TOLSTOI'S " WAR AND PEACE."*
IT is not easy to give a name to such a work as Count Tolstors War and Peace. It is something more than a novel, in that it deals largely with the history of actual events ; and, on the other hand, it is a work of far greater pretensions than the ordinary historical romance. In it we are given a moving panorama of Russian life between 1805 and 1815, a panorama of the history of the most critical period that Russia has passed through, in the foreground of which the author has skilfully introduced the fictitious personages who take part in the defeats, the calamities, and the sufferings of the nation. So admirable is the painting, both of the background and foreground, so well blended is reality with fiction, that it is hard to believe that the imaginary persons are any less real than the historical ones,—that Prince Andrew Bolkonsky was not in real truth the aide-de-camp of Koutonsow, or that Anna Sch4rer's salon and its habitues were never in actual existence. The dramatis personas are innumerable, and yet there is not one that does not stand out distinct from the rest, not one whose special character and individuality is not clearly portrayed. The scene is constantly being shifted, passing from the Court and salons of St. Petersburg to the quiet life of the country-house, or the bivouac round the camp-fires ; and every scene is painted with equal truth and fidelity, so that it would be hard to say in which the author feels himself most at home. The salon of the Court official, gay with beautiful women and splendid uniforms, with its tainted air of incessant intrigue, its sham French courtesy and hollow pretence : the lonely country estate where the unhappy Maria Bolkonsky eats out her heart in vain, unfulfilled longings : the open house kept by the improvident Count Rostow, who, if he only has roubles for to-day, lets the morrow provide for itself : the unnatural calm of the camp on the eve of some great battle, the indecision and futile councils of the leaders, the apathy of the soldiers themselves,—all these varied scenes are drawn with a fidelity that is almost merciless in its severity. Long as the work necessarily is, one's interest never flags, and although such epics are proverbially wearisome in parts, with this author the task of following him becomes a pleasure. That is almost the highest praise that can be accorded to any book but such a book as this is rarely met with, and deserves the highest praise that can be given.
Were it necessary to label Count Tolstoi as an author, we should have to call him a realist. But he is not realistic with the repulsive realism of the modern French school, which seems to consist largely in dragging forward and exposing to the light that shameful side of human nature which it should rather be our interest and duty to conceal. Setting aside what is un-
• Wm- tad Peace. From the Itnadan of Count Lyof ToRtoi. 3 yob. London: Vlaetelly and Co.
speakably base, he is content to aim at making his characters speak and act in the way that men naturally speak and act, and to show us by what thought and reasoning, by what causes in themselves or of circumstances, men are led an to act and speak. There is no sprightly and unnatural dialogue, no impossible plot to enchain one's interest ; it ie simply a story of real life, the truth and reality of which prove more attractive than all the wonders of fiction. It is in depicting human nature that his chief strength lies, and it is this power that should render his works invaluable to foreigners, for no other author has suc- ceeded in so clearly expressing and explaining the character and spirit of the Russian nation. It is needless to compare him here with his two great compatriots, Targenieff and Dos- toieffsky, both now dead. They, too, were realists in the fullest sense of the word, and in these Russia could boast of possess- ing two of the moat powerful writers of the day. But this at least can be said in Tolatoi's favour, that he takes a far more dis- passionate view of Russian society, that he writes with less class-feeling, and that his descriptions are in consequence more just and of greater value to a foreign reader. Of all European nations Russia is the least known and understood by the others, and that not so much on account of the vast extent of its territory and the immense number of its inhabitants, as because the real character of the people themselves is not European at all. If the Turks can still be considered as a European nation, we might say that the Russian national character is far more akin to theirs than to any of the others. Even in the highest classes, when one has got below that artificial polish which inter- course with "Occidentals" has lent them, one finds evident traces of their Orientalism. The hackneyed saying, Grattez is Rime, et sous trouuerez is Tatare, is as tree to-day as when Napoleon first uttered it ; but there are few people who know what kind of man to expect in the Tartar that they find, and a study of Count Tolatoi's works will do much to help them to this know- ledge. There is no exaggeration, nothing that may be set down to malice. A pleasant, kindly tolerance pervades his book, and so affects the reader that he too finds himself sympathising with the great powers for good that lie below a rough exterior, and pitying rather than blaming the ignorance that sometimes plunges the rode peasantry into such brutal excesses. A childish simplicity, a childish faith in any leader, a religious faith that lands them in the grossest superstitions,—such are their leading characteristics. Easily led, easily impressed, they are capable of an unassuming bravery in battle, of a stubborn endurance of suffering, and of a fanaticism which stirs them equally to the moat heroic self-sacrifice and the most brutal cruelty. Yet outwardly they show little but that careless insouciance, that want of calculation, that eagerness to enjoy any pleasure that is within reach, regardless of the consequences, that are so characteristic of half-civilised people.
The national spirit is elaborately illustrated by the two chief characters of the book,—Peter, Count Bdeonkhow, and Natasha Rostow. At first sight, Peter is hardly an attractive person,— awkward and ungainly, at ones dictatorial and easily imposed on. We meet him first in Anna Scherer's salon, where he shows a deplorable want of tact. He is always blundering. He falls into bad company, and almost loses his inheritance. He allows himself to be cajoled into marrying a wife whom he does not love, and who promptly proves unfaithful to so uncouth a husband. He takes to religion, to freemasonry, philanthropy, mysticism, and drink. He starts with the intention of rising above the level of his fellows, and often tumbles ignominiously below it. The picture of him at Borodino is wholly ridiculous, with his stout, ungainly figure, wildly clutching his horse's mane, peering through his spectacles, riding furiously he knows not whither or why, getting in the way of danger, and apolo- gising for it with his soft, deprecating smile. But this is not the true Peter Birilowitch ; and how skilfully the author reveals to us his real character, his honesty, his kindliness, his utter unselfishness, the unpretending courage, the modesty, the great passionate heart of the man ! With all these great qualities, of which we get a glimpse here and there, he remains long simply a creature of impulse, seeking an outlet for his feelings in the most incongruous paths. Deceived by his wife, he gal- lantly challenges and shoots down the bully Dologhow, driving Helen from his house. Then, the fit of passion over, he receives her back again without any conviction of her re- pentance, merely because he is too weak to resist any im- portunity. He is ready to find consolation anywhere, from the " Men of God " who trade in the religions yearnings, and subsist on the bounty of poor Maria Bolkonsky ; among the Freemasons, whom he knows to be hypocrites; in society of any kind, despising all the time his leaders, him- self, and his followers. After Borodino and the desertion of Moscow, he braces himself np to an act of self-sacrifice which will save his country and make him the hero of the day. He will kill Napoleon. With this purpose he remains in Moscow, and then abandons his purpose after a friendly conversation with the first French officer he meets. Why he abandons it he does not know ; why he undertook it at all be hardly knows, save for the absurd reason that, considered cabalistically, his name and that of Napoleon both make up "the number of the beast." He becomes a French prisoner, and accompanies the French army in the retreat from Moscow. It is then that the work of regeneration, that he sought so vainly elsewhere, is begun in him. At the same time that his unwieldy frame is wasted, hardened, and strengthened by the privations and hardships of his life, his whole moral being is equally purified and refined ; the miseries of his country and of his companions make him forget his own griefs ; both mind and body are purged of the grossness brought about by his former life of luxury. In that supreme moment at Moscow, when he stands by the execution-stake awaiting his turn to be shot, he sees clearly the insignificance of his former sufferings, the futility of his earlier endeavours; and when, his agony past, he returns reprieved to prison, he finds that be is embarked upon a new life of spiritual freedom. Here be finds a guide in one of his fellow-prisoners—Plato Karateiew—and adopts from him that simple peasant philosophy which in another work Tolstoi has summed up in the words,—" Vivre pour son lime et non pour son ventre,—vivre salon Dieu, salon la verit6." Peter finds more than peace and self-satisfaction ; he marries Natacha Rostow, and the chivalrous devotion that he showed her in the time of her trouble does not go unrewarded. Like Peter, Natacha too is a type of the Slav nature, and she also passes through her time of trial and suffering. In none of his works has Count Tolstoi drawn a character more irresistibly charming than that of Natacha Rostow. She is such an one as Anna Karenine might have been in her younger days ; but more fortunate than Anna, she preserves to the end the fresh life and innocence of her childhood. It is impossible not to love her, wherever she is,—the life and soul of the quiet home in the country, the debutante at the Court ball thrilling with hopes and fears, the reckless young Amazon flushed with the chase, riding furiously and shouting to the hounds, or the true daughter of Russia, swaying her limbs instinctively in the national dance, inspired by the barbaric strains of her country. Like Peter, she too has the soft, impressionable Slav nature; craving for sympathy, for love, she must have some object to lavish her exuberant affection upon. As a child, she makes childish love to her priggish cousin, Boris Dronbetzkoi ; grown older, she cannot help attracting to herself any man she meets. Denissow, the honest little cavalry officer, falls an easy victim to her charms. Were it not for her mother's wise guidance, she would have married him out of simple pity and kindliness, not knowing what love might be. With Prince Andrew Bolkonsky it is a different matter. The tie that binds her to that preux chevalier is half romantic love, half childish awe. She is just beginning life ; be has already buried his illusions in the grave of his first wife. He is compelled to leave his betrothed, and there is nothing more pathetic than the struggles of the poor child to keep her trust in her absent lover. His father is bitterly opposed to the match, everywhere she meets with discouragement, and still she bravely clings to her faith in him. Everything goes well until the handsome, evil face of Anatole Kouragnine crosses her path, and then everything is forgotten. By good fortune, she is saved from becoming the victim of that worthless scoundrel, and is ultimately reconciled to Prince Andrew when he lies in their house, wounded to death, after the battle of Borodino. It is impossible to describe with what delicate, gentle touches Count Tolstoi has sketched his heroine, at once wilful and yielding, with her alternate fits of wild gaiety and childish despair.
Of the other characters there is not one that is not drawn with a master hand ; some with a force and pathos almost painful. Nor is the book wanting in humour, of that quiet, unobtrusive kind that intensifies the reality while it adds to the interest of the stoiy. With grave irony, the author describes the sacred circles, the hierarchy of the Government officials, always ready to trim their sails so as to catch the wind of Court favour ; the shallow pretences of those in power, and those who wish to attain it ; the theatrical greatness of the great Napoleon ; the hollowness of military glory ; the discredit of civil success; the emptiness of everything,—not even Thackeray has preached the doctrine of vanitas vanitatum with more energy. There is wonderful dramatic vigour, again, in some scenes, as, for example, the advance of the Russians at Austerlitz. or the horrible murder of Verestchaguine and flight of Count Rostopt- chine from Moscow. And in this last we may notice one of those subtle touches of which there are so many. Still haunted by the sight of his victim and scapegoat, Rostoptchine drives headlong to make his report to the Commander-in-Chief, and then, " strange to say, this proud man, GovernorDeneral of Moscow, found nothing better to do than to proceed to the bridge and stand there cracking a whip to drive on the carts that crowded the road." What a vivid picture do those few words give us of the restless misery of remorse !
In his accounts of battles, Count Tolstoi does not attempt to give a bird's-eye view of the shifting fortunes of the day. The reader is made to look on as a spectator, and while his attention is carefully fixed on the struggle immediately before him, be seems to learn instinctively what is happening in other parts of the field. The author has not a high opinion of councils of war in general, but for councils made up of German men of science, courtiers, Russian Generals, jealousy and intrigue, be has a genuine contempt. Victory, he argues, is not won by well-laid plans or skilful tactics, nor is it always on the side of the " big battalions." It is the result of an unknown quantity,—the spirit of the army. Koutousow, who trusted chiefly to the temper of his men for success, and was careless of other precautions, seems to him to have been the only Russian General of the time to whom success was possible. Like his hero, Kontonsow, Count Tolstoi is somewhat of a fatalist, and i8 more inclined to say, "Kismet! than undertake alaborious research after the causes of events. Finally, we may notice in this book what is a frequent feature in Russian literature,—the horror inspired by the idea of death. The moujik is less affected by this than the educated man. The former has his strong faith in his Church to sustain him, while the other has generally nothing but his doubts. To him, death may be annihilation or anything ; the dark mystery is full of terror, and we can understand what a poignant interest there is for many Russian readers in those death-bed scenes that not only Turgenieff but Tolstoi has described with such agonising minuteness.
War and Peace is a book which one leaves with sincere regret, and which would bear re-reading many times. Were it Tolstoi's only work, it would suffice to gain him enduring fame; as it is, one wonders at the versatility of the author of Katia and the Souvenirs, who excels equally in the idyllic and epic veins. The English version in which War and Peace is now presented to the public is thoroughly readable, and so far as internal evidence enables us to judge, a faithful rendering of the original.
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