The period from June 1847 to October 1848 is almost a complete blank page in Tolstoy’s biography: there are not even any letters from him which could shed light on what he did when he was not adhering to his rules. Presumably he threw himself into the farming at Yasnaya Polyana, and discovered it was very hard work. Not only had he never worked on the land, and knew nothing about agriculture, but he had no experience in managing the serfs he owned. When his brother Dmitry wrote to ask him in September 1847 whether he had grown bored of running the estate at Yasnaya Polyana yet, we can assume the answer was affirmative.3 Tolstoy seems to have been a very fickle youth at this time. Some indication of his volatility comes from the fact that in the early autumn of 1847 he apparently decided on a whim to accompany his future brother-in-law to Siberia, and jumped into his carriage as he was setting off, thinking twice about it only when he realised he did not have a hat. In the end Valerian Petrovich set off alone to tie up his business in Tobolsk, in advance of marrying Tolstoy’s sister Maria.4
If Tolstoy’s siblings seemed more settled than he was, it was because none of them nurtured such huge aspirations. As a female member of the provincial nobility, nothing was really expected of Maria except decorum. She and Valerian set up home at his Pokrovskoye estate in the Tula region, a day’s travel by carriage from Yasnaya Polyana, and they soon launched themselves into family life. Nikolay was serving in the Caucasus, having joined the army as a volunteer after leaving university in 1844. He had received his commission eighteen months later, and was now an ensign with the 20th Artillery Brigade, but his was by no means a brilliant army career, not least because he lacked ambition.5 The gifted, dashing Sergey would also join the army a few years later, and was expected to excel, but he lasted all of a year, due to his unwillingness to submit to authority and a similar lack of drive and ambition. The Pirogovo stud farm and large kennels he inherited were enough to keep him busy. Like Tolstoy, Sergey was passionate about hunting – he had soon shot so many wolves that he had enough bones to make an original fence along one of the paths on his estate.6 Otherwise his main passion in life was a gypsy girl in Tula.
Dmitry had ensconced himself on his Shcherbachevka estate in Kursk province. Like most of his class, he did not question the institution of serfdom, but he did feel morally obliged to show concern for his serfs. He also felt it was his duty as a Russian nobleman to serve, a conviction which was perhaps a vestige of Peter the Great’s rule, when lifelong service was imposed on the gentry in return for the privileges of noble status. The length of compulsory service to the state had been progressively reduced over the course of the eighteenth century until it became merely a matter of honour under Catherine the Great, but the idea of serving clearly lingered for high-minded young men like Dmitry Tolstoy. Accordingly, he set off for St Petersburg, where he naively presented himself to one of the Ministry of Justice’s mandarins and declared that he wished to be useful. Since he failed to specify what exactly he wanted to do, however, he was despatched to copy Chancellery documents, and was soon living the life of Akaky Akakievich in Gogol’s immortal story ‘The Overcoat’ (1842). In this merciless satire of the St Petersburg bureaucracy, the lowly copyist Akaky Akakievich, a man who is oblivious to his threadbare clothes, is eventually compelled to buy a new overcoat. In order to save enough money to pay his tailor, he practises extreme self-denial, and then the coat is stolen from him on the first day he wears it. Dmitry Tolstoy similarly paid no thought to his clothes, and merely dressed to cover his body, but his coat, ironically, was practically all he had. According to Tolstoy’s memoirs, his brother one day decided to visit a family acquaintance in the hope that he might help him find a better job. After arriving at Dmitry Obolensky’s dacha, and being invited to take off his coat and join the other guests, it turned out, to the embarrassment of all present, he was wearing nothing underneath, having decided a shirt was unnecessary.7 Apart from being actually quite well off, Dmitry differed from the hapless Akaky Akakievich in one other important respect: he became rapidly disillusioned at becoming another faceless cog in Nicholas I’s vast bureaucratic machine, and he soon retreated back to his estate, sending Obolensky a valedictory letter which made Tolstoy and Sergey wince (whatever Dmitry had written, Sergey told Tolstoy that it made him break out in a sweat, go red in the face and start pacing about the room in excruciating embarrassment).8
‘The Overcoat’ was naturally one of the masterpieces of Russian literature which Tolstoy devoured in the 1840s, along with many other works by Gogol, including the novel Dead Souls, published in 1842. Perhaps because he did not need to tell himself to read, it was an activity he enjoyed, and it was fundamental to his intellectual and artistic development in the years immediately following his departure from Kazan. He read voraciously. Tolstoy came of age at a very bleak time in Russia’s history, which was something he became aware of only gradually. Nicholas I had begun his reign in 1825 by suppressing the Decembrist uprising, and his regime had grown more repressive and reactionary as time went on. Foreign visitors were shocked. In the book the Marquis de Custine wrote following his visit to Russia in 1839,9 he described the country as a police state ruled by a despot. De Custine’s condemnation of the Russian nobility as ‘regimented Tatars’ who confused splendour with elegance, and luxury with refinement, touched a raw nerve. Not surprisingly, his book was banned when it was published in 1843 (as it would be by Stalin in the twentieth century, in view of its alarmingly accurate prophetic qualities).10 When the spectre of revolution raised its head again in Europe in the late 1840s, Nicholas responded by increasing censorship, yet in this suffocating atmosphere, or perhaps because of it, literature managed to flourish. Indeed, writers were now expected to provide moral leadership as well as entertainment and aesthetic pleasure.
By the end of the 1840s many works of Russian literature had made a deep impression on Tolstoy. Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin (1833), Lermontov’s A Hero of Our Time (1840) and Gogol’s Dead Souls (1842) were Russia’s first ‘proper’ novels, but their form was already highly idiosyncratic: Eugene Onegin is a novel in verse, A Hero of Our Time is a collation of interlinked stories and Dead Souls is sub-titled ‘A Poem’. Tolstoy would later proudly uphold the Russian refusal to conform to the European model by asserting the sui generis form of War and Peace, which he adamantly insisted was not a novel. From the beginning Tolstoy was drawn to prose rather than poetry, whose ‘Golden Age’ had in any case given way at the end of the 1830s to an era of realist fiction. He regarded ‘Taman’, one of the constituent stories in A Hero of Our Time, as a paragon of artistic perfection (a view Chekhov would later share).11
Talented new writers emerged in the 1840s to assume the mantle of Pushkin and Gogol, who had dominated the literary scene in the previous decade, and chief amongst them was Turgenev, who published the first of the stories which make up his A Hunter’s Notes in 1847, the year in which Tolstoy took up residence again at Yasnaya Polyana. Turgenev’s stories about contemporary rural life created a furore, not so much for their form as for their content, since they were the first works of Russian literature to depict peasants as three-dimensional human beings. As a liberal-minded Westerniser who abhorred the institution of serfdom, Turgenev consciously set out in his fiction to endow the peasants with a natural dignity, and as worthy of as much respect and artistic attention as the gentlemen who owned them. His oblique criticism of serfdom was all the more powerful for its subtlety, and forced his readers, including the future Alexander II, to confront the evil which had engendered such an iniquitous system. The embarrassment, indignation and then disgust which Turgenev declared he felt with respect to his own landowning noble class would eventually lead him to move abroad.12 Tolstoy, by contrast, did not yet subscribe to the view that serfdom should be abolished. In this he was no different from most of the landowning nobility, and he was later frank about it in his memoirs, where he points out that treating the serfs justly was already a sign of enlightened ownership. But Turgenev’s A Hunter’s Notes, a collection whose political importance was equal to its artistic merit, could not but make Tolstoy think as he came into his inheritance.