Part 1

Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/rstalkswithtolst00golduoft

TALKS WITH TOLSTOI

by

A. B. GOLDENVEIZER

Translated by

S. S. Koteliansky and Virginia Woolf

Published by Leonard & Virginia Woolf at The Hogarth Press, Paradise Road, Richmond 1923

TRANSLATORS’ NOTE

In the following pages we have made a selection from vol. i. of the diary of the well-known Russian musician, A. B. Goldenveizer, which was published at the end of 1922 in Moscow under the title _Vblizi Tolstovo_ (literally _Near Tolstoi_).

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

In publishing the diary devoted to my friendship of nearly fifteen years with Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoi, I think it best to state first what my aim was in making notes, and the method I pursued in doing so.

I put down chiefly Tolstoi’s words, and to some extent the events of his private life, making no attempt to select what would be interesting from some special point of view, but adopting no method and attempting to supply no connection between one entry and another.

My diary, therefore, is in no sense “literature.” Its aim is to be a document.

Unfortunately, I did not always make notes and was far from writing down everything. After 1908 my records were fuller; in 1909-1910, the last year of Tolstoi’s life, my reports were voluminous; but it was only in 1910 that my records were as complete as they could possibly be. This is the cause of a great disproportion between the parts. The first volume of my diary contains the long period from January 1896 to January 1st, 1910, the second volume records and materials for the year 1910 only, yet vol. ii. is considerably larger than vol. i.

My notes from 1896 to 1904 are now published for the first time. The notes from 1904 to 1908 were published in _Russ. Prop._ vol. ii., and the notes from the end of 1908 to January 1st, 1910, appeared in _Tolstoi: Pamyatniki Zhizni i Tvorchestva_. The parts of the diary which have been previously published are here published in a considerably enlarged form.

A. GOLDENVEIZER.

1896

My first visit to the house of Leo Nikolaevich was on January 20th, 1896. I was not then twenty-one years old. I was almost a boy. I was taken to the Tolstois’ by a well-known Moscow lady singer who used to visit the Tolstois. She took me there in my capacity as pianist, of course. If one is so unlucky as to play some instrument, or to sing or recite, one has a constant impediment in one’s relations with people. People do not take to one, are not interested in one as in a person: one is asked to play something, to sing, to recite.... Hence one feels so embarrassed, so awkward, in other people’s society.

I felt awkward then, and painfully shy. I was introduced. I went into the drawing-room, where, fortunately, two or three people I knew were sitting. I did not yet see Tolstoi. Shortly afterwards he came in, dressed in a blouse, with his hands in his belt. He greeted us all. I do not remember whether he spoke to me then. Then I played, and played badly. Of course, out of politeness I was thanked and complimented, which made me inexpressibly ashamed. And then, when I stood in the middle of the large room, at a loss, not knowing what to do with myself, not daring to raise my eyes, Leo Nikolaevich came up to me, and, speaking with a simplicity which was his alone, began to talk to me.

Among other things, talking of the piece I had played, he asked me:

“Which composer do you like best?”

“Beethoven,” I replied.

Tolstoi looked straight into my eyes and said quietly as if doubting me:

“Is that so?”

It seemed as if I were repeating what every one says; but I spoke the truth.

Leo Nikolaevich observed that he loved Chopin beyond almost all other composers.

He said to me:

“In every art--this I know from my own experience too--there are two extremes which it is difficult to avoid: emptiness and virtuosity. For instance, Mozart, whom I love so much, is at times empty, but after that he soars to an extraordinary height. Schumann’s defect is virtuosity. Of these two faults virtuosity is the worse, if only for this reason, that it is harder to get rid of it. Chopin’s greatness consists in the fact that, however simple he may be, he is never empty, and in his most complicated works he is never a mere virtuoso.”

I left the Tolstois’ house with a vague feeling of happiness that I had seen Tolstoi and spoken to him, and also with a bitter sense of my own unworthiness.

One evening as I approached the Tolstois’ house in Khamovniki I met Leo Nikolaevich, who was going for a walk. He asked me to come with him. We walked in the Prechistenka. The street was deserted and quiet. The few passers-by whom we met at intervals nearly all bowed to Leo Nikolaevich. By degrees Leo Nikolaevich brought me to talk about myself. At that time I was carried away by the philosophy of pessimism; I raved about Schopenhauer. Probably everything I said to Leo Nikolaevich was naïve and silly, but Leo Nikolaevich listened to me attentively and spoke to me seriously without making me feel my naïveté.

In passing, Leo Nikolaevich said to me:

“The most complete and profound philosophy is to be found in the Gospels.”

I remember that at that time it seemed to me strange. I was used to thinking the Gospels a book of moral teaching; and I did not understand that all the wisdom of the most profound philosophy was contained in its simplicity and lucidity.

Once I met Leo Nikolaevich in the street. He again asked me to walk with him. We were somewhere near the Novinsky Boulevard, and Leo Nikolaevich suggested we should take the tram. We sat down and took our tickets.

Leo Nikolaevich asked me:

“Can you make a Japanese cockerel?”

“No.”

“Look.”

Tolstoi took his ticket and very skilfully made it into a rather elaborate cockerel, which, when you pulled its tail, fluttered its wings.

An inspector entered the car and began checking the tickets. L. N., with a smile, held out the cockerel to him and pulled its tail. The cockerel fluttered its wings. But the inspector, with the stern expression of a business man who has no time for trifling, took the cockerel, unfolded it, looked at the number, and tore it up.

L. N. looked at me and said:

“Now our little cockerel is gone.” ...

I arrived at Yasnaya on July 6th after eleven o’clock at night.

I got up early in the morning and went to the river with L. N. to bathe. L. N. works every day from breakfast till lunch. He seemed to me to be in good spirits. In the morning at coffee he said:

“I feel as though I were nineteen or twenty.”

Yasnaya then used to be crowded and gay. Nearly all the children were at home. All the young people played tennis and enjoyed themselves. Occasionally L. N. would also play tennis. In the evening all used to go out for long walks in the woods. L. N. always loved to find short cuts, and would take us all into wonderful places in the forests. It must be admitted that the ‘short-cuts’ nearly always made the walks longer.

Once L. N. and myself were left far behind the others. L. N. said: “Let us catch them up!” And for half a mile or three-quarters I, twenty-one years old, and he, sixty-eight, ran neck and neck. On another occasion his physical vigour struck me even more. Mikhail Lvovich was doing a very difficult gymnastic exercise which he could not bring off. L. N. looked and looked, could not stand it any longer, and said: “Let me try,” and to the surprise of all present he at once did the exercise better than his son.

When I was leaving Yasnaya and my carriage was waiting for me, L. N. took my arm, led me aside, and said:

“I have been meaning all this time to tell you, and now as you are going I shall tell you: however great a gift for music you may have, and however much time and power you may spend on it, do remember that, above all, the most important of all is to be a man. It is always necessary to remember that art is not everything.... In your relations with people it is necessary to try to give them as much as possible and to take from them as little as possible. Forgive me for saying this, but I did not want to say good-bye to you without having told you what I think.”

Another of L. N.’s sayings at this time was: “The ego is the temporary thing that limits our immortal essence. Belief in personal immortality always seems to me a misunderstanding.”

“Materialism is the most mystical of all doctrines: it makes a belief in some mythical matter, which creates everything out of itself, the foundation of everything. It is sillier than a belief in the Trinity!”

1897

_Moscow, January 6th._ To-day I spent the evening at the Tolstois’. L. N. was talkative. The conversation was on various topics, beginning with the peasants and ending with the latest “decadent” movement in art.

L. N. read aloud certain passages of Maeterlinck’s new play _Aglavaine et Sélysette_. His attitude to it is one of complete indifference.

L. N. reads aloud most wonderfully; very simply and at the same time with remarkable expression. Wonderful also is his capacity of telling in a few words the contents of a story. There is nothing superfluous, and a clear, definite picture is given.

_April 22nd._ At the Tolstois’.

Speaking of modern art, L. N. said:

“If an impressionist was asked to draw a hoop, he would draw a straight line ----; a child would draw a circle like this O” (L. N. made the circle with his finger on the table). “And the child is more in the right, because he naïvely represents what he sees, and the impressionist represents what may be a hoop or a stick or anything you like; in a word, he does not represent the characteristic properties of the thing, but only a symbol of it, a part, and that not always the most characteristic one.

“A really remarkable and powerful mind can look for a method of expressing his idea, and if the idea is strong he will find new methods of expressing it. But modern artists invent a technical method and then are on the look-out for an idea, which they arbitrarily squeeze into their method.

“The great mistake is that people have introduced into art the vague conception of ‘beauty,’ which obscures and confuses everything.... Art consists in this--when some one sees or feels something, and expresses it in such a form that he who listens, reads, or sees his work feels, sees, and hears the same thing in the same way as the artist. Therefore art can be of the highest quality, or indifferent, or, finally, simply hateful, but still it is art. The most immoral picture if it achieves its end is art, although it serves low ends.

“If I yawn, cry, or laugh, and infect another person by the same thing, that is not art, for I produce the impression by the fact itself; but, if a beggar, for instance, seeing that his tears affected you and you gave him money, should on the following day pretend to cry and should arouse pity in you, then that is art.”

_August 2nd_, 4 P.M. I have just had a long talk with L. N. on art. He was repeating the contents of his article on art which he is writing, and which he goes on working over and rewriting. In the course of it L. N. said:

“When art became the inheritance of a small circle of rich people, and left its main course, it entered the cul-de-sac in which we see it now.

“Art is the expression of feeling, and the higher it is the greater the public which it can draw to itself. Therefore the highest art must reflect those states of mind which are religious in the best sense of the word, as they are the most universal and typical of all human beings.

“The majority of so-called works of art consist in a more or less skilful combination of four elements: (1) borrowing--for instance, the working out of some legend in a poem, of a song in music, etc. Or unconscious borrowing--that is, an imitation now of one thing, now of another, not intended by the author. (2) Embellishments: pretty metaphors which cover up insignificant ideas, flourishes in music, ornament in architecture, etc. (3) Effects: violent colours in painting, accumulated dissonances, sharp crescendos in music, and so on. Finally, (4) the interest--that is, the desire to surprise by the novelty of the method, by the new combination of colours, etc. Modern works of art are usually distinguished by these four qualities.

“The following are the chief obstacles which hinder even very remarkable men from creating true works of art: first, professionalism--that is, a man ceases to be a man, but becomes a poet, a painter, and does nothing but write books, compose music, or paint pictures; wastes his gift on trifles and loses the power of judging his work critically. The second, also a very serious obstacle, is the school. You can’t teach art, as you cannot teach a man to be a saint. True art is always original and new, and has no need of preconceived models. The third obstacle, finally, is criticism, which, as some one has justly said, is made up of fools’ ideas about wise men.

“I know that my article will be received by most people as a series of paradoxes, but I am convinced that I am right.”

L. N. is evidently much carried away by his work.

_August 9th._ This evening I am going to leave Yasnaya Polyana, where I have spent nearly a fortnight. The whole time passed wonderfully well. The days were spent more or less in this way: After breakfast every one goes to his work. L. N. takes his barley-coffee in a little kettle, and with the kettle in one hand and a few little pieces of bread in the other he goes to his room to work there, and does not come out till lunch.

_A Note without a Date._ In the summer of 1897 the famous Lombroso came to Yasnaya. I was not at Yasnaya at the time, but from what L. N. and others told me I can say that Lombroso, whose writings L. N. regarded without enthusiasm, had made no particular impression personally. I will give one example to show how superficially and inaccurately Lombroso related what he saw in Yasnaya. There was a round patch on one of L. N.’s boots, which came off, and L. N., while waiting to send the boot to be repaired, wore it with the hole in it. At that time Sophie Andreevna, I believe, took a snapshot of L. N., and the little hole on the boot was clearly seen in the photograph. I have that snapshot. Lombroso, in describing his visit to Yasnaya in the Press and in numerous interviews, said that L. N. pretended the ‘simple life,’ and, wanting to show that he wore torn boots, had made a round hole in one of them, evidently cut on purpose.

1899

_May 11th._ The conversation turned upon Katkov. L. N. expressed the opinion that Katkov was not clever. Sophie Andreevna became annoyed and said:

“Any one who disagrees with us must be a fool.”

To which L. N. said:

“The mark of foolish people is: when you say anything to them they never answer your words, but keep on repeating their own. That was always Katkov’s way. That is why I say that Katkov was a stupid man. Now, there is something of the same sort in Chicherin, yet can they be put even approximately on the same level?

“Though,” L. N. added, “one has to respect every one. Among the virtues the Chinese place respect first. Simply, without any relation to anything definite. Respect for the individual and for the opinion of every man.”

The conversation turned upon ancient languages and classical education. L. N. said:

“When I studied and read a great deal of Greek, I could easily understand almost any Greek book. I used to be at the examinations in the Lyceum, and saw that nearly always the pupil only understood what he had learnt beforehand. He did not understand new passages. And, indeed, at school for every fifty words that were learnt at least sixty-five rules were taught. In such a way one can’t learn anything.

“I am always surprised how firmly all sorts of superstitions possess people. Superstitions, such as the Church, the Tsar, the army, etc., live for centuries, and people have got so accustomed to them that they are not now thought to be strange. But the superstition of classical education arose with us in Russia before my very eyes. Above all, not one of the most zealous partisans of classical education can give a single sensible argument in favour of the system.” Then L. N. added:

“There is also the superstition of the possibility of a ‘school’ in art. Hence all institutes and academies. The abnormal form which art takes now, however, is not the root of the evil, but one of its symptoms. When the religious conception of life changes, then art, too, will find its true methods.”

L. N. returned to the Chinese virtue of ‘respect,’ and said:

“Often remarkable men suffer from the lack of that Chinese ‘respect.’ For instance, in Henry George’s _Progress and Poverty_ Marx’s name is not mentioned at all; and in his recently published posthumous work hardly eight lines refer to Marx, and those speak of the obscurity, complexity, and emptiness of Marx’s works.

“Apropos of obscurity and complexity, they are nearly always a proof of the absence of true meaning. But there is one great exception--Kant, who wrote horribly, and yet he makes an epoch in the development of mankind. In many respects he discovered perfectly new horizons.”

To-day after lunch L. N. went on horseback to Sokolniki and came back late in the evening. Nevertheless, when Mme. M. A. Maklakov and myself began to say good-bye, he said he would come with us. On the way Mme. Maklakov kept saying all the time how much she would like to live in the country. L. N. interrupted her:

“How it annoys me when people abuse the town with such exaggeration and say: To the country, to the country! All depends on the person,--in town, too, one can be with Nature. Don’t you remember,” L. N. asked her, “we had an old gatekeeper, Vasili? He lived all his life in town; in the summer he used to get up at 3 o’clock in the morning, and enjoyed his intercourse with Nature in our garden much more than country gentlemen do, who spend their evenings in the country playing cards. Besides, compared with the enormously important question of how to live one’s life in the best and most moral way, the question of town or country has no value at all.”

Before this L. N. said with a smile:

“I once said, but you must not talk about it, and I tell it you in secret: woman is generally so bad that the difference between a good and a bad woman scarcely exists.”

_Yasnaya Polyana, July 31st._ I am working with N. N. Ge on the proofs of _Resurrection_. The corrections are to be inserted in the proof-sheets from L. N.’s draft copy, and two copies of the same are made. The draft copy remains here, and the fair copies are sent, one to Marx for the weekly _Niva_, and the other to Chertkov in England for the English edition.

It is an interesting, but worrying and difficult work. Throughout, instead of the one printed proof-sheet, one has to copy out afresh three or four long pages. Often L. N.’s corrections are written so closely that a magnifying glass has to be used to read them. Unless one has seen L. N.’s incredible work, the numerous passages that are rewritten, the additions and alterations, the same incident being sometimes written dozens of times over, one can have not the remotest idea of this labour.

_August 2nd._ I have been here from July 27th (in Yasnaya Polyana).

A queer young man, K., came to L. N., and, on my asking him what he was doing, he said that “he was the free son of air.” K. told L. N. that he wanted to settle down in the country among the people.

L. N. in recounting it said:

“Of course, I did not advise him to do it. Usually nothing comes from such attempts. For instance, some very nice people, the N. N.’s, bought a small plot of land and settled like that in the country. A peasant cut down one of their trees; they did not want to take action in the court against him, and soon, when the peasants learnt about it, they cut down the whole woods. The peasant boys stole their peas; they were not beaten nor driven away, and then nearly the whole village came and stole all the peas, etc., etc.

“One should not, _above all_, look for new ways of life, for usually, in doing so, one’s whole energy is spent on the external arrangement of life. And when all the external arrangement is over, one begins to feel bored and does nothing. Let every one first do his own work, if only it does not clash sharply with his convictions, and let him try to become better and better in his own situation, and then he will find new ways of life into the bargain. For the most part, all the external side of life must be neglected; one should not bother about it. Do your own work.”

To-day L. N. said of some one:

“He is a Tolstoian--that is, a man with convictions utterly opposed to mine.”

Yesterday L. N. spoke of the process of creative work:

“I can’t understand how any one can write without rewriting everything over and over again. I scarcely ever re-read my published writings, but if by chance I come across a page, it always strikes me: All this must be rewritten; this is how I should have written it....

“I am always interested to trace the moment, which comes quite early, when the public is satisfied; and the artist thinks: They say it is good; but it is just at this point that the real work begins!”

To-day L. N. was not well. I went to him; he was lying on the little sofa in the drawing-room. He told me of S. G. Verus’s book on the Gospels.

“His final conclusion is the denial of Christ as a historical person. In the earliest written parts of the New Testament--in Paul’s messages--there is not a single biographical fact about Christ. All the Gospels that have come down to us were composed between the second and fourth century A.D. Of the writers who were Christ’s contemporaries (Tacitus, Suetonius, Philo, J. Flavius) not a single one of them mentions Christ; so that his personality is not historical, but legendary.

“All this is very interesting and even valuable, for it makes it unnecessary to quarrel any more over refuting the authenticity of the Gospel stories about the miracles; and it proves the teaching of the Gospels to be not the words of one superman, but the sum of the wisdom of all the best moral teaching expressed by many people and at different times.”

L. N. also said this to me:

“Perhaps it is because I am unwell, but at moments to-day I am simply driven to despair by everything that is going on in the world: the new form of oath, the revolting proclamation about enlisting university students in the army, the Dreyfus affair, the situation in Serbia, the horrors of the diseases and deaths in the Auerbach quicksilver works.... I can’t make out how mankind can go on living like this, with the sight of all this horror round them!

“It always strikes me how little man is valued, even in the simplest way as a valuable and useful animal. We value a horse which can carry, but man can also make boots, work in a factory, play the piano! And 50 per cent are dying! When I used to breed merino sheep and their death-rate reached 5 per cent, I was indignant and thought the shepherd very bad. And 50 per cent of the people are dying!”

I read L. N.’s most wonderful _Father Sergius_.

_Moscow, August 9th._ I returned from Yasnaya in the evening of the 6th. This is what I find I have written down.

The talk turned upon the woman question. The conversation was carried on in a half-jocular tone.

L. N. said: