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Title: A History of Yesterday
Author: Leo Tolstoy
Date: 1949
Language: en
Topics: autobiography
Source: Retrieved on 9th June 2021 from https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/A_History_of_Yesterday
Notes: A diary entry from which Tolstoy hoped to later extract a story. Translated by George Kline for the Russian Review in 1949, the copyright has since lapsed.

Leo Tolstoy

A History of Yesterday

I am writing a history of yesterday not because yesterday was

extraordinary in any way, for it might rather be called ordinary, but

because I have long wished to trace the intimate side of life through an

entire day. Only God knows how many diverse and diverting impressions,

together with the thoughts awakened by them, occur in a single day.

Obscure and confused they may be, but they are nevertheless

comprehensible to our minds. If it were possible for me to recount them

all so that I myself could read the tale with ease and so that others

might read it as I do, a most instructive and amusing book would result;

nor would there be ink enough in the world to write it, or typesetters

to put it in print. But to get on with the story.

I arose late yesterday-at a quarter to ten-because I had retired after

twelve. (I have long since made a rule never to retire after twelve, yet

this happens to me at least three times a week.) But there are

circumstances in which I consider this rather a fault than a crime.

These circumstances are of various kinds; yesterday they were as

follows:

Here I must apologize for going back to the day before yesterday. But

then, novelists write whole stories about their heroes’ forebears.

I was playing cards; not at all from a passion for the game, as it might

seem; no more, indeed, from a passion for the game than one who dances

the polka does so from a passion for promenading. Rousseau among other

things which he proposed and no one has accepted, suggested the playing

of cup-and-ball in society in order to keep the hands occupied. But that

is scarcely enough; in society the head too should be occupied, or at

the very least should be so employed as to allow silence equally with

conversation. Such an employment has been invented: cards. People of the

older generation complain that “nowadays there is no conversation.” I do

not know how people were in the old days (it seems to me that people

have always been the same), but conversation there can never be.

As an employment conversation is the stupidest of inventions.-It is not

from a deficiency of intelligence but from egotism that con- versation

fails. Everyone wishes to talk about himself or about that which

interests him; however, if one speaks and another listens, the result is

not a conversation but a lecture. And if two people come together who

are interested in the same thing, then a third person is enough to spoil

the whole business: he interferes, you must try to give him a share

too-and your conversation has gone to the devil.

There are also conversations between people who are interested in the

same thing, and where no one disturbs them, but such cases are even

worse. Each speaks of the same thing from his own viewpoint, transposing

everything to his own key, and measuring everything with his own

yardstick. The longer the conversation continues, the farther apart they

draw, until a t last each one sees that he is no longer conversing, but

is preaching with a freedom which he permits only to himself; that he is

making a spectacle of himself, and that the other is not listening to

him, but is doing the same thing. Have you ever rolled eggs during Holy

Week? You start off two identical eggs with the same stick, but with

their little ends on opposite sides. At first they roll in the same

direction, but then each one begins to roll away in the direction of its

little end. In conversation as in egg-rolling, there are little sloops

that roll along noisily and not very far; there are sharp-ended ones

that wander off heaven knows where. But, with the exception of the

little sloops, there are no two eggs that would roll in the same

direction. Each has its little end.

I am not speaking now of those conversations which are carried on simply

because it would be improper not to say something, just as it would be

improper to appear without a necktie. One person thinks, “You know quite

well that I have no real interest in what I am saying, but it is

necessary”; and the other, “Talk away, talk away, poor soul-I know it is

necessary.” This is not conversation, but the same thing as a

swallowtail coat, a calling card, and gloves — a matter of decorum.

And that is why I say that cards are an excellent invention. In the

course of the game one may chat, gratify one’s ego, and make witty

remarks; furthermore, one is not obliged to keep to the same subject, as

one is in that society where there is only conversation.

One must reserve the last intellectual cartridge for the final round,

when one is taking his leave: then is the time to explode your whole

supply, like a race horse approaching the finish line. Otherwise one

appears pale and insipid; and I have noticed that people who are not

only clever but capable of sparkling in society have lost out in the end

because they lacked this sense of timing. If you have spoken heatedly

and then, because of weariness and boredom, you cannot muster a reply,

the last impression lingers and people say, “How dull he is...” But when

people play cards this does not happen. One may remain silent without

incurring censure.

Besides, women-young ones-play cards, and what could be better than to

sit beside a young lady for two or three hours? And if it is the young

lady, nothing more can be desired. And so I played cards. We took seats

on the right, on the left, opposite-and everything was cozy.

This diversion continued until a quarter to twelve. We finished three

rubbers. Why does this woman love (how I should like to finish this

sentence here with “me”!) to embarrass me?-For even if she didn’t I

would not be myself in her presence. It seems to me either that my hands

are very dirty, or that I am sitting awkwardly, or else a pimple on my

cheek-the one facing her-torments me. Yet she is in no way to blame for

this: I am always ill a t ease with people whom I either do not like or

like very much. Why is this? Because I wish to convey to the former that

I do not like them, and to the latter that I do, and to convey what you

wish is very difficult.

With me it always works out in reverse. I wish to be cool, but then this

coolness seems overdone and I become too affable. With people whom you

love honorably, the thought that they may think you love them

dishonorably unnerves you and you become short and brusque.

She is the woman for me because she has all those endearing qualities

which compel one to love them, or rather, to love her- for I do love

her. But not in order to possess her. That thought never entered my

head.

She has the bad habit of billing and cooing with her husband in front of

others, but this does not bother me; it would mean no more to me if she

should kiss the stove or the table. She plays with her husband as a

swallow plays with a blossom, because she is warm- hearted and this

makes her happy.

She is a coquette; no, not a coquette, but she loves to please, even to

turn heads. I won’t say coquette, because either the word or the idea

associated with it is bad. To call showing the naked body and deceiving

in love coquetry!-That is not coquetry but brazen impudence and

baseness. But to wish to please and to turn heads is fine and does no

one any harm, since there are no Werthers, and it provides innocent

pleasure for oneself and others. Thus, for example, I am quite content

that she should please me; I desire nothing more. Furthermore, there is

clever coquetry and stupid coquetry: clever coquetry is inconspicuous

and you do not catch the culprit in the act; stupid coquetry, on the

contrary, hides nothing. It speaks thus: “I am not so good-looking, but

what legs I have! Look! Do you see? What do you say? Nice?”-Perhaps your

legs are nice, but I did not notice, because you showed them.-Clever

coquetry says: “It is all the same to me whether you look or not. I was

hot, so I took off my hat. I saw everything. “And what does it matter to

me?” Her coquetry is both innocent and clever.

I looked at my watch and got up. It is astonishing: except when I am

speaking to her, I never see her looking at me, and yet she sees all my

movements.-“Oh, what a pink watch he has!” I am very much offended when

people find my Bréguet watch pink; it would be equally offensive if they

told me that my vest is pink. I suppose I was visibly embarrassed,

because when I said that on the contrary it was an excellent watch, she

became embarrassed in her turn. I dare say she was sorry that she had

said something which put me in an awkward position. We both sensed the

humor of the situation, and smiled. Being embarrassed together and

smiling together was very pleasant to me. A silly thing, to be sure, but

together.

I love these secret, inexplicable relationships, expressed by an

imperceptible smile or by the eyes. I t is not that one person

understands the other, but that each understands that the other

understands that he understands him, etc.

Whether she wished to end this conversation which I found so sweet, or

to see how I would refuse, or if I would refuse, or whether she simply

wished to continue playing, she looked at the figures which were written

on the table, drew the chalk over the table making a figure that could

be classified neither as mathematical nor pictorial-looked at her

husband, then between him and me, and said: “Let’s play three more

rubbers.” I was so absorbed in the contemplation not of her movements

alone, but of everything that is called charme--which it is impossible

to describe-that my imagination was very far away, and I did not have

time to clothe my words in a felicitous form. I simply said: “No, I

can’t.”

Before I had finished saying this I began to regret it,-that is, not all

of me, but one part of me. There is no action which is not condemned by

some part of the mind. On the other hand, there is a part that speaks in

behalf of any action: what is so bad about going to bed after twelve,

and when do you suppose you will spend another such delightful

evening?-I dare say this part spoke very eloquently and persuasively

(although I cannot convey what it said), for I became alarmed and began

to cast about for arguments. In the first place, I said to myself, there

is no great pleasure in it, you do not like her a t all, and you’re in

an awkward position; besides, you’ve already said that you can’t stay,

and you would fall in her estimation...

“Comme il est aimable, ce jeune homme.”

This sentence, which followed immediately after mine, interrupted my

reflections.-I began to make excuses, to say I couldn’t stay, but since

one does not have to think to make excuses, I continued reason- ing with

myself.

...How I love to have her speak of me in the third person. In German

this is rude, but I would love it even in German. Why doesn’t she find a

decent name for me? I t is clearly awkward for her to call me either by

my given name or by my surname and title. Can this be because I...

“Stay for supper,” said her husband.--As I was busy with my reflections

on the formula of the third person, I did not notice that my body, while

very properly making its excuses that it could not stay, was putting

down its hat again and sitting down quite coolly in an easy chair. I t

was clear that my mind was taking no part in this absurdity. I became

highly vexed and was about to begin roundly reproaching myself, when a

pleasant circumstance diverted me. She very carefully drew something

which I could not see, lifted the chalk a little higher than was

necessary, and placed it on the table. Then she put her hands on the

divan on which she was sitting and, wiggling from side to side, pushed

herself to the back of it and raised her head-her little head, with the

fine rounded contours of her face, the dark, half-closed, but energetic

eyes, the narrow, sharp little nose and the mouth that was one with the

eyes and always expressed something new. At this moment who could say

what it expressed? There was pensiveness and mockery, and pain, and a

desire to keep from laughing, dignity, and capriciousness, and

intelligence, and stupidity, and passion, and apathy, and much more.

After waiting for a moment, her husband went out-I suppose to order the

supper.

To be left alone with her is always frightening and oppressive to me. As

I follow with my eyes whoever is leaving, it is as painful to me as the

fifth figure of the quadrille: I see my partner going over to the other

side and I must remain alone. I am sure it was not so painful for

Napoleon to see the Saxons crossing over to the enemy at Waterloo as it

was for me in my early youth to watch this cruel maneuver. The stratagem

that I employ in the quadrille I employed also in this case: I acted as

though I did not notice that I was alone. And now even the conversation

which had begun before his exit came to an end; I repeated the last

words that I had said, adding only, “And that’s how it is.” She repeated

hers, adding, “Yes.”

But at the same time another, inaudible, conversation began.

She: “I know why you repeat what you have already said. I t is

awkward for you to be alone and you see that it is awkward for me,- so

in order to seem occupied you begin to talk. I thank you very much for

this attention, but perhaps one could say something a little bit more

intelligent.”

I: “That is true, your observation is correct, but I don’t know why you

feel awkward. Is it possible that you think that when you are alone I

will begin to say things that will be distasteful to you? To prove that

I am ready to sacrifice my own pleasures for your sake, however

agreeable our present conversation is to me, I am going to speak aloud.

Or else you begin.”

She: “Well, go on!”

I was just opening my mouth to say something that would allow me to

think of one thing while saying something else, when she began a

conversation aloud which apparently could continue for a long while. In

such a situation the most interesting questions are neg- lected because

the conversation continues. Having each said a sen- tence, we fell

silent, tried once more to speak, and again fell silent. The

conversation:

I: “No, it is impossible to talk. Since I see that this is awkward for

you, it would be better if your husband were to return.”

She: (Aloud) “Well, where is Ivan Ivanovich? Ask him to come in here.”

...If anyone does not believe that there are such secret conversations,

that should convince him.

“I am very glad that we are now alone,” I continued, speaking silently,

“I have already mentioned to you that you often offend me by your lack

of confidence. If my foot accidentally touches yours, you immediately

hasten to apologize and do not give me time to do so, while I, having

realized that it was actually your foot, was just about to apologize

myself. I cannot keep up with you, and you think me indelicate.”

Her husband came in. We sat for a while, had supper, and chatted.

At about twelve-thirty I went home.

In the Sledge

It was spring, the twenty-fifth of March. The night was clear and still;

a young moon was visible from behind the red roof of a large white house

opposite; most of the snow was already gone. Only my night sledge was a

t the entrance, and even without the footman’s shout of “Let’s go,

there!” Dmitri knew quite well that I was leaving. A smacking sound was

audible, as though he were kissing someone in the dark, which, I

conjectured, was intended to urge the little mare and the sledge away

from the pavement stones on which the runners grated and screeched

unpleasantly. Finally the sledge drew up. The solicitous footman took me

under the elbow and assisted me to my seat. If he had not held me I

should simply have jumped into the sledge, but as it was, in order not

to offend him, I walked slowly, and broke through the thin ice which

covered the puddle-getting my feet wet. “Thank you, my friend.” “Dmitri,

is there a frost?”-“Of course, sir; we have a bit of a frost every night

now.”-

-How stupid! Why did I ask that?-No, there is nothing stupid about it.

You wanted to talk, to enter into communication with someone, because

you are in high spirits. And why am I in high spirits? Half an hour ago

if I had gotten into my sledge, I wouldn’t have started to talk.-Because

you spoke elegantly when taking your leave, because her husband saw you

to the door and said, “When will we see you again?”-Because as soon as

the footman caught sight of you he jumped up, and despite the fact that

he reeked of parsley, he took pleasure in serving you.-I gave him a

fifty-kopek piece a few days ago.-In all our recollections the middle

falls away and the first and last impressions remain, especially the

last. For this reason there exists the splendid custom of the master of

the house accompanying his guest to the door, where, twining one leg

about the other, as a rule, the host must say something kind to his

guest. Despite any intimacy of relations, this rule should not be

disregarded. Thus, for example, “When will we see you again?” means

nothing, but from vanity the guest involuntarily translates it as

follows: When means, “please make it soon;” we means, “not only myself

but my wife, who is also pleased to see you;” see you means, “give us

the pleasure another time;” again means, “we have just spent the evening

together, but with you it is impossible to be bored.” And the guest

carries away a pleasant impression.

It is also necessary to give money to the servants, especially in homes

that are not well regulated and where not all the footmen are

courteous-in particular the doorman (who is the most important personage

because of the first and last impression). They will greet you and see

you off as if you were a member of the family, and you translate their

complaisance-whose source is your fifty-kopek piece-as follows:

“Everyone here loves you and honors you, therefore we try, in pleasing

the masters, to please you.” Perhaps it is only the footman who loves

and honors you, but all the same it is pleasant. What’s the harm if you

are mistaken? If there were no mistakes, there would be no...

“Are you crazy! ... What the devil!”

Dmitri and I were very quietly and modestly driving down one of the

boulevards, keeping to the ice on the right-hand side, when suddenly

some “chowderhead” (Dmitri gave him this name afterwards) in a carriage

and pair ran into us. We separated, and only after we had gone on about

ten paces did Dmitri say, “Look at that, the chowderhead, he doesn’t

know his right hand from his left!”

Don’t think that Dmitri was a timid man or slow to answer. No, on the

contrary, although he was of small stature, clean shaven — but with a

moustache-he was deeply conscious of his own dignity and strictly

fulfilled his duties. His weakness in this case was attributable to two

circumstances:

but now we were driving in a small sledge with very long shafts, pulled

by a very small horse, which he could hardly reach even with a whip;

what is more, the horse dragged its hind feet pitifully-and all this

could easily evoke the derision of by-standers. Consequently this

circumstance was all the more difficult for Dmitri and could quite

destroy his feeling of [self-confidence?][1].

similar questions that I had asked him in the autumn on starting out to

hunt. A hunter has something to daydream about, and he forgets to hurl a

well-timed curse at the driver who does not keep to the right-hand side.

With coachmen, as with everyone else, the one who shouts first and with

the greatest assurance is right. There are certain exceptions. For

example, a droshki driver cannot shout at a carriage; a singleton-even

an elegant one can hardly shout at a four-in-hand; but then, everything

depends on the nature of the individual circumstances and, most

important, on the personality of the driver and the direction in which

he is going. I once saw in Tula a striking example of the influence that

one man can have on others through sheer audacity.

Everyone was driving to the carnival: sleighs with pairs, four-in-hands,

carriages, trotters, silk cloaks-all drawn out in a line on the Kiev

highway-and there were swarms of pedestrians. Suddenly there was a shout

from a side street: “Hold back, hold back your horses! Out of the way

there!” in a self-assured voice. Involuntarily the pedestrians made way,

the pairs and four-in-hands were reined in. And what do you think? A

ragged cabby, brandishing the ends of the reins over his head, standing

on a broken-down sledge drawn by a filthy jade, tore through with a

shout to the other side, before anyone realized what was happening. Even

the policemen burst out laughing.

Although Dmitri is a reckless fellow and loves to swear, he has a kind

heart and spares his poor horse. He uses the whip not as an incentive

but as a corrective, that is, he doesn’t spur his horse on with the

whip: this is incompatible with the dignity of a city driver. But if the

trotter doesn’t stand still at the entrance, he will “give him one.” I

had occasion to observe this presently: crossing from one street to

another our little horse was hardly able to drag us along, and I noticed

from the desperate movements of Dmitri’s back and hands and from his

clucking that he was having difficulties. Would he use the whip? That

was not his custom. But what if the horse stopped? That he would not

tolerate, even though here he didn’t need to fear the wag who would say,

“Feeding time, eh?” ...Here was proof that Dmitri acted more from a

consciousness of his duty than from vanity.

I thought much more about the many and varied relations of drivers among

themselves, of their intelligence, resourcefulness, and pride. I suppose

that a t large gatherings those who have been in- volved in collisions

recognize one another and pass from hostile to peaceable relations.

Everything in the world is interesting, especially the relationships

which exist in classes other than our own.

If the vehicles are going in the same direction the disputes last

longer. The one who was to blame attempts to drive the other away or to

leave him behind, and the latter sometimes succeeds in proving to him

the wrongness of his action, and gains the upper hand; however, when

they are driving on the same side the odds are in favor of the one whose

horses are more mettlesome.

All of these relationships correspond very closely to the general

relationships in life. The relationships of gentlemen among them- selves

and with their drivers in the case of such collisions are also

interesting.-“Hey there,. you scoundrel, where do you think you’re

going?”-When this cry is addressed to the whole vehicle, the pas- senger

involuntarily tries to assume a serious, or gay, or unconcerned

expression-in a word, one that he did not have before. I t is evident

that he would be pleased if the situation were reversed. I have noticed

that gentlemen with moustaches are especially sensitive to the insults

sustained by their vehicles.

-“Who goes there?”

This shout came from a policeman who had in my presence been very much

offended by a driver this same morning. At the entrance across from his

sentry-box a carriage was standing; a splendid figure of a driver with a

red beard, having tucked the reins under him, and resting his elbows on

his knees, was warming his back in the sun-with evident pleasure, for

his eyes were almost completely closed. Opposite him the policeman

walked up and down on the platform in front of his sentry-box and, using

the end of his halberd, adjusted the plank which was laid across the

puddles near his balcony.-Suddenly he seemed to resent the fact that the

carriage was standing there, or else he began to envy the driver who was

warming himself with such pleasure, or perhaps he merely wished to start

a conversation. He walked the length of his little balcony, peered into

the side street, and then thumped with his halberd on the plank: “Hey

you, where are you stopping? You’re blocking the road.” The driver

unscrewed his left eye a little, glanced at the policeman, and closed it

again.

“Get a move on! I’m talking to you!” No attention.-“Are you deaf? Eh?

Move along, I said!” The policeman, seeing that there was no response,

walked the length of his little balcony, peered into the side street

once more, and evidently was getting ready to say something devastating.

At this point the driver raised himself a little, adjusted the reins

under him, and turning with sleepy eyes to the policeman, said, “What

are you gaping at? They wouldn’t even give you a gun, you simpleton, and

still you go around yelling at people!”

“Get out of here!

The driver roused himself and got out of there. I looked at the

policeman. He muttered something and looked angrily a t me; apparently

he was embarrassed that I had overheard and was looking a t him. I know

of nothing that can offend a man more deeply than to give him to

understand that you have noticed something but do not wish to mention

it. As a result I became embarrassed myself; I felt sorry for the

policeman and went away. I love Dmitri’s ability to give people names on

the spur of the moment; it amuses me. “Get along, little cap! Get along,

monkey suit! Get along, whiskers! Get along, washerwoman! Get along,

horse-doctor! Get along, bigwig! Get along, M’sieu!” The Russian has an

amazing ability to find the incisive epithet for a person he has never

seen before, and not only for an individual, but for a whole social

class. A member of the lower middle class is a “catdealer”, because, it

is said, they trade in catskins; a footman is a “lapper,” a

“lickspittle”; a peasant is “Kurick”-why, I don’t know; a driver is a

“waggon-eater,” etc.,-it is impossible to list them all.

If a Russian quarrels with someone whom he has just met, he immediately

christens him with a name which goes straight to the most sensitive

point: “crooked nose,” “crosseyed devil,” “thick-lipped scoundrel,”

“snub-nose.” One must experience this himself to realize how accurately

such epithets always hit the sorest spot. I shall never forget the

insult which I once received behind my back. A Russian said of me, “Oh,

he’s a snaggle-toothed one!” It should be known that my teeth are

extremely bad, decayed, and sparse.

At Home

I arrived at home. Dmitri hurried to climb down and open the gate, and I

did the same so as to pass through the gate before him. I t always

happens this way: I hurry to go in because I am accustomed to do so; he

hurries to drive me up to the porch because he is accustomed to

that.-For a long time I couldn’t rouse anyone with my ringing. The

tallow candle had burned very low and Prov, my old footman, was asleep.

While I rang I was thinking as follows: Why is it always repugnant to me

to come home, no matter where or how I live repugnant to see the same

Prov in the same place, the same candle, the same spots on the

wallpaper, the same pictures? The whole thing is positively dismal.

I am particularly tired of the wallpaper and the pictures because they

have pretensions to variety, and after looking at them for two days in a

row they are worse than a blank wall. This unpleasant sensation upon

coming home is due, I suppose, to the fact that man is not meant to lead

a bachelor’s life at the age of twenty-two.

It would be quite different if I could ask Prov as he opens the door (he

has jumped up and is clumping with his boots to show that he has been

listening for a long time and is wide awake) “Is the mistress asleep?”

“No sir, not at all, she’s reading in a book”-That would be something: I

should put both my hands behind her head, hold her at arm’s length

before me, loolc a t her, kiss her-another look, and another kiss; and I

would not feel lonely on returning home. Now the only question that I

can ask Prov-to show him that I have noticed that he never sleeps when I

am not at home-is: “Did anyone call?”-“No one.”-Every time I ask this

question Prov answers in a pathetic voice, and I always want to say to

him, “Why do you speak in such a pathetic voice? I am very glad that no

one called.” But I restrain myself; Prov might be offended and he is a

man of dignity.

In the evening I usually write in my diary, my Franklin journal, and my

daily accounts.

Today I didn’t spend anything because I haven’t even a half-kopek piece

left, so there is nothing to write in the account book. The diary and

the journal are another matter. I ought to write in them, but it is

late; 1’11 put it off until tomorrow.

I have often heard the words, “He’s a frivolous person; he lives without

a goal.” I myself have often said this, and I say it not because I

repeat other people’s words but because I feel in my heart that this is

bad and that one should have a goal in life.

But how is one to do this-to be a “complete person and have a goal in

life”? To set up a goal for oneself is impossible.-I have tried this

many times and it does not work. One should not invent a goal, but find

such a one as harmonizes with man’s inclinations, which existed

previously, but of which one has just become aware. It seems to me I

have found such a goal :a well-rounded education and the cultiva- tion

of all my talents. One of the principal accepted means for its

attainment is the diary and Franklin journal. Every day I confess in my

diary everything that I have done badly. I have my weaknesses written

out in columns in the journal-laziness, mendacity, gluttony, indecision,

the desire to show off, sensuality, lack of jiertk, etc.,- all such

petty addictions. I post my transgressions from the diary to the journal

by placing little crosses in the columns. As I began to undress I

thought: “Where in all this is your well-rounded education and the

cultivation of your talents, of your virtue? Will you ever attain to

virtue by this path? Where is this journal leading you?--It serves you

only as an indication of your weaknesses, which have no end, and which

increase every day.

Even if you overcame these weaknesses you would not attain to virtue.

You are only deceiving yourself and playing with this like a child with

a toy. Surely it is not sufficient for an artist to know what things

should not be done in order to become an artist. Surely one cannot

accomplish anything worthwhile merely by negatively refraining from

doing harm. It is not enough for the farmer to weed his field, he must

till and sow. Set up rules of virtue and follow them.

It was the part of my mind which is occupied with criticism that said

this.

I became thoughtful. Surely it is not enough to destroy the cause of

evil in order to bring about th’e good. Good is positive and not

negative. And it is sufficient that good is positive and evil negative

for the very reason that evil can be destroyed but good cannot. Good is

always in our soul and the soul is good; but evil is implanted. If there

were no evil the good would develop freely. The comparison with the

farmer is not valid; he has to sow and plow, but in the soul the good is

already sown. The artist must practice and he will master his art, if he

does not conform to negative rules, but he must [be free?][2] from

arbitrariness.

Practice is not necessary for the exercise of virtue-the practice is

life itself. Cold is the absence of heat. Darkness is the absence of

light, evil the absence of good.-Why does man love heat, light, and

good? Because they are natural. There is a cause of heat, light, and

good- the sun, God; but there is no cold or dark sun, no evil God. We

see light and rays of light, we seek the cause and say that there is a

sun. Light and heat and the law of gravitation prove this to us. This is

in the physical world. I n the moral world we see good, we see its rays,

we see that there is a law of gravitation of the good towards something

higher, and that its source is God.

Remove the coarse crust from a diamond and it will sparkle; throw off

the envelope of weaknesses and you will find virtue. But is it possible

that it is only these trifles, these little weaknesses which you write

down in the journal that prevent you from being good? Are there not

greater passions? And why is such a large number added every day: it is

either self-deception o r faintheartedness, or something of the kind.

There is no lasting improvement. In many respects there is no progress a

t all.-Again the part occupied with criticism made this observation.

It is true that all the weaknesses that I have written down may be

reduced to three classes, but since each has many degrees they may be

combined in infinite ways. I ) Pride, 2 ) weakness of will, 3)

deficiency of intelligence.-But it is not possible to relate all weak-

nesses individually to a given class, for they result from a combina-

tion. The first two classes have decreased; the last, as an independent

one, can make progress only with time.

For example, I lied recently, and clearly without cause. I was asked to

dinner. I refused and then said that I could not come because I had a

lesson. -What kind? An English lesson, I said, when I actually had

gymnastics. The reasons:

stupid to lie,

than gymnastics.

Surely virtue does not consist of correcting the weaknesses which harm

you in life. It would seem in such a case that virtue is

self-denial.-But that is not true. Virtue brings happiness because

happiness brings virtue.-Whenever I write candidly in my diary I do not

experience the least vexation toward myself for my weaknesses; it seems

to me that when I avow them, they have already ceased to exist.

This is pleasant. I said my prayers and lay down to sleep. In the

evening I pray better than in the morning; I understand better what I am

saying and feeling. In the evening I do not fear myself, in the morning

I do-there is much before me.

Sleep in all its phases is a wonderful thing: the pieparation, falling

asleep, and sleep itself.-As soon as I lay down I thought, “What a

delight to wrap oneself up warmly and immediately forget oneself in

sleep.” But as soon as I began to fall asleep I remembered that it is

pleasant to fall asleep, and I woke up. All the pleasures of the body

are destroyed by consciousness. One should not be conscious; but I was

conscious that I was conscious, and I continued to be conscious, and I

couldn’t go to sleep. How annoying! Why did God give us consciousness

when it only interferes with life?-Because moral pleasures on the

contrary are felt more deeply when they are conscious.

Reflecting thus, I turned over onto the other side and in so doing

uncovered myself. What a disagreeable sensation to uncover yourself in

the dark. I t always seems as if some one or something is clutching me

or something cold or hot is touching my bare leg. I covered myself up

quickly, tucked the blanket in under me on all sides, hid my head and

began to go to sleep; it seemed to me that under this blanket no one and

nothing could reach me.-My thoughts ran as follows :

“Morpheus, enfold me in your embrace.” This is a Divinity whose priest I

would willingly become. And do you remember how the young lady was

insulted when they said to her: “Quand je suis pass6 chez vous, vous

Ctiez encore dans les bras de Morphte.” She thought MorphCe was a name

like AndrC or Malaphie. What a comical name! ... A charming expression,

dans les bras; I picture to myself so clearly and elegantly the

condition dans les bras,-and especially clearly the bras

themselves-dimpled arms, bare to the shoulder, with little folds of

skin, and a white chemise indiscreetly open.-How wonderful arms are in

general, especially if they have a little dimple!-I stretched. Do you

remember, Saint Thomas forbade stretching. He is like Didrikhs. They

rode with him on horseback. The baiting was fine. Gelke rode beside the

district police officer hallooing to the hounds, and Nalyot was doing

his best, even on the frozen mud. How vexed Seryozha[3] was! He’s at

sister’s. How lovely Masha[4] is-if only I could find such a wife!

Morpheus would be good on a hunt, only the naked one must ride, or else

you might find a wife.-Bah, how Saint Thomas rolls-and the lady has

already set off to overtake them all; she stretches out in vain, but

then that wonderful dans les bras.-Here I suppose I went to sleep

completely.

I dreamed that I wanted to overtake the young lady, suddenly there was a

mountain, I pushed it with my hands, pushed it again-it collapsed; (I

threw down the pillow) and I came home to eat. Not ready yet. Why

not?-Vasili was swaggering loudly (it was the mistress of the house

asking from behind the partition what the noise was, and the chambermaid

answering her; I heard this, that is why I dreamed it). Vasili came in

just as everyone wanted to ask him why i t wasn’t ready. They saw that

Vasili was in his undershirt and that there was a ribbon across his

chest; I became frightened, I fell on my knees, cried and kissed his

hand; it was as pleasant to me as though I were kissing her hands,--even

more so. Vasili took no notice of me and asked, “Have you loaded?” The

Tula pastry-cook Didrikhs said, “Ready!”-“Well, fire!”-They discharged a

volley. (The shutter banged.)-Vasili and I started to dance the

polonnaise, but it was no longer Vasili, it was she. Sud- denly, oh

horror! I noticed that my trousers were so short that my bare knees were

showing. I t is impossible to describe how I suffered (my legs became

uncovered; for a long time I wasn’t able to cover them up in my sleep,

but finally I did). We continued dancing the polonnaise and the Queen of

Wiirttemberg was there; suddenly I started to dance a Russian dance.

Why?-I couldn’t restrain myself. Finally they brought me an overcoat and

boots; but even worse: no trousers at all. It cannot be that I am awake;

surely I am asleep. I woke up.-I went to sleep again.-I thought, then I

could no longer think; I began to imagine things, but I imagined them

connectedly and pictorially; then my imagination went to sleep; dark

images remained. Then my body went to sleep too.-A dream is made up of

the first and last impressions.

Sleep is a condition in which man completely loses consciousness; but

since a man goes to sleep by degrees, he also loses consciousness by

degrees. Consciousness is what is called the soul; but the soul is

regarded as something simple, while there are as many conscious- nesses

as there are separate parts of a human being. I t seems to me that there

are three such parts:

intelligent people only; animals and animal-like men do not have it. It

goes to sleep first.

goes to sleep next.

completely.-Animals do not have this gradation of consciousness, nor do

people when they are in such a state that they lose all

consciousness-after a strong shock or when intoxicated.-The

consciousness of being asleep awakens one immediately.

The recollection of the time which we spend asleep does not proceed from

the same source as do the recollections of real life-i.e., from memory,

the ability to reproduce our impressions-but from the ability to group

impressions. In the moment of awakening we unite all the impressions

which we received while going to sleep and while asleep (man almost

never sleeps completely) under the influence of the impression which

caused us to awaken. This process is the same as falling asleep: it

proceeds by degrees, starting with the lowest faculty and ending with

the highest. ‘This takes place so rapidly that it is impossible to

detect it, and being accustomed to consistency and to the form of time

in which life manifests itself, we accept this aggregate of impressiolls

as a recollection of time passed in sleep. In this way you may explain

the fact that you have a long dream which ends with the circumstance

which awakened you.

You dream that you are going hunting, you load your gun, flush the game,

take aim, fire-and the noise which you take for the shot is the water

bottle which you knocked onto the floor in your sleep. Or you come to

see your friend N., you wait for him, and finally a servant comes in and

reports that N. has arrived; this is actually being said to you by your

own servant to wake you up.

If you wish to check the accuracy of this explanation, you should not in

any case believe the dreams which are told you by people who always

dream something significant and interesting. These people are accustomed

to draw conclusions from dreams according to the principles of

fortune-telling; they have set up a certain form to which everything is

reduced. They supply what is lacking from their imagination and omit

everything that does not fit into this form. For example, a mother will

tell you that she dreamed that her daughter flew up into the sky and

said: “Farewell, mother dear, I shall pray for you”! And what she really

dreamed was that her daughter climbed up onto the roof and said nothing,

and after she had climbed up the daughter suddenly became the cook Ivan

and said, “Don’t you climb up here.”

Perhaps what they tell is made up by their imaginations from mere force

of habit; if so, this is a further proof of my theory of dreams...

If you wish to verify what you yourself experience, recall your thoughts

and images at the time of going to sleep and of waking up, and if anyone

watched you while you were sleeping and can tell you all the

circumstances which could have produced an effect on you, you will

understand why you dreamed what you did and not something else. These

circumstances are so numerous, depending on your constitution, on your

digestion, and on physical causes, that it is impossible to enumerate

them all. But it is said that when we dream that we are flying or

swimming this means that we are growing. Notice why you swim one day and

fly another; recollect everything, and you can explain it very easily.

If one of those persons who are in the habit of interpreting dreams had

dreamed my dream, here is how it would be told. “I saw Saint Thomas

running and running for a long time, and I said to him: ‘Why are you

running?’ and he said to me: ‘I am seeking the bride.’- So you see, he

will either get married or there will be a letter from him...”

Note also that there is no chronological order to your recollections. If

you will recall your dreams, you will realize that a t some time in the

past you actually saw what you dreamed later.-During the night you wake

up several times (almost always), but only the two lower degrees of

consciousness-body and feeling-are awakened. After this, feeling and

body go to sleep again-and the impressions which were received at the

time of this awakening join the general impression of the dream without

any order or consistency. If the third, higher consciousness of

understanding awoke also and after- wards went to sleep again, the dream

would be divided into two parts.

Another Day: On the Volga

I took it into my head to travel from Saratov to Astrakhan by way of the

Volga. In the first place, I thought, it is better in case of bad

weather to travel a longer distance rather than jolt over bad roads for

seven hundred versts; besides, the picturesque banks of the Volga, the

dreams, the danger-all this is pleasant and may have a beneficial

effect. I fancied myself a poet, I called to mind my favorite characters

and heroes, putting myself in their places.-In a word, I thought, as I

always think when I undertake anything new, “Only now real life is

beginning; until now it has been merely a preface which was hardly worth

bothering about.” I know that this is nonsense. I have observed many

times that I always remain the same and that I am no more a poet on the

Volga than on the Voronka[5]

I still believe, I still seek, I still wait for something. I t always

seems to me when I am in doubt whether to do something that a voice

says: you won’t really do that, you won’t go there, and yet it was there

that happiness was waiting for you; now you have let it escape for

ever.-It always seems to me that something is about to start without

me.-Although this is silly, it is the reason why I travelled by way of

the Volga to Astrakhan. I used to be afraid and ashamed to act on such

silly grounds, but no matter how much I examine my past life, I find

that for the most part I have acted on grounds that were no less silly.

I don’t know how it is with others, but 1 am used to this, and for me

the words “trivial” and “ludicrous” have become words without meaning.

Where are the “large” and “serious” grounds?

I set off for the Moscow ferry and began to saunter about among the

boats and rafts. “Are these boats taken? Is there a free one?” I asked a

group of barge-haulers who were standing on the shore. “And what does

your worship require?” an old man with a long beard in a gray peasant’s

coat and lamb’s-wool hat asked me.- “A boat to Astrakhan.” “Well, that

can be managed, sir!”

[1] This word is illegible in Tolstoy’s manuscript.

[2] This word is illegible in Tolstoy’s manuscript.

[3] Tolstoy’s brother, Sergei Nikolaevich.

[4] Tolstoy’s sister, Maria Nikolaevna.

[5] A stream on the grounds at Yasnaya Polyana