(AI translated)
“You say that one must understand for oneself what is good and what is evil. But how can a boy understand this, when he sees evil all around him, and people all consider that evil to be good? I’ll tell you about myself.”
Thus began the venerable Ivan Vasilyevich, after a conversation among the young people about what one should be guided by in determining what is moral and what is immoral.
In fact, no one had said that a person must understand it entirely on his own, but Ivan Vasilyevich had a habit of replying not to what was said, but to thoughts that occurred to him in connection with the discussion, and on those occasions he would tell whole episodes from his long and interesting life. He often completely forgot what had prompted him to begin, but his stories captivated everyone — because he spoke with such sincerity and obvious truth.
He did so now as well.
“Yes, try to figure out what’s good and what’s bad when you’re twenty years old and in love,” he said.
“Was that you, Ivan Vasilyevich — in love?” asked his lively, pretty young listener, a friend of his daughter’s.
“Oh, indeed I was,” Ivan Vasilyevich replied, smiling self-satisfiedly beneath his gray mustache. “I was a university student then. People usually look down on the provincial universities, but in my opinion, they’re better than the capital ones. And I’d advise you to send your sons to Kharkov, Kazan, or Kiev — not to Moscow.
“I don’t know how it is now, but in my time, there were no ‘ideas,’ and certainly no political theories or demonstrations in our university. We had good professors, and there were students who deeply loved learning, who studied under the guidance of their elders — as befits young men from sixteen to twenty-five. And there were also students — to whom I belonged — who studied just enough to pass from one year to the next, and spent their time joking, singing, playing music, sometimes drinking — and, above all, falling in love.
“And I am truly grateful for that fate — that I studied in a provincial university and belonged to that kind of young men, instead of being like your modern youth — forgive me — ignorant, self-assured, stuffed with one half-digested ‘latest theory’ from a book, thinking they know everything, and that their task is not to learn, but to teach others.
“I’m grateful that I was young when I was young, and only began to think about life’s great questions when my mind had matured and I had come to know life itself.
“But that’s beside the point. I was one of the cheerful, well-off students. I had a fine pacer horse, rode downhill with young ladies (skating wasn’t yet fashionable), arranged parties with champagne (we drank nothing but champagne in those days), and, most importantly, I danced at evening parties and balls — we had splendid balls! I was a good dancer — I still can shake a leg even now — and I wasn’t bad-looking, either.”
“Now, don’t be modest,” interrupted the lively young lady again. “We’ve seen you now at seventy-five — and we’ve also seen your old daguerreotype portrait. Not just ‘not bad-looking,’ you were a real handsome man.”
“Handsome or not, that’s not the point,” said Ivan Vasilyevich. “I said I was often in love, but strictly speaking, at that time I was truly in love only three times.”
Counting on his left hand, he named three surnames.
“The last was Varenka B——. She was my greatest, strongest love — and it’s about her that I want to tell you.”
“Varenka was a real beauty. Truly a beauty — tall, slender, carried herself with extraordinary erectness — she couldn’t hold herself otherwise — and this gave her a regal, majestic air that might have been intimidating, had it not been for her gentle, ever cheerful smile, her bright shining eyes, her dimples, her lovely cheeks — her whole sweet being.”
“How beautifully you describe her, Ivan Vasilyevich!”
“No matter how I describe her, I can’t do her justice.
“Well then — during Shrovetide there was a grand ball at the provincial marshal’s house — a hospitable, good-natured old gentleman, fabulously rich, with a magnificent wife who always wore a diamond ferronnière, and with a buffet where champagne flowed like water.
“I danced — and, of course, didn’t drink any champagne, because I was already drunk with love.
“Varenka’s family wasn’t rich; she was the daughter of a colonel, the military commander of the garrison. Her mother was a vulgar woman — quite unrefined. But they were invited everywhere — partly because of her father’s position (in a provincial town, the garrison commander is quite a personage), and mainly because of the undeniable, universally acknowledged charm of the daughter, who was the adornment of every ball.
“I didn’t manage to dance the mazurka with her. A detestable engineer — Anisimov, I still can’t forgive him — invited her the moment she entered, while I, having stopped by the barber to fetch my gloves, was late. I had to dance with a small, delicate young thing, but I was so impolite — I neither spoke to her nor looked at her. I saw only that tall, slender figure in a white dress with a pink sash, that radiant face with its dimples, and those kind, sweet, shining eyes.
“And I wasn’t the only one. Everyone was watching her and admiring her — the men she had rejected, and the women, envious and eclipsed by her beauty.
“By the rules, you could say I didn’t dance with her — but in spirit, I danced the entire mazurka only with her. She would cross the whole ballroom toward me without hesitation; I would leap up before she even gave the signal, and she would thank me with a smile for my promptness.
“When partners were brought up to her, and she didn’t recognize me among them, she would make a little disdainful grimace as she gave her hand — gloved in fine white kid — to the wrong man. When the figures of the mazurka required waltzing, I waltzed with her for long stretches, and she, smiling though a little breathless, would say to me: encore.
“She promised me the quadrille after supper. When I returned her fan, she plucked a feather from it and gave it to me. I kissed it and hid it in my glove. I wasn’t just cheerful and content — I was happy, blissful; I was good. I wasn’t myself — I was some kind of celestial being, incapable of evil, capable only of good.”
“The tired musicians shifted from waltz back to mazurka; from the card tables in the drawing rooms rose the fathers and mothers; liveried footmen bustled about carrying dishes — evidently supper was near.
“‘What a charming couple,’ I heard someone say as Varenka and I once again swept down the length of the hall — I making a stamping step while she glided lightly in her white satin slippers around me.
“‘Look — Papa wants to dance,’ said Varenka to me, smiling even more brightly and glancing toward her tall, stately father, the colonel with silver epaulettes.
“‘Varenka, come here!’ we heard the hostess’s voice — the one in the diamond ferronnière — and we approached the door where stood the colonel, the hostess, and the parents who had come from the card tables.
“‘Do, please, have a turn with your daughter,’ the hostess said to the colonel.
“The old man resembled his daughter, despite his short white hair, his clipped mustache à la Nicholas I, and the white side-whiskers joining them. The same kind, joyful smile sparkled in his eyes and on his lips — like his daughter’s — and with his white hair, it seemed to me especially attractive.
“At that moment I loved the whole world through my love for Varenka — but toward her father I felt something like reverence.
“When, after hesitating a little, he drew his sword from the belt and handed it to the host’s obliging nephew, then pulled on his suede glove — ‘Everything must be done properly,’ he said with a smile — and, taking his daughter’s hand, turned a quarter away from her, waiting for the beat — I was in rapture.
“He stamped once, twice, and that huge figure began to move around the hall — now lightly and smoothly, now noisily, vigorously, with the clatter of heels and the clicking of boots. I couldn’t tell who was more beautiful — he or she. Both seemed exquisite to me.
“The whole hall watched them with delight, and when, at the end, he suddenly leapt into the air and dropped to one knee, circling her around himself — everyone burst into applause.
“He finished the dance, gently put his arms around her neck, kissed her on the forehead, led her back to her partner, bowed, and said goodbye to the hosts. They urged him to stay for supper, but he said he could not — he had business early the next morning.
“After supper I danced with her again. We said nothing about our love, but I was almost sure she loved me, and I was indescribably happy. I didn’t want to spoil that happiness by naming it.
“When I came home, undressed, and thought of going to bed — I saw that sleep was out of the question.
“I held the feather from her fan, and her glove, which she had given me when she left — I had helped her mother into the carriage, then her. I looked at those things and, without closing my eyes, saw her before me: now choosing between two partners, saying to me, ‘Are you the rose?’ — I heard her voice again; now sipping a little champagne at supper and glancing at me from under her lashes with a tender look; but most of all I saw her dancing with her father — moving gracefully beside him, proud and happy for both of them, glancing at the admiring crowd.
“So I saw them both — her and him — joined together in one tender, tearful feeling.
“Sleep was impossible. I dressed again, put on my overcoat, and went out wandering through the town.
“It was perfect Shrovetide weather — the snow was melting, and a fog hung low. I had left the ball around four o’clock, spent two hours at home, so when I went out, it was about dawn.
“Suddenly I felt tired and sleepy. I turned toward home, but then heard strange sounds — a fife and a drum — coming from the square.
“I involuntarily went toward them. It was already fully light when I reached the square.
“At first it seemed to me there was a crowd of soldiers in black uniforms, and from among them came the sounds of the fife, drum, and something else strange.
“I came closer — and saw the tall figure of the colonel, in cap and cloak, with his ruddy face, white mustache and side-whiskers. His face was quite different from what it had been at the ball. His brows were furrowed, his jaws clenched; from time to time he shouted something harshly, grimly.
“When I approached the thin crowd of onlookers, I saw that what had seemed a crowd of soldiers was a strange formation. The soldiers stood in a ring, facing each other at intervals of five or six paces. Each held in his hand a flexible stick, more than two yards long and as thick as a finger. Two drummers and a fifer stood in the middle of the circle.
“In the center stood an officer; on the outer side walked the colonel. He did not look toward me, did not recognize me, but did something to one of the soldiers, shouting angrily.
“I couldn’t yet understand what it was, until toward the place where I stood there came a group of men walking between the rows of soldiers. There were two soldiers with crossed rifles, to the bayonets of which, by the hands, was tied a small dark figure with a bare back and buttocks — covered, it seemed to me, with something strange.
“Only when they came close did I understand.
“The man tied to the rifles was being made to run the gauntlet — through three thousand blows, I was told — a Tatar soldier who had tried to desert.
“All the soldiers with the sticks had to strike the man’s back as he passed. The colonel shouted at those who did not strike hard enough — even struck them himself, threatening harsher punishment.
“The soldiers raised their sticks in turn, one after another, and brought them down upon the man’s back.
“That back was so beaten, so swollen and bloody, that I had at first taken the wounds for clothing.
“The man, dragged forward between the rifles, would sometimes fall backward, and then the soldiers, with concentrated, serious faces, would push him on; sometimes he would stumble forward, and they would hold him up — allowing the men in line to strike again and again.
“The little dark Tatar groaned so faintly that his moans could be heard only close by, beneath the steady swish and slap of the sticks falling on raw, bleeding flesh. After each blow, he turned weakly toward the side from which the strike had come.
“‘I’ll teach you how to miss,’ I heard the colonel shout. ‘Petrov, take Ignatov’s place! I’ll teach you how to miss!’ And then came the blows and the savage cries: ‘Will you miss now, will you?!’’
—
“Well — what do you think? That I decided the colonel was a monster? That what I had seen was a crime? Not at all.
“True, my love — that is, the poetry of love, that enchantment I had felt the evening before — was gone. I could no longer see, in her gentle smile, anything but what I had seen in her father’s face on the square.
“But I didn’t dare — couldn’t — decide that what I’d seen was evil.
“It was terrible, yes — but if it was being done, it must have been necessary, something elemental, like a thunderstorm or a tempest. It was not to be argued with — one had to understand it and submit to it.
“And I could do neither — nor could I decide that it was evil.
So tell me now, after that — how is one to know what is good and what is evil?”
L. Tolstoy August 6, 1903, Yasnaya Polyana