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Updated: May 1, 2025
Military "government" is not government, but organized violence. Tolstoi's masterly language on this matter will scarcely be improved upon: "The slavery of the working people is due to this, that there are governments.
In about twenty-four hours he dies, but in those hours he goes through a hell of physical and mental torment. The fear of death, which to an intensely intellectual people like the Russians, is an obsession of terror, and shadows all their literature, it appears all through Tolstoi's diary and novels, is analysed in many forms by Chekhov.
This figure is undoubtedly one of the finest in Turgenev's gallery, and it is at the same time one of the most brilliant examples of his artistic method. Turgenev does not give us at one stroke sculptured figures made from one block, such as rise before us from Tolstoi's pages. His art is rather that of a painter or musical composer than of a sculptor.
I've good intentions; I'm willing to pinch Tolstoi's laurels right off his grave, and orate like William Jennings Bryan. And there's a million yearners like me. There ain't a hall-bedroom boy in New York that wouldn't like to be a genius." "I like you because you have fire. Mr. Babson, do you " "Walter!" "How premature you are!" "Walter!"
Tolstoï's levelling philosophy began long before he had the crisis of melancholy commemorated in that wonderful document of his entitled 'My Confession, which led the way to his more specifically religious works.
The birth of the new consciousness which came to Tolstoi a few years later, was born into existence through these terrible struggles and mental agonies, inevitable because of the very nature of his heredity and education and environment. Although as we know, he came of gentle-folk, there was much of the Russian peasant in Tolstoi's makeup.
Of this falsity we have had a recent example from a man who knows far better Tolstoi's "Powers of Darkness." Here is a piece full of force and truth, yet quite untrue.
How terrible must have been the disillusion of those people, if they had ever expected anything of Tolstoi, and if they really believed that this demagogue Prince, who stands in nice poses in the middle of drawing-rooms and of prison cells, talking nonsense with a convincing disbelief, was in any sense a mouthpiece for Tolstoi's poor simple little gospel.
A terror of death, and yet a haunting urge that compelled him to be forever thinking upon the mystery of it, is the dominant note in every line of Tolstoi's writings up to the time which he describes as "a change" that came over him. For example, when Count Leo was in his 33d year, his brother Nicolai died.
Now M. Bataille is one of the most powerful and original dramatists of our time. A play in English, said to be by MM. Henry Bataille and Michael Morton, has been produced by Mr. Tree at His Majesty's Theatre; and the play is called, as the French play was called, Tolstoi's "Resurrection." What Mr. Morton has done with M. Bataille I cannot say.
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