Leo Tolstoy: His Life and Work/Chapter 9

St. Petersburg
Tolstoy was sent to St. Petersburg as a despatch bearer. There he was attached to a rocket battery under General Konstantinov and returned to the front no more. In St. Petersburg, where he arrived November 21, 1855, he found himself at once in the circle of "The Contemporary," and was received there with open arms. In his "Confession," Tolstoy thus speaks of that period: "During that time I began to write, out of vanity, love of gain, and pride. I followed as a writer the same path which I had chosen as a man.  In order to obtain the fame and money for which I wore, I was obliged to hide what was good and bow down before what was evil. How often while writing have I cudgelled my brains to conceal, under the mask of indifference or pleasantry, those yearnings for something better which formed the real problem of my life!  I succeeded in my object and was praised.  At twenty-six years of age, on the close of the war, I came to St. Petersburg, and made the acquaintance of the authors of the day. "I met with a hearty reception and much flattery." Naturally, during the twenty years before he wrote those lines, Tolstoy was beset by various feelings, though even then his unsparing self-analysis and skepticism were pushed so far as to astonish his companions. "The contemporary" was a review founded by A. S. Pushkin and Plentev. Its first number was issued in 1836. After Pushkin's death, the review was published from 1838 to 1846 by Plentev alone and lost all its importance. In 1847 N. A. Nekrasov and T. T. Panayev became the proprietors of the review. In Collaboration with the well-known literary critic Belinskiy, they managed in a short time to attract the best authors, and until its suppression by the authorities in 1866, this review was the chief organ of progressive russian art, criticism and sociology. At the time of Tolstoy's appearance in Petersburg, the more intimate members of this literary circle are to be seen in the two well-known photo-groups of authors - Panayev, Nekrasov, Turgenev, Tolstoy, Druzhinin, Ostrovskiy, Goncharov, and Grigorovich and Sollogulo. One may add to the circle V. P. Botkin, Fet, and others not included in the two groups. Members of the staff of "The Contemporary" were bound by certain obligations as to honoraria as well as the contribution of articles. These obligations were sometimes found too burdensome, and caused many unpleasant frictions among literary men. Publishers and editors of other reviews would, by urgent entreaties, obtain "copy" from the celebrated authors belonging to the personnel of "The Contemporary." The administration of that review resented such proceedings very much, a feeling which was reciprocated by the rival publishers. Tolstoy's German biographer, Loewenfeld, gives a description of one such incident as follows:

Turgenev and Katkov had a quarrel in which Tolstoy was involved, partly by his own fault. Turgenev had been for some time an assiduous contributor of Katkov's and the latter was naturally loath to part with such an    author. He commissioned his brother to call daily on    both the young authors and solicit from them articles for his review. Turgenev, growing tired of these endless petitions, on a sudden impulse promised to write something for Katkov, but could not keep his promise. Katkov was furious and attacked Turgenev in public, arguing that since Turgenev promised to write for him, he    could not at the same time give his services `exclusively' to `The Contemporary.' On the other hand, as a member of `The Contemporary' staff, he was precluded from contributing to Katkov's review. His gentle and compliant nature played him a bat turn this time.

Tolstoy took the part of his friend. He wrote a    long letter to Katkov in defense of Turgenev. The gentle nature of Turgenev, as well as his politeness, had induced him to make promises to both parties. Tolstoy requested Katkov to publish his letter. Katkov agreed, on the condition that his answer should be printed as    well, and he therewith sent a rough sketch of it. But it    was of such a character that Tolstoy thought it wiser to     give up his part of mediator.

The association of "The Contemporary" ceased long before, and it became an ordinary publishing concern. Tolstoy did not meet Belinskiy in the circle of "The Contemporary." The latter died in 1848, after having worked hard to put the "Review" on a satisfactory footing. His enthusiasm breathed new life into the dying periodical, and made its existence secure for a long while to come. But Tolstoy was not influenced directly by Belinskiy. The reason for this was, in the first place, the different character of their respective times. Belinskiy was a man of the forties, in the full sense of the word, whereas Tolstoy entered upon his literary career in the fifties, and moved among Belinskiy's followers, who lacked his attractive power; though, on the other hand, the social surroundings in which Tolstoy had been reared could not be favorable to his intimacy with these representatives of the republic of letters - "raznochintsy," as they called themselves, all sorts and conditions of men. He kept company with men of his own standard of breeding, and even with them was always reserved, independent, mostly in opposition, and trying to influence others, while himself little responsive to outside influence. Once may point out a more serious cause, that underlying difference in general views. Though Tolstoy had not yet definitely formed his views of life, still the tendency of "The Contemporary" had never attracted him. Moreover, as Tolstoy has acknowledged in his literary work, he was more attracted by talent that was simply artistic than by that of a social tendency. In his youth he had been under the sway of rousseau's philosophical teaching. Discussing the subject of French literature with Professor Boyer from Paris, who paid him a visit in the spring of 1901, Tolstoy thus expressed his opinion of his two teachers - Rousseau and Stendhal:

People have been unjust to Rousseau, the greatness of his thought was not recognized, and he was calumniated. I    have read the whole of Rousseau, all the twenty volumes, including the dictionary of music. I admired him with more than enthusiasm, I worshiped him. At fifteen I    wore on my neck, instead of the usual cross, a medallion with his portrait. with some of his pages I am so    familiar that I feel as if I had written them myself. As    to Stendhal, I will speak of him only as the author of     "Chartreuse de Parme" and "rouge et Noir." These are two great, inimitable works of art. I am, more than any one else, indebted for much to Stendhal. He taught me to    understand war. Read once more "Chartreuse de Parme," his account of the Battle of Waterloo. Who before him had so described war -- i.e., as it is in reality? Do    you remember Fabracius crossing the battle field and "understanding nothing," and how the hussars threw him with ease over the back of his horse, his splendid general's horse?

Subsequently my brother, who had served in the Caucasus before me, confirmed the faithfulness of    Stendhal's descriptions. He enjoyed war very much, but did not belong to those who believed in the Bridge of    Arcole. He used to say to me, "All that is    embellishment, and in war there is no embellishment." Soon afterward in the Crimea I easily verified all this with my own eyes. I repeat, all I know about war I    learned first of all from Stendhal."

From twenty to thirty-five years of age Tolstoy was chiefly influenced by the following works:

Titles - Degree of Influence

Goethe, Hermann und Dorothea - Very great

V. Hugo, Notre Dame de Paris - Very great

Tyuchev, Verses - Great

Koltsov, Verses - Great

Fet, Verses - Great

Plato, Phaedo and the Symposium - Very great

Odyssey and Iliad - Very great

Thus we have the more or less complete list of Tolstoy's literary guides. Tolstoy entered the circle of St. Petersburg authors, his powerful artistic personality and obstinate, often aggressive temperament creating a storm in their hitherto quiet and peaceful atmosphere. The following is from Fet's reminiscences of Tolstoy's first appearance in St. Petersburg:

Turgenev used to get up and take his tea in the St.    Petersburg fashion, very early, and during my short stay in town I called every morning about ten to have a quiet talk with him. On the second morning when Zakhar opened the door I saw in the hall a dress sword with a ribbon of    St. Anne. "Whose sword is this?" I inquired, as I proceeded to the drawing room. "If you please, come this way," said Zakhar in a low voice, pointing to the left of the corridor. "This is    Count Tolstoy's sword, and his excellency is asleep in     the drawing room.  Ivan Sergeyevich is drinking tea in     the study." During the hour I spend with Turgenev, we conversed in a    low voice, being afraid to awaken Tolstoy, who was asleep in the next room. "He is like this all the time," said Turgenev, smiling. "He came from Sebastopol, straight from the battery,    stopped here at my place, and then and there plunged into     dissipation.  Carousals, gypsies, and card-playing all     night; and afterward he sleeps like a top till two in the     afternoon.  At first I tried to restrain him, but after     a while I gave it up." About this time I was introduced to Tolstoy, but our acquaintance was a formal one, I not having yet read a    single line of his nor even heard of him as an author, although Turgenev mentioned to me his tale of    "Childhood." But from the first I noticed in young Tolstoy a kind of unconscious antagonism to all accepted rules in the domain of reasoning. During this short period I saw him only once at Nekrasov's, at our bachelor's literary party. There I witnessed how Turgenev, eager and breathless in discussion, was driven to despair by the apparently calm, but all the more sarcastic, replies of Tolstoy. "I cannot accept," said Tolstoy, "what you said just now    as your conviction.  I stand at the door with a dagger or     sword in hand and say, `while I am alive, no one shall     enter this door.'  That is conviction.  but you two are     trying to conceal the real meaning of your thoughts from     each other, and you call this conviction.     "Then why do you come here?" said turgenev, panting and     in a tin falsetto, his voice during warm discussions     always reaching this high pitch.  "Ours is not your banner! Go to Princess B-e-b-e."    "Why should I ask you where I am to go?" returned     Tolstoy.  "Besides, idle talk will by no means beget convictions, wherever I go."    As far as I can remember, this was the only encounter     between Turgenev and tolstoy at which I was present, and     I cannot help saying that, although I understood that the     controversy related to politics, I took too little     interest in the subject to pay attention to it.  I must     add that, from what I heard in our circle, Tolstoy was in     the right, and, if indeed men suffering from the "regime"     then in force were to try to describe their ideal, they     would find the greatest difficulty in formulating their     wants.     Who of us at that time did not know the boon-companion,     the partner in all sorts of frolics, and the capital     fellow at telling amusing anecdotes, Dmitriy Vasiliyevich     Grigorovich, celebrated for his novels and stories?  This     is how he, by the way, told me of the encounters between     Turgenev and Tolstoy in the same house of Nekrasov:  "My dear boy, by dear boy," said Grigorovich, choking with    laughter till tears came to his eyes, and stroking me on     the shoulder, "you cannot imagine what scenes we had here. Mercy on us! Turgenev speaks shriller and shriller, then pressing his hand to his throat, and with a look of a dying gazelle, whispers: `I cannot talk any longer! It will give me bronchitis!' and with enormous strides begins to walk up and down the three rooms. `Bronchitis!' sneers Tolstoy, `it's an imaginary illness. Bronchitis is a metal!' Of course the host Nekrasov is     trembling heart and soul:  he is afraid to lose both Turgenev and tolstoy, in whom he foresees a powerful support for "The Contemporary," so he is bound to    maneuver. We are all upset and at a loss what to say. Tolstoy is lying down in the middle of the room on a    leather sofa and sulks; Turgenev, with the lappets of his jacket asunder and his hands in his pockets, continues to    walk up and down all the three rooms. To prevent a    catastrophe, I approached the sofa and said:  `My dear Tolstoy, don't get excited! You have no idea how he    appreciates and loves you!'  `I will not allow him,' says Tolstoy, his nostrils dilating, `to be spiteful to me. And now he walks up and down the room on purpose, crossing his democratic legs close to me.'"

D. V. Grigorovich, in his "Literary Reminiscences," tells a similar story of the earlier period of Tolstoy's acquaintance with St. Petersburg authors: On my return from Marynskiy to St. Petersburg, I met Count Tolstoy. I was first introduced to him in Moscow at the house of the Sushkov family, where he still wore his military uniform. He lived in St. Petersburg, in    Ofitsskiy Street, on the lower floor of a small set of     chambers next to the lodgings of M. L. Mikhailov, the author. It seems they were not acquainted. His keeping permanent rooms in St. Petersburg was incomprehensible to    me, for from the very first he not only disliked St.     Petersburg itself, but was irritated with everything connected with it.

Having learned from him during our interview that he    was invited to dine that very day with the editorial staff of "The Contemporary," and that though he had already written for that review, he yet knew very little the members of its staff, I agreed to go with him. On    the way I warned him to be careful and not touch certain subjects, and in particular not to attack Georges Sand, who at that time was the idol of most of the members. The dinner went off quietly. Tolstoy was rather taciturn, but toward the end he could no longer control himself. Hearing praise bestowed on a new novel by    Georges Sand, he abruptly declared his hatred of her, adding that her heroines, if they existed in reality, ought to be tied to the hangman's cart and driven through the streets of St. Petersburg as an example. Even at    that time he had formed that personal standpoint about women and the woman question which he so forcibly expressed in his novel "Anna Karenina."

The incident at that dinner party may have been caused by his dissatisfaction with everything that bore the cachet of St. Petersburg, but more probably by his tendency to contradiction. Whatever judgment might have been passed, and the greater the authority of his interlocutor, the more he would insist on asserting an    opposite view and in retorting sharply. Watching how he    listened to his interlocutor, how he scrutinized him, how sarcastically he screwed up his lips, one would have thought he was thinking not so much how to answer a question as    how to express an opinion which should be a puzzle and surprise to the questioner. this is how Tolstoy impressed me in his youth. In discussion he pushed his arguments to the furthest extreme. I happened once to be    in the next room when he and Turgenev were having a     discussion; hearing their loud voices I went into the room. Turgenev was pacing up and down showing signs of    great embarrassment; he profited by the door I opened and went out immediately. Tolstoy was lying on the sofa, and his excitement was so great that it was only with great difficulty that I managed to calm him and take him home. The subject of their discussion remains unknown to me at    the present moment. [Complete edition of the Works of D.    V. Grigorovich, vol. xii, p. 326.]

This tendency of Tolstoy to contradiction is also illustrated in the following episode related in the reminiscences of G. P. Danilevskiy:

At the end of the fifties I met Tolstoy in St. Petersburg in the family of a well-known sculptor and painter. The author of the "Sebastopol Tales" had just arrived in St. Petersburg; he was a young, stately artillery officer. A very good likeness of him at that time is to be found in    the well-known group of photographs by Levitskiy, where he is taken together with Turgenev, Goncharov, Ostrovskiy, and Druzhinin. I remember well how Count Tolstoy entered the drawing room of the lady of the house during the reading aloud of a new work of Herzen's.     Quietly standing behind the reader's chair, and waiting till the end of the reading, he began at first softly and shyly, but then boldly and hotly to attack Herzen and the enthusiasm with which his writings were accepted. He    spoke with such sincerity and force, that in this family I did not come across Herzen's publications any more.

We know that Tolstoy changed his opinion of Herzen later on, and this will be mentioned in due place. E. Garshin, in his reminiscences of Turgenev, gives the following interesting account of Turgenev's opinion of tolstoy. It shows the early element of mutual incompatibility which almost brought their relations to a fatal end. "Tolstoy," said Turgenev, "developed early a trait    of character which, as the foundation of his gloomy view     on life, causes in the first place much suffering to     himself.  He never believed in the sincerity of men.  Any     kind of emotion seemed false to him, and he had the     habit, by the extraordinary penetrating glance of his     eyes, of piercing through the man who struck him as     false."

Turgenev told me that never in his life had he    experienced anything more depressing that the effect of     that penetrating glance, which, combined with two or     three venomous remarks, could exasperate one who had no     great self-control to the verge of madness. This subject of Tolstoy's casual experiments, and almost the exclusive subject, was his friend Turgenev. He was, so the latter said, greatly annoyed by Turgenev's self-possession and his serenely calm attitude at that period of brilliant literary achievement, and Count Tolstoy seemed to have made up his mind to exasperate this quite, kind-hearted man, who was working with full conviction of doing the right thing. The worst of it was that Tolstoy did not believe this, he thought that the men whom we consider good are only hypocrites or try to display their goodness, and that they affect to be convinced that they are doing their work for a good cause.

Turgenev recognized Count Tolstoy's attitude, but resolved by all means to keep his own ground and remain self-possessed. He tried to avoid Tolstoy, and with this object went to Moscow, then went to his country place, but Count Tolstoy followed him step by step, "like a    woman in love," to use Turgenev's words as he told the story.

All these facts as to the mutual relations of the two authors show that any real spiritual intimacy between them was impossible. But the liberal movement carried both of them in the same direction, and they considered themselves fellow-workers for the same cause. Besides, their aristocratic origin, their education, their prominent position in the literary circle -- all this, though against their will, was bringing them, outwardly at any rate, together. But, as readers will see from the following incident, whenever they tried to be more than simple companions, a conflict was the result, and this sometimes exposed their priceless lives to danger. To do them justice, they both clearly realized the distance dividing them, they owned it openly to each other and to others, and, what is more important, they made great moral efforts to keep up, if not cordial, at least amicable relations based on mutual respect. On this ground, they present a suggestive example to following generations. We may insert here the account given by Mme. Golovachov- Panayev of the early days of the acquaintance of Turgenev and Tolstoy, which confirms our assertion. I must go back and tell of the appearance of Count Tolstoy in the circle of "The Contemporary." He was then still an officer, and the only collaborator of "The    Contemporary" who wore a military uniform. His literary talent had by this time made such a mark that all the leaders in literature had to accept him as their equal. Besides, Count Tolstoy was not a shy man, he was aware of    his talent, and behaved, as I thought, with a certain more or less ease of manner or nonchalance.

I never entered into conversation with the authors when they met at our house, I only listened in silence and observed them. I was particularly interested in    watching Turgenev and Tolstoy, when they happened to be     together and had a discussion or made remarks to one another, for they were both very clever and observant.

I never heard Tolstoy express his opinion of    Turgenev, and as a rule he said nothing of any of the authors, at least before me. Turgenev, on the other hand, seemed impelled to pour out observations about everybody.

When Turgenev made Tolstoy's acquaintance, he said of him: "There is not a word, not a movement, which is     natural in him.  He is constantly posing, and I am at a     loss to understand in so intelligent a man this foolish     pride in his wretched title of Count!"

"I did not notice it in Tolstoy," said Panayev.

"But there are many things you don't notice," said Turgenev.

After a time, Turgenev came to the conclusion that Tolstoy had the ambition to be considered a Don Juan. Count Tolstoy one day related to us certain interesting episodes which had happened to him during the war. When he went away, Turgenev said: "You may boil a Russian     officer for three days in strong suds and you won't     succeed in getting rid of the braggadocio of a Junker;      you may cover him with a thick veneer of education, still     his brutality will shine through."

And Turgenev began to criticize every sentence of    Tolstoy's the tone of his voice, the expression of his face, and finally said: "And only to think that at the     bottom of all this brutality lies merely the desire to     get promoted."

"Look here, Turgenev," remarked Panayev, "if I did    not know you so well, I should think, when I listen to     your abuse of Tolstoy, that you are jealous of him."

"On what grounds can I be jealous of him? Of what,     tell me!" cried Turgenev.

"Oh, no doubt, you have no reason; your talent is    equal to his...But people may think..."

Turgenev laughed, and with a kind of pity in his voice remarked: "Panayev, you are a good observer when     it concerns coxcombs, but I don't advise you to go beyond     the proper sphere of your observations."

Panayev was hurt.

"It's for your own good that I said that," he added, and went out of the room.

Turgenev was very much excited and repeated with vexation: "Only Panayev's head could entertain such     nonsense -- that I am jealous of Tolstoy!  Is it his     title that I am jealous of?"

Nekrasov spoke very little all this time, suffering as he was from a sore throat. He merely said to    Turgenev:  "Do leave it alone, whatever Panayev may have     said; as if indeed any one would suspect you of such an     absurdity."

Turgenev, with his honest, truthful nature, had many times publicly declared his great admiration of Tolstoy's talent, and more than that, he once said to a French publisher, using the expression of John the Baptist in relation to Jesus Christ: "I am unworthy to untie his shoe." Their relations nevertheless were never cordial. Only on his death-bed, in his last letter to Tolstoy, while with touching tenderness imploring him to return to literary activity, he gave him the name with which no Russian author had been hitherto honored, the name of "the great writer of the Russian land." And this glorious name will follow him into eternity. To give the reader an idea of the relations between Tolstoy and Turgenev at the early period of their acquaintance, we will interrupt the chronological order of our work and quote several setters of Turgenev to Tolstoy, written in the same year.

Paris, November 16, 1856. My dear Tolstoy -- Your letter of October 15th was crawling toward me for a whole month. I received it only yesterday. I have thought it well over what you write to    me, and I believe you are mistaken. It is a fact that I    cannot be quite straightforward with you, because I     cannot be quite frank with you. It seems to me that we    became acquainted in an awkward way, and at an evil moment, but, when we meet again, all will be much easier and smoother. I feel I love you as a man (as to my love    for the author--needless to mention it); yet many things in you jar upon me, and in the end I have found out that it is better for me to keep aloof from you. At our next meeting let us try again to go hand in hand -- perhaps it    will come off better. But at a distance, however strange it sounds, my heart is disposed to you as to a brother, and I feel a tenderness for you. In a word, I love you - - there is no doubt about it; let us hope that in time something good will come of it.

I have heard of your illness and I was grieved, and now I beg you to dismiss the thought of it from your mind. You are imagining things yourself and probably think of consumption, but I can assure you, you have not got it.

I am very sorry for your sister; she is one who ought to enjoy good health; I mean, if there is anybody who deserves to be quite well, it is she; instead, she is    a constant sufferer. Let us hope the Moscow treatment may help her. Why don't you recall your brother? Why should he stay in the Caucasus? Does he intend to become a great warrior? My uncle informed me that you have all of you gone off to Moscow, and I therefore forward this letter to Botkin, Moscow.

French conversation is as distasteful to me as it is    to you, and never did Paris appear to me so flatly prosaic. Contentment does not suit it; I saw this city in other days, and then I liked it better. I am kept here by an old indissoluble tie with a particular family, and by my daughter, of whom I am very fond; she is a    good, intelligent girl. Were it not for this, I would have long ago joined Nekrasov in Rome. I have received from him two letters -- he is a little bored in Rome, and no wonder -- all that is great in rome only he surrounds him; he does not share in it. And one cannot exist for long on a diet of sympathy and admiration when those feelings occur involuntarily only ar rare intervals. Yet he is better off there than in St. Petersburg, and his health is improving. For the present, Fed is staying in    Rome with him. He had written a few graceful verses, and a detailed account of his travels containing much that is    childish, but also many clever, sensible sayings -- and a kind of touching simplicity and sincerity if    impression. He is, in fact, a darling, as you call him. Now as to Chenishevskiy's articles. I don't like their arrogant, dry tone, the expression of a harsh nature. But I rejoice at their being printed, rejoice over the reminiscences of B., and the quotations from his articles; I rejoice that at last his name is uttered with respect. However, you cannot sympathize with me in this joy. Annenkov assures me that I derive these impressions from living aborad; that with them this is already a    thing of the past, they now want something else. Perhaps he is a better judge, as he is on the spot; still I am    pleased.

You have finished the first part of "Youth" -- that is glorious. What a pity I cannot hear you read it! If    you don't turn aside from your path (and there is no     reason why you should), you will go far ahead. I wish you health, activity, and freedom -- spiritual freedom.

As to my "Faust", I don't suppose you will like it    very much. My writings might have pleased you and perhaps influenced you in some way, but only up to the time when you became quite independent. There s no need for you to study me now, you will only see my difference of manner, my faults and omissions. It remains for you to study man, your own heart, and the really great authors. I am a writer of a transition period, and am of    use only to men who are in a transitory state. Well, good-by and be well. Write to me. My present address: Rue de Rivoli, No. 206.

Thanks to your sister for the two added words; remember me to her and her husband. I am grateful to    Varenko for remembering me.

I intended to tell you something of the authors here, but keep this for the next letter. I shake your hand warmly. I do not stamp my letter, do the same with yours."

December 8, 1856, he wrote to Tolstoy:

Dear Tolstoy -- Yesterday my good fairy took me past the post office, and it occurred to me to inquire about letters at the post-restante for me, though by this time all my friends ought to know of my Parisian address. There I found your letter, in which you speak of my    "Faust"; you can easily imagine what a pleasant reading I had. Your sympathy caused me great and sincere delight. And besides, the whole of your letter breathed gentleness and frankness and a kind of friendly serenity. It remains for me to hold out my hand across the "ravine" which long ago turned into a hardly perceptible chink; we    won't mention it, it is not worth it.

I dare not speak to you on a subject which you mention; these are delicate things. They are killed with a word before they are ripe, but when they are ripe a    hammer cannot break them. God grant everything may come off successfully and well. It may bring you that spiritual equilibrium you needed so much when I first knew you. I see you are very friendly with Druzhinin and under his influence. this is well, only mind not to    feast on him too much. When I was your age I was more influenced by enthusiastic natures, but you are a    different man from me; moreover, perhaps, the times are now different. I am eagerly looking forward to get the "Reading Library." I am anxious to read the article on    Belinsky, although I don't expect to derive much pleasure from it. As to "The Contemporary" being in bad hands, that is beyond doubt. At first Panayev used to write very often and assure me he would not act "heedlessly," underlining this word, but he is subdued now and keeps silent like a child who has misbehaved at mealtime. I    have written to Nekrasov with full details about it, and this will very likely induce him to leave Rome and return earlier than he intended. Please let me know in what number of "The Contemporary" your "Youth" will appear, and, by the way, give me your final impression of "Lear," which you have probably read if only for the sake of    Druzhinin."

We do not possess exact information as to Tolstoy's opinion of "King Lear" in Druzhinin's translation, but from the letter of Botkin to Druzhinin quoted below, one can see that Tolstoy liked Druzhinin's translation. Here is the letter:

What a success your "Lear" proves. To me it was certain; still, how the pleasure increases when the inner conviction becomes a reality. There it is, the well- known antipathy of Tolstoy to shakespeare which Turgenev so much fought against! I must do myself the justice to    state that I was convinced that at the first opportunity this antipathy would disappear; but I am glad that your excellent translation brought that opportunity.

It seems the joy of Botkin was premature, for Tolstoy persisted in his dislike of Shakespeare, but on this we shall have occasion to remark in one of the following chapters.

On the 5th of December 1856, Turgenev wrote to Druzhinin from Paris:

By the way, I am told you are very intimate with Tolstoy, and he is now so nice and open. I am very glad. When this new wine has been through the fermenting process it    will turn out a beverage worthy of the gods. What about his "Youth," which was submitted to your judgment. I    wrote to him twice, the second time c/o Vasenka.

"Youth" really was forwarded to Druzhinin to be criticized by him; he read it and wrote the following interesting letter in answer:

Twenty sheets should be written about "Youth." I    read it with wrath, shouting and swearing; not on account of its want of literary worth, but owing to the copy and the handwriting. This mixing together of two different handwritings distracted my attention and prevented an    intelligence perusal; it was just as if two voices were shouting in my ear and purposely confusing me, and I know that the impression was not as complete as it should have been. However, I will say to you what I can. Your task was awful, but you have accomplished it well. None of    the present-day writers could have grasped the unintelligible, fleeting period of youth and depicted it    in such a manner. Cultured people will derive great enjoyment from your "Youth"; if anybody tells you that this work in inferior to "Childhood" and "Boyhood", you may spit in his face. There are depths of poetry in your work; all the first chapters are excellent, only, until the description of spring and the removal of double windows, the introduction is rather dry. After that the arrival at the village is fine, just before that the description of the Nekhludov family, the father's    explanation of his reasons for marrying, the chapters "New Comrades" and "I am falling through." Many chapters breathe the poetry of ancient Moscow, which nobody had observed in the proper way. Baron Z.'s coachman is    admirable (I speak as one who understands). Some chapters are prosy and dry, as, for instance, all about the stipulations to Varenka, and the chapter on family understanding. The feast at Yar's is also rather long, as well as the Count's visit with Ilinka, which comes before it. The recruiting of Semenov will not pass the censor. You must not be afraid of arguing; it's all clever and original. You are apt to analyze to minutely, which might become a great defect. Sometimes you are ready to say, "Such and such a fellow's thigh indicated    that he desired to travel in India." You must curb this inclination, but on no account should it be suppressed. All your analytical work should be conducted in this way. Every one of your defects has elements of force and beauty; nearly all your merits contain grains of defect.

Your style is in harmony with your matter. You are illiterate in a marked degree. Sometimes your illiteracy is that of neologist or a great poet who is perpetually reconstructing a language in his own manner, or that of    an officer who sits in his tent and writes to a friend. It may be said for certain that all the pages written by    you in a kindly mood are excellent, but as soon as you grow cold, your style gets confused and diabolical forms of speech bubble up. Therefore passages written unsympathetically should be looked through and corrected. I tried to make corrections at times, but I gave up the idea; you alone can do this task and you should do it. It is of importance that you should avoid long sentences. Chop them into two or three...don't be afraid to use full-stops...use with scant ceremony words like that, which, and this; they should be struck out by tens. If    you are in a difficulty, take a sentence and imagine that you want to communicate it to somebody in a fluent familiar way.

It is time to close, but there are still a good many things to be said. The bulk of the less educated readers will like "Youth" less than "Childhood" and "Boyhood." The small size of these two works and some episodes, such as the tale of Karl Ivanovich are in their favor. The dullest man cherishes a few childish memories and rejoices when their poetry is made clear to him, but the period of youth (of that confused and disconnected youth    which is full of hard knocks and humiliation which you     unveil for us) is usually buried in the soul, and hence it loses its vividness and becomes obliterated.

It would mean much labor to make your work reach the understanding of the masses, by inserting two or three amusing incidents, etc., but hardly anybody could make it    suit the taste of the majority.

The plot and the framework of your "Youth" will provide a feast for thinking people who understand poetry.

Let me know if I should forward the MS. to you or    hand it over to Panayev. You have not made a large stride in a new direction with this work, but you have shown what there is in you and what can be effected by    you.

The fact that Druzhinin could have written to tolstoy in such a manner shows that they really were on familiar terms, and that Druzhinin could influence him. Tolstoy's stay in St. Petersburg -- from November until May -- was interrupted by a short visit to Orel on business connected with family affairs. February 2nd Tolstoy received the news of his brother Dmitriy's death; he drew a vivid picture of the latter's personality in his Reminiscences, quoted by us in the chapter on "Youth". Here we quote the second part of those Reminiscences, referring to his brother's subsequent life, illness and death:

When we made a partition of our property the estate Yasnaya Polyana, on which we lived, fell to my lot. Seryozha was a lover of horses, and as there was a stud at Pirogovo, he received that estate, which was what he    desired. To Mitenka and Nikolenka were given the other two estates -- to Nikolenka, Nikoleskoye; to Mitenka, the Kursk of Shcherbachovka, which came to us from Perovskaya. I have kept a statement from Mitenka explaining what were his views as to the possession of    serfs. The idea that this sort of thing ought not to be, but that serfs should be set free, was quite unknown in    our circle in the forties; the possession of serfs by     inheritance appeared a necessary condition of life, and it was thought that the only thing that could be done to    prevent this possession from being an evil was that the landowner should concern himself with the moral welfare of the peasants as well as their material condition. From this point of view, Mitenka explained his project very seriously, naively, and sincerely. He, a lad of    twenty when he left the university, took upon himself the duties -- thinking that he could not do otherwise -- of    directing the morality of hundreds of peasant families, and thought to do this by threats of punishments and punishments, as is recommended by Gogol in his letters to    a landowner. I think I remember that Mitenka had these letters, which had been pointed out to him by the prudent priest -- thus did Mitenka commence his landlord's    duties. But besides these duties toward the serfs, there was at that time another duty which it was deemed impossible to neglect -- that was military or civil service, and Mitenka, having finished with the university, decided to enter the civil service. In order to decide which branch to select, he purchased an    almanac, and having examined all the branches of civil service, he came to the conclusion that the most important one was legislation, whereupon he went to St.    Petersburg and there applied to the officials at the head of that department. I can imagine Tanayev's astonishment when, on giving his reception, he stopped in front of a    high, round-shouldered, badly dressed man among the supplicants (Mitenka always dressed merely for the    purpose of covering his body), a man with quiet, fine eyes; and on inquiring what he wanted, received for an    answer that he was a Russian nobleman who had gone through the university, and being desirous of being useful to his country, had chosen legislation as his province.

"Your name?"

"Count Tolstoy."

"You have not yet served anywhere?"

"I have only just finished my university course, and    my desire is merely to be useful."

"Then what post do you desire to have?"

"It is all the same; any one in which I can be    useful."

His gravity and sincerity so struck Tanayev that he    drove Mitenka to the department of legislation and there handed him over to an official.

Probably the official's attitude toward him, and above all toward the work, repelled Mitenka, for he did not enter that department. He had no acquaintance in St.    Petersburg except the student Obolenskiy, whom he had known at Kazan. Mitenka called on him at his summer residence. Obolenskiy told me about it laughing.

Obolenskiy was a very worldly, ambitious man, but gifted with tact. He related how on that occasion he had guests (probably of the aristocracy, with whom Obolenskiy    associated), and Mitenka came to him through the garden in a nankeen coat. "At first I did not recognize him,    but, when I did, I tried to put him at his ease.  I     introduced him to my guests and asked him to take his     coat off, but it turned out that there was nothing under     the coat; he did not think anything necessary." He sat down, and immediately, without being disconcerted by the presence of the guests, he turned to Obolenskiy with the same question he had put to Tanayev: Where was it best to serve in order to be useful?

To Obolenskiy, with his views on service as merely a means of satisfying ambition, such a question had probably never occurred. But with the tact which he    possessed and with external good nature he answered, mentioning various posts, and offered his assistance. Mitenka was evidently dissatisfied both with Obolenskiy and Tanayev, and he left St. Petersburg without entering the civil service. He went to his country place, and at    Soudja, I think it was, he accepted some local post and busied himself with rural work, especially among the peasants.

After we had both left the university, I lost sight of him. I know that he lived the same severe, abstemious life, knowing neither wine, tobacco, nor, above all, women, up to twenty-six years of age, which was very rare at that time. I know that he associated with monks and pilgrims, and he became very intimate with an extremely singular man -- our guardian -- who lived at Voyekov's    place, a man whose origin no one knew. This man was called Father Luke. He walked about in a cassock, was very ugly, small of stature, one-eyed, but clean in his person and exceptionally strong. When he shook hands, he    gripped your hand as if with pincers, and he always spoke very solemnly and mysteriously. He lived at Voyekov's,    near the mill, where he had built himself a little house, and cultivated a remarkable flower garden. It is this Father Luke whom Mitenka used to take about with him. I    heard also that he associated with an old-fashioned old man, a miserly neighboring landowner, one Samoyloy.

I think I was already in the Caucasus when an    extraordinary alteration took place in Mitenka. He    suddenly took to drinking, smoking, wasting money, and going with women. How this came to pass with him, I do    not know;  I did not see him at the time. I only know that his seducer was a deeply immoral man, very attractive externally, the youngest son of Islenyev. I    will tell about him later. In this life, Mitenka remained the same serious, religious man he was in    everything. A prostitute named Masha, who was the first woman he knew, he ransomed from her abode and took into his house. But this life did not last for long. I    believe it was not so much the vicious and unhealthy life which he led for some months in Moscow as the internal struggle and the qualms of conscience which suddenly destroyed his powerful organization. He contracted consumption, went to the country, was treated in towns, and took to his bed at Orel, where I saw him for the last time, immediately after the Crimean War. He was in a    dreadful state:  the enormous palm of his hand appeared visibly attached to the two bones of the lower arm, his face was all eyes, and they were the same beautiful, serious eyes, with a penetrating expression of inquiry in    them. He was constantly coughing and spitting, but he    was loath to die, did not wish to believe he was dying. Poor pox-marked Masha, whom he had rescued, wearing a    kerchief round her head, was with him and nursed him. In    my presence, at his own wish, a miraculous icon was brought. I remember the expression of his face when he    prayed to it.

At that time I was particularly odious. I had arrived at Orel from St. Petersburg, in which city I was moving in society, and I was full of vanity. I was sorry for Mitenka, but not much. I just looked about me in    Orel and went away again; he died a few days later.

I really think that what troubled me most in his death was that it prevented me from taking part in some private theatricals which were then being organized at    court and to which I had been invited.

Peace was concluded on March 12 [1856], and this circumstance made it easier for Tolstoy to get his leave. During the winter he finished "Lost on the Steppe; or, The Snowstorm"; "Two Hussars"; "an Old Acquaintance"; and "A Russian Landowner". Tolstoy had to distribute his works among three periodicals; thus the first two novels appeared in "The Contemporary", the third in the "Reading Library", and the fourth in "Memoirs of the Fatherland." Among other things, Tolstoy wrote to his Aunt Tatayana at this period:

I have finished my "Hussars" (a novel), and have not taken up anything else; besides, Turgenev, whom I have begun to live (I realize it now), notwithstanding that we    always quarrelled, is gone. Hence, I feel terribly lonely.

This letter shows that Tolstoy's relation to Turgenev varied from time to time. St. Petersburg life was evidently not to Tolstoy's liking. Soon after his arrival, he did his best to get away and prepared to go abroad. In the letter to his brother of March 25, 1856, he says incidentally:

I shall start for abroad in eight months; if I can get leave I shall go. I have already written about this to Nikolenka and asked him to come with me. If we were all three to arrange to go together, that would be    excellent. If we each take 1,000 rubles, we could do the trip very well. Please write. How did you like "The    Snowstorm"? I am dissatisfied with it, seriously, and now there is much I should like to write, but there is    really no time in this accursed St. Petersburg. At all events, whether I am allowed or not to go abroad in    April, I intend to take leave of absence and stay in the country.

On the 12th of May [1856], while yet in St. Petersburg, he put down in his diary:

A powerful means to secure true happiness in life is    -- without any rules -- to spin in all directions, like a spider, a whole web of love and catch in it all that one can -- old women, children, women, and constables.

It may be supposed that "The Contemporary's" business, as well as literary affairs, gave little satisfaction to its chief supporters; this was perhaps due to the individual diversity of convictions, views, habits, education, and surroundings of the contributors, as this always hinders any common work devised by educated people. In every circle composed of "intellectuals", division into groups very soon takes place: a tolerant attitude is very soon replaced by indifference; after that rivalry asserts itself, culminating in open enmity. That was the case with "The Contemporary." As far back as the beginning of 1856, the idea struck some of the contributors of separating and founding a new magazine. Druzhinin's letter to Tolstoy bears testimony to this. In it he says, among other things:

Availing myself of some surplus energy, I hasten to    have a talk with you concerning a matter which occupied us at our last meeting and which is now being favorably considered by many of our comrades in St. Petersburg. The want of a journal which should be purely literary and critical, and counteract all the frenzies and indecencies of the present time, is felt in a marked degree. Goncharov, Yermin, Turgenev, Annenkov, Maikov, Mikhaylov, Avdeyev, and many others back up this idea with their hearty approval. If you, Ostrovskiy, Turgenev, and perhaps our half-insane Grigorovich (though we could get    along without him), would join this group, it may be     taken for granted that the whole of the belles-lettres will be concentrated in one journal. What this organ shall be, whether a new journal, or a reading library on    premises hired by the company, as to all this, you might devise some scheme and let us know what it is. Here the majority is bent on taking a lease on moderate terms, and the publisher consents. For my part, I have nothing to    say either for or against, but offer my services to a     purely literary journal, on whatever principles it got up.

As to the department of science, the following professors could be regarded as willing contributors: Gorlov, Oostryalov, Blagoveshchenskiy, Berezin, Zernin, as well as those who contribute now -- I am naming the most talented -- Lavrov, Lkhovskiy, Kenevich, Vodovozov, Dumilin. Although Turgenev is a hopeless worker, he will be a valuable man, considering his activity, as well as    his position in literature. However, the details have to    be left in the background now; we must agree as to the whole and decide the main points.

Judging by the interest you have manifested in this matter, I count on your support. By the way, I have a    request to make of you, as I am still following my old occupation, and starting a new journal might take up a    good deal of time, I beg your permission to have you in     the meantime included in the number of contributors to     the "Reading Library". Do not dispose of all your articles, but leave some work for me toward the autumn, making your own choice and stipulating for your own condition. I won't worry you about this, being aware that without my entreaties you will do everything for me    that you can.

Write me a few lines about all this and about your life in general, your anticipations, and Marie's Health; give her my best and sincere regards. Also let me know your address. We must keep up correspondence about the new journal; I am afraid that our forces will get scattered, we have only enough for one edition. It is    immaterial what was the idea of the undertaking, as long as we all unite in working at it. So, in summer, as you often go to see Turgenev, try to influence him and direct this delightful but unreliable...toward our common goal. Judging by what he has said to me a hundred time, the idea of such a journal should please him; but how can one rely on anything he says? Let him consider to what a low stage our journals have been reduced by the splitting of    forces;  "Russkiy Vestnik" alone has kept its ground well, but it has a jaded appearance now owing to the falling off of "Ateney"; "Ateney", however, is very dull. There is nothing to say about St. Petersburg.

On May 17th [1856], Tolstoy set off for Moscow. May 26th [1856] he spent in the house of Dr. Bers, married to a friend of Tolstoy's childhood, Mademoiselle Islenev; there were then living at Pokrovskoye, not far from Moscow. In tolstoy's diary there are a few words about this visit.

"the children were all there. What jolly, charming     little girls!"

One of them, the youngest, became Tolstoy's wife six years later. After that he proceeded on his journey, and on May 28th [1856] arrived at Yasnaya Polyana. Next day he wrote a letter to his brother Sergey, in which, among other things, he remarked:

In Moscow I passed ten days...exceedingly pleasantly, without champagne and gypsies but a little in    love -- with whom I will tell you later.

On his arrival at Yasnaya, he naturally goes to greet his neighbors, his sister Marie, Turgenev, and others. From the two following letters to his brother, we see that at the end of the summer he was seriously ill. Thus, at the beginning of September 1856 he writes:

Only now, at nine o'clock in the evening, Monday, can I give you a good answer; before this I kept getting worse and worse. Two doctors have been called, forty leeches have been applied, but it is only a little while ago that I fell asleep, and I have awakened feeling considerably better. Still, for five or six days I    cannot think of going. So, au revoir. Please let me    know when you start, and whether there really are great arrears in the farming work of your estate, and do not devastate the sporting places too much without me; the dogs I may perhaps send tomorrow.

In his letter of September 15th [1856] he says:

My dear friend Seryozha: My health has improved and it has not. The pains and the inflammation have passed, but there remains some kind of oppression in the chest. I feel shooting sensations and toward the evening pains. Perhaps it will pass off gradually of itself, but I shall not soon make up my mind to go to Kursk, and if not soon, then it is no good going at all. If I am not better in    a fortnight or so, I would rather go to Moscow.

Soon after he again removed to St. Petersburg, whence he wrote to his brother the 10th of November 1856:

Excuse me, dear friend Seryozha, for writing only two words. I have no time. Since my departure, illness pursues me. Of those I love not one is here. In the "Otechestvenniya Zapiski" they say Ii have been abused for the "Military Stories". I have not yet read it, but Konstantinov made a point of informing me the moment I    arrived that the Grand Duke Mikhail [brother of the Emperor Nicholas I], having learned that I was reported to have composed a song, is displeased, especially for my    having, as it was said, taught it to the soldiers. that is too bad. I have had an explanation upon the subject with the Chief of Staff. There is only one thing as it    should be -- my health is all right, and Shipulinskiy says my lungs are in perfect order.

On November 26, 1856, Tolstoy retired from Military service. We may mention a good act done by him at the close of his service. The commander of the battery where Tolstoy served, Captain Lieutenant Korenitskiy, was to be tried by courtmartial after the war, but thanks to Tolstoy's influence and exertions he was spared. With the retirement of Tolstoy from service begins a new period of his life, full of social and literary interests, with strivings after personal happiness. Notwithstanding his uncompromising views and his rejection of literary authorities, Tolstoy was a welcome guest and a valued member of the literary circle of "The Contemporary." But Tolstoy himself was far from pleased with that circle. It could not be otherwise. One need only read the reminiscences of authors belonging to that period, for example, Herzen, Panayev, Fet, and others, men of different schools, to come to very sad conclusions as to the moral weakness of those men, though they pretended to be leaders of humanity. When we think of the dinner parties of Nekrasov, the carousals of Herzen, Ketcher and Ogarel, Turgenev's love for the culinary art, all those friendly parties, incomplete without a great deal of champagne, hunting, card- playing, etc. -- we are pained to think of the idleness, the mental blindness of these men, who could not see the evil of their revels, with all the love for democracy and progress which they mixed up with them. In the midst of this shamelessness, which is perhaps still going on in some shape or other even at the present day, only one voice of accusation and self-correction resounded -- the voice of a man whose soul could not endure that self-deception. That voice was Tolstoy's. In his "Confession" he gives the following picture of the manners of the literary people, i.e., of society, at the end of the fifties and beginning of the sixties:

Before I had time to look around, the prejudices and views of life common to the writers of the class with which I associated became my own and completely put an    end to all my former struggles for a better life. These views, under the influence of the dissipation into which I plunged, issued in a theory of life which justified it. The view taken by my fellow-writers was that life is a    development, and the principal part in that development is played by ourselves, the thinkers, while among the thinkers the chief influence is again due to ourselves, the poets. Our vocation is to teach mankind.

In order to avoid answering the very natural question "What do I know and what can I teach?" the theory in question is made to contain this formula, that the answer is not required, but that the thinker and the poet teach unconsciously. I was myself considered a    marvelous litterateur and poet, and I therefore very naturally adopted this theory. Meanwhile, thinker and poet though I was, I wrote and taught I knew not what. For doing this, I received large sums of money; I kept a    splendid table, had an excellent lodging, associated with loose women, and received my friends handsomely; moreover, I had fame. It would seem, then, that what I    taught must have been good, the faith in poetry and the development of life was a true faith, and I was one of    its high priests, a post of great importance and profit. I long remained in this belief, and for a year never once doubted its truth.

In the second year, however, and especially in the third of this way of life, I began to doubt the absolute truth of the doctrine and to examine it more closely. The first suspicious fact which attracted my attention was that the apostles of this belief did not agree among themselves. Some proclaimed that they were the only good and useful teachers and all the others worthless; while those opposed to them said the same of themselves. they disputed, quarrelled, abused, deceived, and cheated one another.

Moreover, there were many among us who, quite indifferent to right or wrong, only cared for their own private interests. All this forced on me doubts as to    the truth of our belief. Again, when I doubted this faith in the influence of literary men, I began to    examine more closely into the character and conduct of     its chief professors, and I convinced myself that they were men who led immoral lives and were most of the worthless and insignificant individuals and far beneath the moral level of those with whom I had associated during my former dissipated and military career; these men, however, had none the less an amount of self- confidence only to be expected in those who are conscious of being saints, or for whom holiness is an empty name.

I grew disgusted with mankind and with myself and discovered that the belief which I had accepted was a    delusion. The strangest thing of all was that though I    soon saw the falseness of the belief and renounced it, I     did not renounce the position I had gained by it; I still called myself a thinker, a poet, and a teacher. I was simple enough to imagine that I, the poet and thinker, was able to teach other men without knowing myself what it was I attempted to teach. I had only gained a new vice by my companionship; it had developed pride in me to    a morbid extreme, and the self-confidence with which I     taught what I did not know amounted almost to insanity.

However, while living in the same circle with these men, Tolstoy had taken part in all their affairs and was one of the most active members in their common enterprises. Thus, one of the most important schemes of the Society of Assistance to Authors and Scholars, the so-called "Literary Fund," is in many respects indebted to him for its foundation. Druzhinin is generally considered the founder of the society. But in Tolstoy's diary there is the following note:

January 2, 1857. I wrote a project of the fund at    Druzhinin's.

The name of Tolstoy must therefore be added to the list of the founders of the "Literary Fund." To this period belong his more thorough study and admiration of Pushkin's works. According to Tolstoy, he seriously appreciated Pushkin after having read Merimee's French translation of his "Gypsies". The reading of this work, thus expounded in prose form, gave Tolstoy a very strong impression of the greatness of Pushkin's poetical genius. In Tolstoy's diary for January 4, 1857, there is the following remark:

I dined at botkin's house alone with Panayev; he    read Pushkin to me. I went into Botkin's study and there wrote a letter to Turgenev; then I sat down on a couch and wept with joyful tears. I am of late decidedly happy, rejoicing in the advance of my moral development.

The advance of moral development to which he refers did not allow Tolstoy to find satisfaction in that society and in its work, and he eagerly looked for another outlet. As a restless spirit usually manifests its uneasiness in action, so Tolstoy showed restless activity, and one way in which his impatience found vent was foreign travel, apparently without a fixed plan. This is what he says about the matter in his "Confession", judging himself and those surrounding him with his characteristic plainness of speech:

I had lived in this senseless manner another six years, up to the time of my marriage. During this time I was abroad. My life in Europe and my acquaintance with many eminent and learned foreigners, confirmed my belief in the doctrine of general perfectibility, and I found the same theory prevailed among them. This belief took the form which is common among most of the cultivated men of the day. It may be summed up in the word "progress." I believed at that time that this word had a real meaning. I did not understand that, when on being tormented like other men by the question how I was to    better my life, I answered that I must live for progress, I was only repeating the reply of one who is carried away in a boat by the waves and the wind, and who, to the one important question "Where are we to steer?" should answer, "We are being carried somewhere or the other."

But, before going abroad, Tolstoy gave up a great deal of time to the search for personal and family happiness.