all of them, but very superficially, although I enjoy their general cordiality, as Nikolenka and myself always have brandy, wine, and refreshments for visitors.  On these same principles my acquaintance has been made and maintained with officers of other regiments with whom I had occasion to become acquainted at Stariy Yurt, a watering-place where I lived in summer, and during the expedition in which I took part.  There are among them some more or less decent fellows, yet, as I always have more interesting occupations than talking to officers, I remain with all of them in good relations. Lieutenant-Colonel Alekseyev, commander of the battery I enter, is a very kind and very vain man. by this latter weakness of his I have, I confess, profited and thrown some dust unintentionally in his eyes--I need him. But this also I do involuntarily and repent of it. With vain people one becomes vain oneself. "Here at Tiflis I have three acquaintances. I did not make more, first, because I did not wish, and secondly because I had not the opportunity - I have been ill almost all the time and it is only since last week that I have been out.  My first acquaintance is Bagration of st. Petersburg (Ferzen's comrade).  The second, Prince Baryatinskiy.  I made his acquaintance during the expedition I took part in under his command and, later, spent a day with him in a fort with Ilya Tolstoy whom I met here.  This acquaintance naturally does not afford me much recreation, for you understand on what footing a volunteer private may be acquainted with a general. My third acquaintance is an apothecary's assistant, a Pole reduced to the ranks - a most amusing creature.  I am sure Prince Baryatinskiy never imagined that he could in any kind of list whatever stand by the side of an apothecary's assistant, but so it has happened. nikolenka is on a very good footing here; the commanders and fellow-officers love and respect him. He enjoys, moreover, the reputation of a brave officer. I love him more than ever, and when I am with him I am completely happy, and without him I feel dull. "If you want to boast of news from the Caucasus you may announce that the second personage after Shamil, a certain Hadji-Murat, gave himself up the other day to the Russian Government. He was the first horseman and hero in all Checheniya, but committed a base act.  You may further relate with grief that the other day the well-known brave and clever general, Sleptsov, was killed.  If you wish to know whether it hurt him--I cannot tell you."

January 6, 1852, Tolstoy writes a remarkable letter from Tiflis to his aunt, which is full of tenderness and love for his guardian. "I have just received your letter of 24th November, and I am answering you immediately, as is now my custom. Lately, I wrote you that your letter made me shed tears, and I attributed this weakness to my illness.  I was wrong.  For some time back all your letters have produced the same effect on me.  I have always been a cry-baby.  Formerly I was ashamed of this weakness, but the tears I shed in thinking of you and your love for us are so sweet that I let them flow without any scruples or false shame.  Your letter is too full of sadness for it not to produce the same effect upon me. It is you who have always given me advice, and although, unfortunately, I have not always followed it, I would wish to act all my life only according to your views.  For the present allow me to tell you what effect your letter had on me, and the thoughts that came to me upon reading it.  If I speak too frankly, I know you will pardon it in view of the love I have for your. In saying that it is your turn to leave us, in order to join those who are no more, and whom you have so loved; in saying that your pray God to put a limit to your existence, which seems to you so insupportable and isolated, pardon me, dear Aunt, but it seems to me, in saying this, you offend God and me and all of us who so love you. You ask God for death, i.e., the greatest misfortune which could happen to me. (this is not a phrase; God is witness that the two greatest misfortunes which could happen to me would be your death or that of Nikolay - the two persons I love more than myself.) What would remain for me were God to fulfill your prayer? To give pleasure to whom would I desire to become better, to be virtuous, to have a good reputation in the world. When I make plans of happiness for myself, the idea that you will share and enjoy my happiness is always present. When I do anything good, I am satisfied with myself, because I know that you will be satisfied with me. When I act badly, what I most fear is to pain you. Your love is everything for me, and you ask God to separate us! I cannot tell you the feeling I have toward you, speech does not suffice to express it, and I am afraid you will think I am exaggerating, and yet I am weeping with burning tears in writing to you. It is to this painful separation I am indebted for knowing what a friend I have in you and how much I love you. But am I the only one who has this feeling for you? and you ask of God to die! You say you are isolated. Although I am separated from you, yet, if you believe in my love, this idea might counterbalance your pain. As for myself, wherever I am, I shall not feel isolated, as long as I know I am loved by you as I am. "However, I know that is a bad feeling that dictates these words to me; I am jealous of your grief."

Further on, in the same letter, he relates an incident as interesting for its practical as for its psychological bearing: "Today one of those things happened to me which would have made me believe in god, did I not already, for some time past, firmly believe in Him. "I was at Stariy Yurt. All the officers who were there did nothing but play and at rather high stakes. As it is impossible for us when living in camp not to see each other often, I have very often taken part in card-playing, and, notwithstanding the importunity I was subject to, I had stood firm for a month, but one day for fun I placed a small stake: I lost. I began again: I again lost. I was in bad luck; the passion for play had awakened, and in two days I had lost all the money I had and that which Nikolay had given me (about 250 rubles), and into the bargain 500 rubles for which I gave a promissory note payable in January, '52. I must tell you that near the camp there is a native village inhabited by the Chechens. A young lad from there, Sado, used to come to the camp and play, but, as he could not count or write, there were rascals who cheated him. For this reason I have never wished to play against Sado, and I have even told him that he should not play because he was being cheated, and I have myself offered to play for him. He was very grateful to me for this and made me a present of a purse, it being the custom of these people to give each other mutual presents. I gave him a worthless gun I had bought for eight rubles. I must tell you that in order to become a `Kunak,' which means friend, it is customary to make each other presents and then to have a meal in the house of the `Kunak.' After this, according to the ancient custom of this people (which now exists almost only by tradition), you become friends for life and death, i.e., if I demand of him his money or his wife or his arms, or all that is most precious to him, he must give it to me, and I also must refuse him nothing. Sado had engaged me to come to him and become his `Kunak.' I went, and, after having regaled me in the native manner, he offered to let me choose anything in his house I wished - his arms, his horse, all....I wished to choose what was of the least value there, and I took a horse bridle mounted in silver, but he told me that I offended him and compelled me to take a sword which cost at least a hundred rubles. His father is rather a rich man, but one who keeps his money buried and does not give a penny to his son. The son, in order to have money, goes and steals horses and cows from the enemy; sometimes he has risked his life twenty times over in order to steal something not worth ten rubles, but it is not through greed he does it, but by fashion. The greatest thief is highly esteemed and called `Dzhighit,' `plucky fellow.' At one moment Sado has a thousand rubles, at another not a penny. After a visit to him I made him a present of Nikolay's silver watch, and we became the best of friends in the world. Several times he has proved his devotion to me in exposing himself to dangers for me; but this for him is nothing - it has become a habit and a pleasure. "When I left Stariy Yurt and Nikolay remained there, Sado used to go to him every day saying he did not know what to do without me and that he felt terribly dull. By letter I communicated to Nikolay that, my horse being ill, I begged him to find one at Stariy Yurt.  Sado, having learned this, made haste to come to me and to give me his horse, notwithstanding all I did to decline it. "After my silly action of playing cards at Stariy Yurt I had not touched cards, and I was continually moralizing to Sado, who had a passion for gambling, and although he does not know the game has wonderfully good luck. Yesterday evening I occupied myself in considering my financial affairs and my debts. I was thinking what I could do to pay them. Having thought over these things, I saw that, if I do not spend too much, all my debts would not embarrass me and might be covered little by little in the course of two or three years; but the 500 rubles I had to pay this month threw me into despair. It was impossible for me to pay them, and at that moment they embarrassed me much more than did previously the 4,000 of Ogorev. The stupidity, after having contracted those debts in Russia, of coming here and making new ones cast me into despair. That evening, during my prayers, I begged God to extricate me from this disagreeable position, and prayed with much fervor. `But how can I get out of this business?' I thought on going to bed. `Nothing can happen which can give me any chance of meeting this debt.' I already represented to myself all the unpleasantness I should have to go through in consequence - how my creditor would present the note for payment, how the military authorities would demand an explanation why I do not pay, etc. `God help me,' I said, and fell asleep. "The next day I received a letter from Nikolay, together with yours and several others. He wrote: "`the other day Sado came to see me, he won your notes from Knoring and brought them to me. He was so glad of this prize, so happy, and kept asking so repeatedly, "What do you think? Your brother will be glad I have done this," that I was inspired with a great affection for him. This man is indeed attached to you.' "Is it not astonishing to see one's desire fulfilled the very next day, i.e., is there anything so astonishing as the divine goodness for a being who deserves it so little as I? and is not this feature of attachment in Sado admirable?  He knows I have a brother, Serge, who loves horses, and as I have promised to take him to Russia when I return, he told me that, were it to cost him his life a hundred times over, he would steal the best horse to be found in the mountains and would bring it to him. "Please get a six-chambered revolver purchased at tula and send it to me, also a little musical-box, if this does not cost too much; they are things which will give him much pleasure." This story is especially interesting because it shows what ground Tolstoy has traveled over in his spiritual development. It reaches from his naive mystical belief in God's interference with his gambling and monetary affairs, to the perfect religious freedom confessed by him now. Finally, a few days after this letter was written and his official matters arranged, Tolstoy returned to Starogladovskaya. On his journey from Mozdok station, probably while waiting for horses, he wrote a long letter to his aunt, full of the most profound religious thoughts and, as usual, overflowing with tenderness to this beloved relative, and with visions and plans concerning a future of simple family happiness. "Here are the thoughts which occurred to me. I will try to express them to you, as I was thinking of you. I find myself greatly changed morally, and this has been the case so very often. However I believe such is every one's fate. The longer one lives the more one changes: you who have got the experience tell me, is not this true? I think that the defects and the good qualities - the background of one's character - will always remain the same, but the say of regarding life and happiness must change with age. A year ago I thought I should find happiness in pleasure, in movement; now, on the contrary, rest, both physical and moral, is the state I desire. But I imagine that the state of rest without worry, and with the quiet enjoyments of love and friendship, is the acme of happiness for me! But one feels the charm of rest only after fatigue, and of the enjoyment of love only after being without it. Here I am deprived for some time both of the one and of the other; this is why I long for them so keenly. I must be deprived of them yet longer - for how long, God knows. I cannot say why, but I feel that I must. Religion and the experience I have of life, however small this be, have taught me that life is a trial. In my case, it is more than a trial, it is also the expiation of my mistakes. "I have an inkling that the seemingly frivolous idea I had of going for a journey to the Caucasus was an idea inspired in me from above. It was the hand of God which guided me - I do not cease to be thankful for it.  I feel I have become better here (though that is not saying much, since I had been very bad), and I am firmly persuaded that that can happen to me here will only be for my good, since it is God Himself who has willed thus.  Perhaps the idea is too presumptuous.  Nevertheless I have this conviction.  for this reason I bear the fatigues and the privations of which I speak (they are not physical privations - such do not exist for a young man of twenty-three who is in good health) without suffering from them, even with a kind of pleasure in thinking of the happiness awaiting me. "This is how I represent it to myself: "After an indefinite number of years, neither young nor old, I am at Yasnaya, my affairs are in order, I have no anxieties, no worries. You are also living at Yasnaya.  You have become a little older, but are still fresh and in good health.  We lead the life we have led; I work in the morning, but we see each other almost all the day.  We dine.  In the evening I read to you something which does not weary you, then we talk - I relate to you my life in the Caucasus, you relate your memories of my father and my mother, you tell those `dreadful' stories which we used to listen to with frightened eyes and open mouth.  We remind each other of those who have been dear to us and are with us no longer; you weep,  I shall do the same, but these tears shall be sweet; we will talk about my brothers, who will come to see us from time to time; of dear Marie, who will also pass some months of the year with her children at Yasnaya, which she so likes. We shall have no acquaintances - no one will come to bore us and to gossip. It is a fine dream, but it is not yet all I allow myself to dream of. I am married. My wife is a sweet, good, loving person; she has the same affection for you as I have; we have children who call you Grandmamma; you live in the big house upstairs in the same room which Grandmother occupied in past times. All the house is arranged in the same way as it was in Papa's time, and we recommence the same life, only changing our parts. You take the character of Grandmamma, but you are yet better; I take the character of Papa, but I despair of ever deserving it; my wife the place of Mamma, the children ours; Marie the role of the Aunts, their misfortunes excepted; even Gasha takes the role of Praskovya Ilyinishna. But some one will be wanted to take the part which you have played in our family - never will there be found a soul so beautiful, so loving as yours. You have no successor. There will be three new personages who will appear from time to time on the scene, the brothers, especially the one who will often be with you; Nikolas, an old bachelor, bald, retired from service, always as good as he is noble. "I can imagine how he will, as in the old days, tell the children stories of his own invention, how the children will kiss his greasy hands (but which are worthy of it), how he will play with them, how my wife will take pains to prepare his dish for him, how he and I will talk over common memories of days long past, how you will sit in your customary place and listen to us with pleasure; how you will call us old men, but, as of yore, Lyovochka and Nikolenka, and will scold me for eating with my fingers and him for his hands not being clean. "Were I to be made Emperor of Russia, or were some one to give me Peru--in a word, were a fairy with a wand to come and ask me what I would like to have, with my hand on my heart I should answer, I only desire that this dream might become a reality. I know you do not like to forecast, but what harm is there in it? And it gives so much pleasure. I am afraid I have been egotistical and have made your portion of happiness too small. I am afraid that misfortunes which have passed, but have left too tender chords in your heart, will hinder you from enjoying this future which would have made my happiness. Dear Aunt, tell me, would you be happy? All I have said may happen, and hope is such a delicious thing. "I am weeping again. Why do I weep when I think of you?  They are tears of happiness; I am happy to know I love you.  Were all calamities to afflict me, I should never call myself quite unhappy as long as you existed.  Do you remember our parting in the chapel of Uverskaya when we left for Kazan?  Then, as if by inspiration, at the moment of leaving you, I understood all you were to me, and although yet a child, I was able to make you understand what I felt by my tears and a few incoherent words.  I have never ceased to love you, but the feeling I experienced in that chapel and the one I now have for you are quite different; this one is much stronger, more elevated than I have had at any other time.  I must confess to you something which makes me feel ashamed, but which I must tell you in order to free my conscience.  Formerly, on reading your letters, in which you spoke to me of the feelings you had for us, I thought I saw some exaggeration, but only now, on reading them, do I understand you - your unlimited love for us and your elevated soul. I am sure that any one else but you on reading this letter and the last one would have cast the same reproach on me; but I am not afraid of your doing this, you know me too well, and you know that perhaps sensibility is my only virtue. It is to this quality that I owe the happiest moments of my life. At all events this is the last letter in which I shall allow myself to express such high-flown sentiments, high-flown in the eyes of the indifferent, but you will be able to appreciate them."

In January 1852, Tolstoy returned to Starogladovsk already a non-commissioned officer, and in the following February he took part as a gunner in a campaign. In March he was again in Starogladovsk. It is interesting to note the few thought written down by him in his diary of that time. He realized that three passions were hindering him on his way toward the moral idea which he placed before himself. These passions were card-playing, sensuality or lust, and vanity. He thus defined and characterized these respective passions: "(1) Passion for gambling is a greedy passion which gradually develops a craving for strong excitement. But it is possible to resist it. "(2) The indulgence of sensual passion is a physical need, a need of the body excited by the imagination; abstinence increases the desire and makes it very difficult to contend with. the best method is labor and occupation. "(3) Vanity: this passion is the one by which we do least injury to others and the most to ourselves." Further on are the following reflections:

"For some time back I have been greatly tormented by regrets at the loss of the best years of my life. It may be interesting to describe the progress of my moral development ever since I have begun to feel that I could have done something good; but I will use no more words, even thought itself is insufficient. "There are no limits for a great thought, but writers have long ago reached the absolute limits of its expression....There is something in me which compels me to believe that I am not born to be like every one."

These last words represent his first vague consciousness of his vocation. It should be observed that they were written before he had finished "Childhood," and therefore before he had been praised and congratulated on a successful literary performance. It was rather an internal independent consciousness of that mysterious power he had which has since placed him so high as one of the best representatives of the moral consciousness of humanity. In the month of May [1852] he got leave of absence and went to Pyatigorsk, to drink the waters and to be treated for rheumatism. From there he writes a letter to his aunt which gives a picture of his spiritual growth, and points to the incessant activity of his inner life. "Since my journey and stay at Tiflis my way of life has not changed; I endeavor to make as few acquaintances as possible, and to avoid intimacy with those whose acquaintance I have made. People have become accustomed to my manner, they no longer importune me, and I am sure they say he is a `strange' or a `proud' man. "It is not from pride that I behave thus, but it has come of itself. There is too great a difference between the education, the sentiments, and the point of view of those whom I meet here and my own for me to find any pleasure in their society. It is Nikolay who has the talent, notwithstanding the enormous difference there is between him and all these gentlemen, to amuse himself with them and be liked by all. I envy him this talent, but feel I cannot do the same. It is true that this kind of life is not adapted for one's amusement, and for a very long time I have not thought about pleasures. I think about being quiet and contented. some time ago I began to appreciate historical reading (it was a point of contention between us, but I am at present quite of your opinion); my literary occupations also advance in their little way although I do not yet contemplate publishing anything. I have written three times over a work I had begun a very long time ago, and In intend rewriting it once more in order to be satisfied with it. Perhaps the task will be like that of Penelope, but that does not deter me, I do not write from ambition, but because I enjoy it; I find pleasure and profit in working, and I work. Although I am far from amusing myself, as I have told you, I am also very far from being dull, as I have got something to do; besides this, I enjoy a pleasure sweeter and more elevated than any that society could have given me -- that of feeling at rest in my conscience; of knowing myself, of understanding myself better than I did formerly, and of feeling good and generous sentiments stirring within me. "There was a time when I was vain of my intelligence, of my position in this world, and of my name, but now I know and feel that if there is anything good in me, and if I have to thank Providence for it, it is a kind heart, sensitive and capable of love, that it has pleased God to give me and to keep for me. "It is to this alone that I owe the brightest moments I have, and the fact that, notwithstanding the absence of pleasures and society, I am not only at my ease but often happy."

In a letter of June 24, 1852, to his brother Sergey, he gives characteristic details of his life in Pyatigorsk: "What shall I tell you about my life? I have written three letters, and in each have described the same thing.  I should like to tell to you the spirit of Pyatigorsk, but it is as difficult as it is to tell to a stranger in what Tula consists, which we unfortunately understand very well.  Pyatigorsk is also something of a Tula, but of a special kind -- the Caucasian; for instance, here the chief feature is family houses and public promenades. society consists of landowners (this is the technical term for all visitors to the place), who look down upon the local civilization and of officers, who look upon the local pleasures as the height of bliss.  along with me there arrived from headquarters an officer of our battery.  You should have seen his delight and excitement when we entered the town!  He had already told me a great deal about the distractions of watering-places, how everyone walks up and down the boulevards to the sound of music, and then, as he declared, all go to the pastry cook's, and there make acquaintance even with family houses. There is the theater, there are the clubs, every year marriages take place, duels, etc.... -- in one word, it is quite a Parisian life. the moment we got out of our traveling cart, my officer put on blue trousers with fearfully tight riding-straps, boots with enormous spurs, epaulets, and so got himself up and went for a walk along the boulevard to the sound of music, then to the pastry cook's, the theater, and the club, but, so far as I know, instead of an acquaintance with family houses, and a bride who owned 1,000 serfs, he -- in the course of a whole month -- only made acquaintance with three shabby officers who emptied his pockets to the last penny at cards, and with one family house, in which, however, two families live in one room, and tea is served with little scraps of sugar to put in one's mouth. This officer, moreover, spent in one month about 20 rubles on porter and sweets, and purchased a bronze mirror for the adornment of his toilet table. Now he is walking in an old jacket without epaulets, is drinking brimstone water as hard as he can, and appears to be taking a serious cure; but he is astonished that, although he waked every day on the boulevard, frequented the pastry cook's and did not spare money on the theater, as well as on cabs and gloves, he could not get acquainted with the aristocracy (here in every little fort there is an aristocracy), while the aristocracy, as if to spite him, arranges rides and picnics, and he is not admitted anywhere. Almost all the officers who come here suffer a like fate, but they pretend they came only for `treatment', so they limp on crutches, wear slings and bandages, get drunk, and tell strange stories about the Cherkessi. Yet at headquarters they will again tell people how they were acquainted with family houses, and amused themselves tremendously; and every season they go to the watering-places in crowds to amuse themselves." As is evident from his letter to his aunt, Tolstoy continued writing "Childhood" in Pyatigorsk. At the same time his self-scrutiny never stopped.  On June 29th [1852] he wrote in his diary a thought which might well serve as a short expression of his present view of life: "Conscience is our best and surest guide, but where are the marks distinguishing this voice from the other voices?...The voice of vanity speaks no less powerfully. For instance -- an unrevenged offense. "The man whose object is his own happiness is bad; he whose aim is to get the good opinion of others is bad too, he is weak; one whose object is the happiness of others is virtuous; he whose object is god is great."

This again is a thought which we find further developed in his later works: "Justice is the least measure of virtue to which every one is bound. Anything higher than justice shows an aspiration to perfection, anything lower is (no better than) vice."

July 2nd [1852] Tolstoy finished "Childhood," and in a few days sent the manuscript to the editor of "The Contemporary" in St. Petersburg. The original title of his first literary work was "the Story of My childhood." It was signed with the three letters LNT, and the editor for a considerable time did not know the name of the author. In Pyatigorsk Tolstoy saw his sister and her husband. Marya was undergoing treatment for rheumatism at the watering-place. According to her account, Tolstoy was then carried away by spiritualistic experiments such as the turning of tables; he even carried this on in the boulevard, taking chairs for it from the cafe. On August 5th [1852], Tolstoy left Pyatigorsk and returned to his outpost. On his journey he wrote down the following interesting thought, which is one of the leading principles of his present view of life: The future occupies us more than the present. This is a good thing if we think of a future in another world. To live in the present, i.e., to act in the best way in the present -- that is wisdom." On August 7th [1852] he arrived in Starogladovsk, and on returning to his beloved and familiar patriarchal surroundings of Cossack life, he wrote in his diary: "Simplicity -- that is the virtue I desire above all others to acquire." On August 28th [1852] he at last received the long-expected letter from the editor of "The Contemporary." "It made me silly with joy," he noted in his diary. Here is the celebrated letter of Nekrasov, who was the sponsor of the newly born talent:

"Sir--I have read your manuscript (Childhood). It is so far interesting, and I will print it.  It seems to me, though I cannot say positively, not having seen the continuation, that the author is a man of talent.  At any rate, the author's tendencies, the simplicity and lifelike character of the story are incontestable merits.  If the following parts contain (as one may expect they will) more vivacity and movement, it will turn out a very good novel.  Please forward the continuation.  Your novel and your talent interest me.  I would advise you not to conceal your identity under initials, but to appear with your full name at once, if only you are not a casual visitor in the domain of literature. I hope to hear from you.  Accept my best respects,

- N. Nekrasov."

After this, in a month's time, followed a second letter.

"St. Petersburg, September 5, 1852.

"Sir--I wrote to you about your novel, and now I consider it my duty to add a few more words. I sent it to be printed in the ninth number of `The contemporary,' and, after reading it carefully, this time not in manuscript but in proof form, I came to the conclusion that the novel is much better than it appeared to me at first.  I can positively say that the author is a man of talent.  It is most important for you yourself to be convinced o this now, when you are a beginner.  The number of `The Contemporary' with your contribution in it will appear tomorrow in St. Petersburg, but you will only get it in three weeks' time, not before.  I will send it on to your address.  I have omitted some parts of your novel, but very little; however...I have not added anything.  I will write again before long in detail, but I am busy just now.  I expect your answer, and beg you to forward me the continuation, if ready for the press.

- N. Nekrasov. P.S.--Though I believe I have guessed the name of the author, still I beg you to inform me of it. In fact i must know it, because of the rules of our censorship."

Of this letter Tolstoy wrote in his diary, "September 30, Received a letter from Nekrasov, but no money." He was in need of money at that time, and expected his honorarium for his first literary work. He probably wrote about it to Nekrasov, for he received a third letter from him, of which the contents were as follows:

"St. Petersburg, October 30, 1852. "Dear Dir--I beg to be excused for my delay in answering your last letter--I was very busy. As to the money matter, I said nothing about it in my previous letters for the following reason; our best periodicals have long made it a custom not to pay anything for the first novel to a commencing author, who is first introduced to the public by the periodical itself. All who began their literary career in `The Contemporary,' such as Goncharov, Druzhinin, Ardeyev, and others, had to submit to this custom. When it came out, my own first work, as well as one of Panayev's, had to submit to the same custom. I propose to you to do the same thing, and you can make it a condition that for your subsequent works I will pay you the best honorarium, which is given only to our best-known (very few) novel writers, that is to say, fifty rubles for sixteen pages of printed matter. I should add that I put off writing to you, because I could not make such an offer before verifying my impression by the judgment of the reading public. This judgment turned out very favorable to you, and I am very glad to make no mistake in my estimate of your first work, so I offer you now with pleasure the above-mentioned conditions of payment. "Please let me know what you think about it. In any case I can guarantee that we will come to an agreement on this point.  As your novel has had so much success, we should be very glad soon to get your second work.  Please send what you have now ready for print. "I wanted to send you the ninth number of `The Contemporary,' but unfortunately I forgot to order extra copies to be printed, and the whole of this year's issues are sold out. However, if you like, I can send you one or two reprints of your novel -- this can be done by making use of the defective copies. "Once more allow me to ask you to send us a novel, or a tale of some kind. I remain, in expectation of your answer, yours truly, - N. Nekrasov. "P.S.--We are bound to know the names of all the authors whose works we publish, so please give me exact information concerning this point. If you wish it, no one but the publishers shall know it."

Thus, judging by Nekrasov's letter, on the 6th of September, 1852, an event of great significance occurred in this history of Russian literature: Tolstoy's first work appeared in print that day. Tolstoy mentions this episode, with his usual modesty, in a letter to his aunt Tatyana, dated October 28, 1952.

"On my return from the baths I passed a month rather disagreeably owing to the review which the general was going to hold. Marching and discharging different kinds of guns are not very pleasant, especially as the exercise interferes with any settled habits of my life.  Fortunately it did not last long, and I have again resumed my way of life, consisting in sport, writing, reading, and conversations with Nikolay. I have taken to shooting, and as I have turned out to be a tolerably good shot, this occupation takes up two or three hours a day.  In Russia they have no idea how much and what excellent game is to be found here.  A hundred yards from where I live I find pheasants, and in half an hour I bag two, three or four.  Besides the pleasure, the exercise is good for my health, which, in spite of the waters, is not in first-rate condition.  I am not ill, but I very often suffer from colds, at one time from a bad throat, at another from toothache, which I have still got; at times from rheumatism, so that at least for two days a week I keep my room. Do not think I am concealing anything from you: I am, as I have always been, of a strong constitution, but of weak health. In intend passing next summer again at the waters. If I am not cured by them, I am sure they have done me good--`there is no evil without good.' When I am indisposed, I can work, with less fear of being distracted, at another novel which I have begun. The one I sent to St. Petersburg is published in the September number of the "Sovremennik" for 1852 under the title of "Childhood". I have signed it LNT and no one except Nikolay knows who is the author. I should not like it to be known."

Marya, Tolstoy's sister, told me about the impression which this thing produced in the family circle. They lived on their estate, not far from that of Turgenev - Spasskoye, who used to visit them. On one occasion Turgenev arrived at their place with the latest number of "The Contemporary," and read out a novel by an unknown author which he praised highly. Marya heard with surprise the story of events of her own family, wondering who could be aware of the intimate details of their life. How little idea they had that their own Lyovochka might be the author of this novel was shown by the fact of Nikolay Nikolayevich being suspected to have written it; the fact was he had manifested literary inclinations from his childhood, and was a splendid story-teller. Evidently his devoted aunt Tatyana knew how to keep the secret entrusted to her, and it probably leaked out only on Tolstoy's arrival from the Caucasus. In her reminiscences Mme. Golovachov-Panayev gives an interesting description of the impression made by the first novel of Tolstoy on both readers and authors. "On all sides praises were showered upon the hew author by the reading public, and everybody wanted to know his name. as to the men of letters, they treated the newly born talent more or less indifferently, with the exception of Panayev, who was so delighted with `The History of My Childhood' that he read it aloud every evening to some of his friends.  Turgenev laughed at Panayev to his face, and said that his friends, when meeting him at the Nevsky Prospect, hid themselves for fear lest he should start reading passages from the new novel, which he had already managed to learn by heart. "The literary critics were slow to notice Tolstoy. At least in Zelinsky's volume of literary criticisms upon Tolstoy -- a carefully written book -- the first critical review is mentioned as having appeared in 1854. It was printed in the monthly serial, "Memoirs of the Fatherland," in November of that year, that is to say more than two years after "Childhood" appeared in print. The article was written a propos of the publication of "Boyhood," and both novels were reviewed in it." We quote here the short but striking critique of Tolstoy's first work:

"`Childhood' -- an immense chain of various poetical and unconscious conceptions of the surroundings, enabled the author to view country life in the same poetical light. He selected from this life all that strikes the mind and imagination of the child, and with the author's powerful talent this life is presented just as the child sees it.  Of the environment he introduces into his story as much as strikes the imagination of the child; that is why all the chapters of the novel, though apparently disconnected, have a perfect unity:  they show the child's standpoint of the world. But the great talent of the author is further seen in what follows. It might be thought that in depicting the world from the impressions of a child one could hardly present life and mankind from other than a childish point of view.  We are the more surprised to find after reading these tales, that they leave in the imagination the lifelike portraiture of father, mother, nurse, and tutor, in short the whole family, and all represented in the most poetical colors." In proportion to the growing circulation of "The Contemporary" grew the interest of the reading public in the newly rising talent. When copies of "The Contemporary" containing the stories "Childhood" and "Boyhood" reached Dostoyevsky in Siberia they deeply impressed him. In a letter to one of his friends in Semipalatinsk he insisted on being told who this mysterious LNT was. But the mysterious LNT, as if of set purpose, declined to reveal his identity, and only watched from the outside the sensation he had made. In October, while living in the village Starogladovsk, he sketched the plan for a work, "The Novel of a Russian Landlord," of which the fundamental idea was as follows: "The hoer seeks for the realization of his ideal of happiness and justice in the conditions of country life. Not finding it, he is disillusioned and searches for it in family life. His friend suggests to him the idea that happiness does not consist in any ideal, but in one's continual work with the happiness of others for its object." Unfortunately the plan was not realized, but the same ideas are developed in many of his following works. In spite of his prominent position, a military career proved not to his taste. It was evidently a burden to him, and he only waited to get his commission in order to be allowed to leave. But this promotion was slow n coming, and it looked as if the delay was intentional.  When he entered the service he expected to be promoted in about eighteen months, but after nearly a year's service he received at the end of October [1852] a notice informing him that he must first serve three more years. The reason for the delay turned out to be his negligence in sending in his papers. In the memoirs of countess S. A. Tolstoy we read the following: "The promotion of Tolstoy as well as his service had been full of great difficulties and failures. Before his departure for the Caucasus he lived in Yasnaya Polyana with his aunt Tatyana. He often met his brother Sergey, who at that time was very much interested in gypsies and their singing. The gypsies used to come to yasnaya Polyana, and would sing, and turn the heads of the two brothers. When Tolstoy realized that this might lead to some foolish action, he suddenly, without warning to any one, left for the Caucasus and took no papers with him."

This carelessness, or rather hatred of all kinds of business documents, more than once caused a great deal of embarrassment to Tolstoy. In his impatience he sent a complaint to his aunt P. Yushkova, who wrote to certain high officials, and so managed to hasten his promotion to the rank of officer. On December 24th of the same year [1852] he finished his tale "The Invaders," and two days later sent it to the editor of "The Contemporary." In January 1853, Tolstoy's battery had to march Shamyl. In the history of the 20th Artillery Brigade, in the description of this campaign, we find the following passage: "At one of the guns of the chief detachment at No. 4 Battery there acted as gunner Count L. Tolstoy, afterward author of the immortal works `A Wood-Cutting Expedition,' `The Cossacks,' `War and Peace,' etc."

The detachment was settled in the fortress Groznaya where, according to Tolstoy, card-playing and carousals constantly went on. "January 18, as stated in the history of the brigade, the detachment returned from Kurinskoye. during the last three days the seven guns of the column discharged about 800 volleys, and of these about 600 were discharged by five guns of the Battery No. 4 of the Brigade No. 20, which were under the command of Lieutenant Maklinskiy and Sub-Lieutenants Sulimovskiy and Ladizhenskiy, under whose authority count L. Tolstoy served as gunner of the 4th Division.  On January 19 he was despatched with a howitzer to the fort and village of Gerzel." Tolstoy also took part n the engagement of February 18th, when he was exposed to great danger, being only a hair's breadth from death. As he was sighting a gun, the enemy's shell broke the gun-carriage and burst at his feet. Fortunately, it did him no harm. On April 1st he returned with his detachment to Starogladovsk. From the first steps of his literary activity Tolstoy had to come into contact with the senseless cruelty of that irresponsible power, which has now for more than a century been obstructing without intermission the free development of Russian thought. I mean what is called the censorship. In a letter to his brother Sergey of May 1853, Tolstoy writes: "I am writing in a hurry so please excuse this letter being short and disorderly. `Childhood' has been spoiled by the censorship, and the `Expedition' has quite perished under it.  All that was good in them is deleted or mutilated.  I have handed in my resignation, and one of these days, i.e., in about six weeks, I hope to go as a free man to Pyatigorsk and so on to Russia." But getting leave of absence was no such easy matter, and in the summer of 1853, Tolstoy was again in a dangerous position, and with great difficulty was saved from being taken prisoner. We take the description of this incident from the Memoirs of Poltoratsky: "On June 13, 1853, I joined the 5th and 6th squads of Kurinsky and a company of battalion of the line with two guns, and we set out on an expedition for which we were drafted off to the fortress of Groznaya. After a halt at Yermolov's Knoll, the column started in marching order.  When I came up to the middle of the column, which stretched out along the road, I suddenly noticed, not far from the advanced guard, to the left of the upper plain between Khan Kale and the Tower of Groznaya, a party of from twenty to twenty-five Chechen horsemen heedlessly galloping down the incline and across the line of our column. "I rushed onward to the advanced guard and soon heard a volley of gun-shots, but before I had time to reach the 5th Company I saw at a distance of about forty yards the gun unlimbered and the linseed over it. "Put it back, put it back, our men are there!" I shouted at the top of my voice, and fortunately succeeded in stopping the discharge, which was aimed at the group of horsemen huddled together, among whom were evidently some of our men. Upon my order the 3rd platoon rushed forward, but they hardly made a few steps when the Chechens turned to flight down the plain to Argun, and then two shells were discharged in their pursuit. At the same time, from the spot where the conflict took place, Baron Rosen, deadly pale and very shaky, rode up to the column. He was almost immediately followed by a horse without a saddle, which was recognized as belonging to a platoon officer. At that moment, from behind the short bushes growing on the road, there appeared the artillery ensign Scherbachov. this young, ruddy-complexioned man of nineteen summers, who only a few months before had left the artillery school and struck everybody by his appearance of good health and his extraordinary frame and strength, at this moment shocked us all. "He came up with deliberate but firm steps, without limping or groaning, and only when he calmly came quite near did we see how badly he had been hurt by the Chechens. Blood was spouting like a fountain from bullet wounds in his chest and both his legs, from a grape-shot wound in the abdomen, and a slash on the neck from a sabre.  There was not doctor and no medical assistant with the column, so the barbers of the company had to do what they could, and one of them skillfully and quickly dressed the wounds. Meanwhile, Rosen, who had recovered a little from his fright, explained that five of them rode on in advance of the column and, at the moment of the attack by the mountaineers, Count Lev Tolstoy, Pavel Poltoratskiy and the Tartar Sado probably escaped to Groznaya, while he and Sherbachov turned their horses back to the column which was moving up behind them.  `Your honor,' interrupted an artillery soldier lying on a high pile of hay, `there is another man lying on the road, and I believe he is moving.' I shouted to the third platoon, `Forward, double quick!' and rushed down the road. At a distance of about one hundred yards from the guns of the advanced guard lay a dead raven-hued horse well known to us, and almost buried beneath him was the maimed body of Pavel. He moaned aloud, and in a heartrending voice begged to be set free from the unbearable weight of the dead horse. I sprang from my horse and, throwing the bridle to a Cossack, with one haul, which cost me an extraordinary effort, I turned over the carcass of the horse and freed the sufferer, who was bleeding to death. He had been wounded by sidearms, having received three blows on the head and four on the shoulder. The latter were so deep that they literally divided the shoulder in two, exposing a wide extent of flesh. I sent by a Cossack an order for the whole column to move on to where we were, and here the dressing of the wounds was begun, and the stretchers were made ready. "All this happened in a few minutes, during which we managed, however, to render first help to the wounded, while the cavalry of the Groznaya fortress was induced to rush out. The commander of the garrison, seeing from the heights our column in prefect order and the Chechens disappearing in the horizon, concluded that it was useless to pursue them, and ordered the soldiers to return to the fortress.  But a few horsemen, having separated from the rest, galloped onward to reach our column, which was at a distance of about four versts from Groznaya.  These were Pistolkorse and several of his Circassian friends, from the friendly Chechens inhabiting the villages about Groznaya.  By common efforts we constructed a kind of stretcher out of the soldiers' overcoats, placed both the wounded thereon, and started on our journey. Pistolkorse informed us the Count Lev Tolstoy and the Tartar Sado were hotly pursued by seven of the Chechens, but, thanks to the speed of their horses, they reached the gates of the fortress unhurt, leaving the enemies a trophy in the shape of a saddle cushion. "Tolstoy and his friend Sado and three companions were impatient to arrive before the rest at Groznaya, and detached themselves from the column at Yermolov's Knoll. This maneuver is unfortunately only known too well in the Caucasus!  Who of us, if mounted on a spirited horse, but obliged to move on step by step in the occasion with the infantry, would not gallop away in advance? This is a temptation to which old and young often yielded, contrary to the strict prohibitions and discipline of the authorities.  And our five brave fellows did the same.  Leaving the column thirty yards behind them, they agreed that two of them, for the purpose of reconnoitering, should ride along the upper recess and the remaining three by the lower road.  No sooner did Tolstoy and Sado mount the ridge than they descried a crowd of Chechen riders, who from the Khan-Kalsky forest were flying straight upon them. Not having time to descend without great risk, Tolstoy shouted from above informing his comrades of the enemy's appearance, and himself with Sado galloped away at full speed along the ridge of the recess to the fortress. Those below did not at first believe the news, and not being able to see the mountaineers had lost a few minutes; when the Chenchens (seven of them started pursuing Tolstoy and Sado) appeared on the recess and rushed downward, Baron Rosen turned his horse and galloped back to the column and reached it safely. Shcherbachov followed him, but his horse, given by the Government, galloped badly, and the Chechens overtook him, wounded him, and threw him off the saddle, after which he managed to reach the column on foot. Pavel's turned out the worse case. Having caught sight of the Chechens, he instinctively rushed forward in the direction of Groznaya, but at once realized that his young, well-fed and petted horse could not in hot weather gallop the five versts dividing him from the fortress, so he abruptly turned backward at the very moment when the enemy had already come down the recess on the road, and, with his sabre unsheathed, as a last resource he intended to force his was back to the column. But one of the mountaineers aimed his carbine well, and, waiting for pavel's approach, lodged a bullet in the forehead of his raven horse; it fell down dead, burying its rider underneath. One Chechen bent from his horse toward Pavel, and snatching out of his hands the silver-mounted sabre, he pulled off the sheath, but seeing the third platoon, which was hurrying to Pavel's assistance, he slashed him with his sabre on the head and ran away. His example was followed by the remaining six mountaineers one after another, who, riding by in full speed, each dealt heavy blows on the head and shoulders of Pavel, who lay motionless under the weight of his dead horse and bleeding to death, up to the very moment of our arrival."

In the reminiscences of Bers we learn one more detail of this affair characterizing Tolstoy: "The peaceful Chechen Sado, with whom Tolstoy rode out that day, was his great friend. They had only recently exchanged horses. Sado had bought a young horse, and after having given it a trial, gave it to his friend Tolstoy, and himself mounted the latter's ambler, which, as it is well known, cannot gallop.  When they were overtaken by the Chechens, Tolstoy could have galloped away on the spirited horse of his friend, but he did not leave him. Sado, like all mountaineers, never parted from his gun, but unfortunately this time it was not loaded.  Still, he aimed it at the pursuers, and shouted threateningly at them.  Judging by the actions of the pursuers, they intended to take both as prisoners, especially Sado, out of revenge; for that reason, they did not shoot.  this saved them.  They managed to approach Groznaya, where a vigilant sentinel noticed the pursuit afar and sounded the alarm. The appearance of the Cossacks on the road induced the Chechens to stop the pursuit."

This incident served Tolstoy as a basis for his story, "A Prisoner in the Caucasus." But neither the dangers of the military career, nor the fits of vice and gambling which burst like hurricanes into his peaceful life, arrested the general development of Tolstoy's character, and soon after the incident just described, he writes down the following thoughts or maxims: "Be straightforward, and, even if brusque, be frank with all, but not childishly frank without due occasion. "Refrain from wine and women. "Delight is rare and imperfect, but repentance is complete. "Give thyself up completely to every work thou doest. Under a strong feeling pause always before action, but having once made thy mind up, even wrongly, act with resolution." In the middle of July, 1853, Tolstoy went to Pyatigorsk and remained there until October, returning afterward to Starogladovsk. Evidently the monotonous service began to be very wearisome, and he was looking forward to a change in his life. Meantime, he wrote from Pyatigorsk to his brother as follows: "I think I have already written to you about my having handed in my resignation. God knows, however, whether it will be accepted, and when, in view of the war with Turkey. This disturbs me very much, as I have now become so accustomed to the happy thought of soon settling down in the country, that to return again to Staroglavosk and wait till eternity, as I do for everything connected with my service, it is very unpleasant." The same frame of mind is perceptible in a letter from Staroglavosk, written in December, 1853. "Please write to me quickly about my papers. This is necessary. When shall I arrive? [sentence emphasized] god only knows, for it will soon be a year since I have considered how I can resheath my sword, and still I cannot do it. However, as I must fight somewhere, I find it pleasanter to fight in Turkey than here, and have accordingly applied to Prince Sergey Dmitriyevich, who wrote me that he had already written to his brother, but did not know what the result might be. "At all events, before the New Year I expect a change in my way of life, which I confess has become inexpressibly wearisome to me. Silly officers, silly conversations, nothing else. If there were only one man with whom one might have a talk from one's soul! Turgenev is right in speaking of the `irony of solitude,' when one is by oneself one becomes perceptibly stupid.  Though Nikolenka took away with him - God knows why - the greyhounds (we, Epishka and I, often call him a pig for this), still, during whole days from morning till night, I go out shooting alone with a dog.  And this is my only pleasure; indeed, not a pleasure, but a means of stupefaction.  You get tired and hungry, and fall dead asleep, and the day is passed.  If you have an opportunity, or should be in Moscow, buy for me Dickens' `David Copperfield' in English, and send me Saddler's English Dictionary, which is among my books."

During this time Tolstoy was writing his "Boyhood," and had finished a tale called "The Recollections of a Billiard-Marker," which was sent to the editor of "The Contemporary," expressing at the same time his dissatisfaction with his work, and the hurry in which it was done. About the same time, one of his occupations was reading Schiller's biography. After having returned from a short journey to the village of Khassav-Yurt, Tolstoy put down in his diary: "For all the prayers I have invented, I substitute a single one, `Our Father.' All the petitions I am able to address to God are expressed in a way much more elevated and much worthier of him in the words:  `Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.'"

In her memoirs, the Countess S. A. Tolstaya describes another interesting incident of his Caucasian life - the attitude of Tolstoy to the St. George's Cross. Readers are already aware that Tolstoy had distinguished himself several times in military exploits, and that he coveted the reward of the soldier's St. George's Cross. The commander of his battery, Colonel Alekseyev, was very fond of Tolstoy. After one of the engagements, several St. George's Crosses had been sent to the battery. These crosses were to be distributed next day, but on the eve of this day Tolstoy had to be on duty on the island where the guns were placed. With his usual inclination to be carried away by everything, he, instead of going, played chess till late at night, and was not on duty. The commander of the division, Olifer, not finding him on duty, was very angry, reprimanded him severely, and put him under arrest. The following day the crosses were distributed in the regiment, and the bands played. Tolstoy knew that he was to have had one, but, instead of enjoying the grand event, he was in prison and in despair at the time. Another opportunity presented itself for receiving the cross, but it again proved a failure, the reason of the failure being, however, more to his credit. Crosses were sent to the battery for good conduct in a certain engagement with mountaineers. This time Tolstoy knew beforehand that he was to get one. But just before the distribution, Colonel Alekseyev spoke to him in the following terms: "You know that St. George's Crosses are mostly given to old, deserving soldiers, to whom they give a right to life pensions in proportions to the salary they have been receiving during service.  On the other hand, crosses are given to those non-commissioned officers who are in favor with their superiors.  The more crosses that are received by the non-commissioned officers, the more are taken away from the old, deserving soldiers.  I will give you one if you like, but, if you are willing to decline it, it will be given to an old and very worthy soldier who deserves such a cross and who is looking forward to it as a means of livelihood." Notwithstanding his passionate desire to own the cross, Tolstoy immediately gave up his claim, and after this he had no further opportunity of getting it. To conclude our description of Tolstoy's life in the Caucasus, we will quote a few lines from the reminiscences of an officer, M. A. Yanzhul, who served in the seventies in the village Starogladovsk, and came across traces of Tolstoy's sojourn there. "In 1871 I was made officer of the 20th Artillery Brigade, of the same brigade and village of Starogladovsk in which seventeen years before Count L. N. Tolstoy had lived and served in the army. The village of Starogladovsk with its handsome women of striking local type, its valiant Grebenskiy Cossacks, and `the commander's house surrounded by old poplars,' described by Tolstoy in his well-known story, `The Cossacks,' had been familiar to me for more than twenty years. At my time the memory of Lev Nikolayevich, as they called him there, was still fresh in the village.  They used to point out to me the old Maryana, the heroine of the story, and several old Cossack sportsmen, who knew Tolstoy personally and had with him shot pheasants, and hunted wild boars.  One of these Cossacks, as all know, went on horseback in the eighties from the village to Yasnaya Polyana to pay Tolstoy a visit.  At the battery I met Captain Trolov (now deceased), who had know Tolstoy as a quarter-gunner, and related incidentally that even then the Count possessed the marvelous capacity of a story-teller who carried away the listeners by his interesting conversation."

Further on Yanzhul gives a short sketch of the character of Tolstoy's superior, the commander of his battery: "Nikita Petrovich Alekseyev, the commander of the battery in which Count Tolstoy served, was loved and respected by all for his kindness. He enjoyed the reputation of a scholarly `artillerist,' a universalist, was distinguished for his extreme piety, and was particularly fond of going to church, where he spent hours kneeling and making bows.  To this is to be added, that he had lost one ear, which a horse had bitten off.  One of his peculiarities was this: he could not bear to see officers drinking, especially young ones. In accordance with the customs of the good old times, all officers dined with their commander.  And here Tolstoy, by way of a joke, often pretended to want some drink.  On these occasions Petrovich, in a solemn fashion, persuaded him not to take any, and used to offer some sweets instead of spirits."

The description of Tolstoy's life in the Caucasus would not be complete if we omitted his two comrades, the dogs Bulka and Milton. He tells their history in his "Books For Reading," in a series of charming idyllic pictures of Caucasian life with which almost all Russian school-children are familiar. At last there arrived the long-expected order, promoting Tolstoy to the rank of an officer. January 13, 1854, he passed his officer's examination, which at that time was a meaningless formality, and began to prepare for his departure. January 19th he started for Russia. February 2nd he arrived in Yasnaya Polyana. On a journey, which took in those days about a fortnight, he met with a very violent snowstorm that probably gave him the subject for his tale of that name. The short time of his stay in Russia he spent with his brothers, his aunt, and his friend Perfilliyev. An order to join the Danube army was already awaiting him, and he accordingly arrived in Bucharest, march 14, 1854. Having finished the description of the Caucasian period of Tolstoy's life, I think it will interest the reader if I give his own opinion of that period such as it is at present. Tolstoy looks back upon that time with pleasure, considering it one of the best periods of his life, notwithstanding all his lapses from his then vaguely realized ideal. He thinks that his subsequent military service, and especially his literary activity, were injurious to his character, and that it was only his return to the country and his work at school with the peasant children that helped him to feel as if he were born again and renewed his spirit within him.