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The Gospel in Tolstoy: Selections from His Short Stories, Spiritual Writings & Novels
The Gospel in Tolstoy: Selections from His Short Stories, Spiritual Writings & Novels
The Gospel in Tolstoy: Selections from His Short Stories, Spiritual Writings & Novels
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The Gospel in Tolstoy: Selections from His Short Stories, Spiritual Writings & Novels

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We know of no better introduction to the spiritual vision of one of the greatest writers of all time. This anthology vividly reveals – as none of his novels, novellas, short stories, plays, or essays could on its own – the great Russian novelist’s fascination with the life and teachings of Jesus and the gospel themes of betrayal and forgiveness, sacrifice and redemption, death and resurrection.

Drawn from War and Peace, Anna Karenina, Resurrection, The Death of Ivan Ilyich, The Kingdom of God Is Within You, Master and Man, Walk in the Light, and Twenty-Three Tales, the selections are each prefaced by a contextual note. Newcomers will find in these pages a rich, accessible sampling. Tolstoy enthusiasts will be pleased to find some of the writer’s deepest, most compelling passages in one volume.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateOct 12, 2015
ISBN9780874866711
The Gospel in Tolstoy: Selections from His Short Stories, Spiritual Writings & Novels
Author

Lev Tolstoj

Leo Tolstoy grew up in Russia, raised by a elderly aunt and educated by French tutors while studying at Kazen University before giving up on his education and volunteering for military duty. When writing his greatest works, War and Peace and Anna Karenina, Tolstoy drew upon his diaries for material. At eighty-two, while away from home, he suffered from declining health and died in Astapovo, Riazan in 1910.

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    This is one book that will challenge all your notion of what it really means to be a Christian. You may not agree with the moral teaching imbedded in each of the stories LeBlanc selected, but they will captivate your mind and move you to earnestly think about what being a Christian means personally to you.From the very brief "Biographical Sketch," we see that Tolstoy was apparently a tragic figure who, in spite of much success, was "plagued with suicidal thoughts" until he took a "look beyond his own circle" and "noticed that the peasants, despite their poverty, had an instinctive sense of life's purpose. Their faith in God and simple labor propelled them to live. And then it dawned on him: he too only lived at those times he believed in God. It was a decisive conversion experience, after which never left him" (p.xiii-xiv).However, he left the Church when it ordered praying for the utter destruction of Russia's enemies "with sword and bombshell." Tolstoy outspoken pacifism influenced men like Gandhi, Shaw, MLK, Jr. He made sacrifices giving up his wealth, profits, property, and even breaking with his family that would throw him and his wife into constant battle. He renounced all of his publication rights and signed all his property to wife and children.The writing selected reveal a man who saw the sharp inconsistency of the teachings of Christ and the way Christians believed and lived. It seems many of the stories are of persons seeking for a purposeful and happy life but failing until they come to realize that "To know God and to live come to one and the same thing. God is life" (p.43).This is not a book for the Christian who is too lazy to seek for why God put him where he is, or for one too enamored with his own self and possessions to care for others, too attached to his own theologically moral and ethical, and, yes, even his political presuppositions...but, wait! No, maybe that is just the person who should read this book...the lazy, the self-absorbed, the purposeless, the know-it-all, the seeker.I believe these selections of Tolstoy by LeBlanc will keep you thinking and thinking, struggling to come to some satisfying conclusion on just want it means for you to to live the genuine Christian life and how much are you willing to pay to live it.

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The Gospel in Tolstoy - Lev Tolstoj

Finding God

For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened.

Matthew 7:8

Illustration for Dorothy Day’s The Long Loneliness

1.

The Three Hermits

An Old Legend Current in the Volga District

And in praying do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do; for they think that they will be heard for their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.

Matthew 6:7–8

A BISHOP WAS SAILING from Arkhangelsk to the Solovetsky Monastery, and on the same vessel were a number of pilgrims on their way to visit the shrines at that place. The voyage was a smooth one. The wind favorable, and the weather fair. The pilgrims lay on deck, eating, or sat in groups talking to one another. The bishop, too, came on deck, and as he was pacing up and down, he noticed a group of men standing near the prow and listening to a fisherman who was pointing to the sea and telling them something. The bishop stopped, and looked in the direction in which the man was pointing. He could see nothing however, but the sea glistening in the sunshine. He drew nearer to listen, but when the man saw him, he took off his cap and was silent. The rest of the people also took off their caps, and bowed.

Do not let me disturb you, friends, said the bishop. I came to hear what this good man was saying.

The fisherman was telling us about the hermits, replied one, a tradesman, rather bolder than the rest.

What hermits? asked the bishop, going to the side of the vessel and seating himself on a box. Tell me about them. I should like to hear. What were you pointing at?

Why, that little island you can just see over there, answered the man, pointing to a spot ahead and a little to the right. That is the island where the hermits live for the salvation of their souls.

Where is the island? asked the bishop. I see nothing.

There, in the distance, if you will please look along my hand. Do you see that little cloud? Below it and a bit to the left, there is just a faint streak. That is the island.

The bishop looked carefully, but his unaccustomed eyes could make out nothing but the water shimmering in the sun.

I cannot see it, he said. But who are the hermits that live there?

They are holy men, answered the fisherman. I had long heard tell of them, but never chanced to see them myself till the year before last.

And the fisherman related how once, when he was out fishing, he had been stranded at night upon that island, not knowing where he was. In the morning, as he wandered about the island, he came across an earth hut, and met an old man standing near it. Presently two others came out, and after having fed him, and dried his things, they helped him mend his boat.

And what are they like? asked the bishop.

One is a small man and his back is bent. He wears a priest’s cassock and is very old; he must be more than a hundred, I should say. He is so old that the white of his beard is taking a greenish tinge, but he is always smiling, and his face is as bright as an angel’s from heaven. The second is taller, but he also is very old. He wears a tattered peasant coat. His beard is broad, and of a yellowish grey color. He is a strong man. Before I had time to help him, he turned my boat over as if it were only a pail. He, too, is kindly and cheerful. The third is tall, and has a beard as white as snow and reaching to his knees. He is stern, with overhanging eyebrows; and he wears nothing but a mat tied round his waist.

And did they speak to you? asked the bishop.

For the most part they did everything in silence and spoke but little even to one another. One of them would just give a glance, and the others would understand him. I asked the tallest whether they had lived there long. He frowned, and muttered something as if he were angry; but the oldest one took his hand and smiled, and then the tall one was quiet. The oldest one only said: ‘Have mercy upon us,’ and smiled.

While the fisherman was talking, the ship had drawn nearer to the island.

There, now you can see it plainly, if your Grace will please to look, said the tradesman, pointing with his hand.

The bishop looked, and now he really saw a dark streak – the island. Having looked at it a while, he left the prow of the vessel, and going to the stern, asked the helmsman:

What island is that?

That one, replied the man, has no name. There are many such in this sea.

Is it true that there are hermits who live there for the salvation of their souls?

So it is said, your Grace, but I don’t know if it’s true. Fishermen say they have seen them; but of course they may only be spinning yarns.

I should like to land on the island and see these men, said the bishop. How could I manage it?

The ship cannot get close to the island, replied the helmsman, but you might be rowed there in a boat. You had better speak to the captain.

The captain was sent for and came.

I should like to see these hermits, said the bishop. Could I not be rowed ashore?

The captain tried to dissuade him.

Of course it could be done, said he, but we should lose much time. And if I might venture to say so to your Grace, the old men are not worth your pains. I have heard say that they are foolish old fellows, who understand nothing, and never speak a word, any more than the fish in the sea.

I wish to see them, said the bishop, and I will pay you for your trouble and loss of time. Please let me have a boat.

There was no help for it; so the order was given. The sailors trimmed the sails, the steersman put up the helm, and the ship’s course was set for the island. A chair was placed at the prow for the bishop, and he sat there, looking ahead. The passengers all collected at the prow, and gazed at the island. Those who had the sharpest eyes could presently make out the rocks on it, and then a mud hut was seen. At last one man saw the hermits themselves. The captain brought a telescope and, after looking through it, handed it to the bishop.

It’s right enough. There are three men standing on the shore. There, a little to the right of that big rock.

The bishop took the telescope, got it into position, and he saw the three men: a tall one, a shorter one, and one very small and bent, standing on the shore and holding each other by the hand.

The captain turned to the bishop.

The vessel can get no nearer in than this, your Grace. If you wish to go ashore, we must ask you to go in the boat, while we anchor here.

The cable was quickly let out, the anchor cast, and the sails furled. There was a jerk, and the vessel shook. Then, a boat having been lowered, the oarsmen jumped in, and the bishop descended the ladder and took his seat. The men pulled at their oars, and the boat moved rapidly towards the island. When they came within a stone’s throw they saw three old men: a tall one with only a mat tied round his waist: a shorter one in a tattered peasant coat, and a very old one bent with age and wearing an old cassock – all three standing hand in hand.

The oarsmen pulled in to the shore, and held on with the boathook while the bishop got out.

The old men bowed to him, and he gave them his benediction, at which they bowed still lower. Then the bishop began to speak to them.

I have heard, he said, that you, godly men, live here saving your own souls, and praying to our Lord Christ for your fellow men. I, an unworthy servant of Christ, am called by God’s mercy to keep and teach his flock. I wished to see you, servants of God, and to do what I can to teach you, also.

The old men looked at each other smiling, but remained silent.

Tell me, said the bishop, what you are doing to save your souls, and how you serve God on this island.

The second hermit sighed, and looked at the oldest, the very ancient one. The latter smiled, and said:

We do not know how to serve God. We only serve and support ourselves, servant of God.

But how do you pray to God? asked the bishop.

We pray in this way, replied the hermit. Three are ye, three are we, have mercy upon us.

And when the old man said this, all three raised their eyes to heaven, and repeated:

Three are ye, three are we, have mercy upon us!

The bishop smiled.

You have evidently heard something about the Holy Trinity, said he. But you do not pray aright. You have won my affection, godly men. I see you wish to please the Lord, but you do not know how to serve him. That is not the way to pray; but listen to me, and I will teach you. I will teach you, not a way of my own, but the way in which God in the Holy Scriptures has commanded all people to pray to him.

And the bishop began explaining to the hermits how God had revealed himself to humankind; telling them of God the Father, and God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost.

God the Son came down on earth, said he, to save humankind, and this is how he taught us all to pray. Listen and repeat after me: ‘Our Father.’

And the first old man repeated after him, Our Father, and the second said, Our Father, and the third said, Our Father.

Which art in heaven, continued the bishop.

The first hermit repeated, Which art in heaven, but the second blundered over the words, and the tall hermit could not say them properly. His hair had grown over his mouth so that he could not speak plainly. The very old hermit, having no teeth, also mumbled indistinctly.

The bishop repeated the words again, and the old men repeated them after him. The bishop sat down on a stone, and the old men stood before him, watching his mouth, and repeating the words as he uttered them. And all day long the bishop labored, saying a word twenty, thirty, a hundred times over, and the old men repeated it after him. They blundered, and he corrected them, and made them begin again.

The bishop did not leave off till he had taught them the whole of the Lord’s Prayer so that they could not only repeat it after him, but could say it by themselves. The middle one was the first to know it, and to repeat the whole of it alone. The bishop made him say it again and again, and at last the others could say it too.

It was getting dark, and the moon was appearing over the water, before the bishop rose to return to the vessel. When he took leave of the old men, they all bowed down to the ground before him. He raised them, and kissed each of them, telling them to pray as he had taught them. Then he got into the boat and returned to the ship.

And as he sat in the boat and was rowed to the ship he could hear the three voices of the hermits loudly repeating the Lord’s Prayer. As the boat drew near the vessel their voices could no longer be heard, but they could still be seen in the moonlight, standing as he had left them on the shore, the shortest in the middle, the tallest on the right, the middle one on the left. As soon as the bishop had reached the vessel and got on board, the anchor was weighed and the sails unfurled. The wind filled them, and the ship sailed away, and the bishop took a seat in the stern and watched the island they had left. For a time he could still see the hermits, but presently they disappeared from sight, though the island was still visible. At last it too vanished, and only the sea was to be seen, rippling in the moonlight.

The pilgrims lay down to sleep, and all was quiet on deck. The bishop did not wish to sleep, but sat alone at the stern, gazing at the sea where the island was no longer visible, and thinking of the good old men. He thought how pleased they had been to learn the Lord’s Prayer; and he thanked God for having sent him to teach and help such godly men.

So the bishop sat thinking, and gazing at the sea where the island had disappeared. And the moonlight flickered before his eyes, sparkling, now here, now there, upon the waves. Suddenly he saw something white and shining, on the bright path which the moon cast across the sea. Was it a seagull, or the little gleaming sail of some small boat? The bishop fixed his eyes on it, wondering.

It must be a boat sailing after us, thought he, but it is overtaking us very rapidly. It was far, far away a minute ago, but now it is much nearer. It cannot be a boat, for I can see no sail; but whatever it may be, it is following us, and catching us up.

And he could not make out what it was. Not a boat, nor a bird, nor a fish! It was too large for a man, and besides a man could not be out there in the midst of the sea. The bishop rose, and said to the helmsman:

Look there, what is that, my friend? What is it? the bishop repeated, though he could now see plainly what it was – the three hermits running upon the water, all gleaming white, their grey beards shining, and approaching the ship as quickly as though it were not moving.

The steersman looked and let go the helm in terror.

Oh Lord! The hermits are running after us on the water as though it were dry land!

The passengers, hearing him, jumped up, and crowded to the stern. They saw the hermits coming along hand in hand, and the two outer ones beckoning the ship to stop. All three were gliding along upon the water without moving their feet. Before the ship could be stopped, the hermits had reached it, and raising their heads, all three as with one voice, began to say:

We have forgotten your teaching, servant of God. As long as we kept repeating it we remembered, but when we stopped saying it for a time, a word dropped out, and now it has all gone to pieces. We can remember nothing of it. Teach us again.

The bishop crossed himself, and leaning over the ship’s side, said:

Your own prayer will reach the Lord, men of God. It is not for me to teach you. Pray for us sinners.

And the bishop bowed low before the old men; and they turned and went back across the sea. And a light shone until daybreak on the spot where they were lost to sight.

2.

Levin Looks for Miracles

From Anna Karenina

Konstantin Dmitrich Levin, a wealthy landowner, has long been plagued by doubts about faith, which are newly stirred up again after he watches his older brother die from tuberculosis.

EVER SINCE, by his beloved brother’s deathbed, Levin had first glanced into the questions of life and death in the light of these new convictions, as he called them, which had during the period from his twentieth to his thirty-fourth year imperceptibly replaced his childish and youthful beliefs – he had been stricken with horror, not so much of death, as of life, without any knowledge of whence, and why, and how, and what it was. The physical organization, its decay, the indestructibility of matter, the law of the conservation of energy, evolution, were the words which usurped the place of his old belief. These words and the ideas associated with them were very well for intellectual purposes. But for life they yielded nothing, and Levin felt suddenly like a man who has changed his warm fur cloak for a muslin garment, and going for the first time into the frost is immediately convinced, not by reason, but by his whole nature that he is as good as naked, and that he must infallibly perish miserably.

From that moment, though he did not distinctly face it, and still went on living as before, Levin had never lost this sense of terror at his lack of knowledge.

He vaguely felt, too, that what he called his new convictions were not merely lack of knowledge, but that they were part of a whole order of ideas, in which no knowledge of what he needed was possible.

At first, marriage, with the new joys and duties bound up with it, had completely crowded out these thoughts. But of late, while he was staying in Moscow after his wife’s confinement, with nothing to do, the question that clamored for solution had more and more often, more and more insistently, haunted Levin’s mind.

The question was summed up for him thus: If I do not accept the answers Christianity gives to the problems of my life, what answers do I accept? And in the whole arsenal of his convictions, so far from finding any satisfactory answers, he was utterly unable to find anything at all like an answer. He was in the position of a man seeking food in toy shops and tool shops.

Instinctively, unconsciously, with every book, with every conversation, with every man he met, he was on the lookout for light on these questions and their solution.

What puzzled and distracted him above everything was that the majority of men of his age and circle had, like him, exchanged their old beliefs for the same new convictions, and yet saw nothing to lament in this, and were perfectly satisfied and serene. So that, apart from the principal question, Levin was tortured by other questions too. Were these people sincere, he asked himself, or were they playing a part? Or was it that they understood the answers science gave to these problems in some different, clearer sense than he did? And he assiduously studied both these people’s opinions and the books which treated of these scientific explanations.

One fact he had found out since these questions had engrossed his mind, was that he had been quite wrong in supposing from the recollections of the circle of his young days at college, that religion had outlived its day, and that it was now practically nonexistent. All the people nearest to him who were good in their lives were believers. The old prince, and Lvov, whom he liked so much, his brother Koznyshev, and all the women, believed. His wife had a childlike faith just like his as a small boy, and ninety-nine out of a hundred of the Russian people, all the working people for whose life he felt the deepest respect, believed.

Another fact of which he became convinced, after reading many scientific books, was that those who shared his views had no other construction to put on them, and that they gave no explanation of the questions which he felt he could not live without answering, but simply ignored their existence and attempted to explain other questions of no possible interest to him, such as the evolution of organisms, the materialistic theory of consciousness, and so forth.

Moreover, during his wife’s confinement, something had happened that seemed extraordinary to him. He, an unbeliever, had fallen into praying, and at the moment he prayed, he believed. But that moment had passed, and he could not make his state of mind at that moment fit into the rest of his life.

He could not admit that at that moment he knew the truth, and that now he was wrong; for as soon as he began thinking calmly about it, it all fell to pieces. He could not admit that he was mistaken then, for his spiritual condition then was precious to him, and to admit that it was a proof of weakness would have been to desecrate those moments. He was miserably divided against himself, and strained all his spiritual forces to the utmost to escape from this condition.

♦ ♦ ♦

Making the rounds of his country estate, Levin speaks to one of his peasants about a local innkeeper who rents some land.

Levin, going up to the machine, moved Fyodor aside, and began feeding the corn in himself.

Working on till the peasants’ dinner hour, which was not long in coming, he went out of the barn with Fyodor and fell into talk with him, stopping beside a neat yellow sheaf of rye laid on the threshing floor for seed.

Fyodor came from a village at some distance from the one in which Levin had once allotted land to his cooperative association. Now it had been let to a former house porter.

Levin talked to Fyodor about this land and asked whether Platon, a well-to-do peasant of good character belonging to the same village, would not take the land for the coming year.

It’s a high rent; it wouldn’t pay Platon, Konstantin Dmitrich, answered the peasant, picking the ears off his sweat-drenched shirt.

But how does Kirilov make it pay?

Oh, Mityuka (as he contemptuously called the house porter), you may be sure he’ll make it pay, Konstantin Dmitrich! He’ll get his share, however he has to squeeze to get it! He’s no mercy on a Christian. But Uncle Fokanich (so he called the old peasant Platon), do you suppose he’d flay the skin off a man? He’ll give credit, and sometimes he’ll let a man off. And go short himself, too. He’s that sort of person.

But why will he let anyone off?

Oh, well, of course, folks are different. One man lives for his own wants and nothing else, like Mituh, he only thinks of filling his belly, but Fokanich is a righteous man. He lives for his soul. He does not forget God.

How thinks of God? How does he live for his soul? Levin almost shouted.

Why, to be sure, in truth, in God’s way. Folks are different. Take you now, you wouldn’t wrong a man …

Yes, yes, goodbye! said Levin, breathless with excitement, and turning round he took his stick and walked quickly away towards home.

A novel joyous feeling enveloped Levin. At the peasant’s words about Platon living for his soul, rightly, in God’s way, undefined but significant ideas crowded into his mind, as if they had broken loose from some place where they had been locked up, and all rushing forward towards one goal, whirled in his head, blinding him with their light.

♦ ♦ ♦

Levin strode along the highroad, absorbed not so much in his thoughts (he could not yet disentangle them) as in his spiritual condition, unlike anything he had experienced before.

The words uttered by the peasant had acted on his soul like an electric shock, suddenly transforming and combining into a single whole the whole swarm of disjointed, impotent, separate thoughts that incessantly occupied his mind. These thoughts had unconsciously been in his mind even when he was talking to Fyodor about letting the land.

He was aware of something new in his soul and took a delight in probing it, not yet knowing what this new something was.

"Not living for his own wants, but for God? For what God? And could anything be more senseless than what he said? He said that we must not live for our own wants, that is, we must not live for what we understand, what we are attracted by, what we desire, but must live for something incomprehensible, for God, whom no one can understand nor even define. What of it? Didn’t I understand those senseless words of Fyodor’s? And understanding them, did I doubt of their truth? Did I think them stupid, obscure, inexact?

"No, I understood him, and exactly as he understands the words. I understood them more fully and clearly than I understand anything in life, and never in my life have I doubted nor can I doubt about it. And not only I, but everyone, the whole world understands nothing fully but this, and about this only they have no doubt and are always agreed.

"And I looked out for miracles, complained that I did not see a miracle which would convince me. A material miracle would have persuaded me. And here is a miracle, the sole miracle possible, continually existing, surrounding me on all sides, and I never noticed it!

"Fyodor says that Kirilov lives for his belly. That’s comprehensible and rational. All of us as rational beings can’t do anything else but live for our belly. And all of a sudden the same Fyodor says that one mustn’t live for one’s belly, but must live for truth, for God, and at a hint I understand him! And I and millions of people, people who lived ages ago and people living now – peasants, the poor in spirit and the learned, who have thought and written about it, in their obscure words saying the same thing – we are all agreed about this one thing: what we must live for and what is good. I and all people have only one firm, incontestable, clear knowledge, and that knowledge cannot be explained by the reason – it is outside it, and has no causes and can have no effects.

"If goodness has causes, it is not goodness; if it has effects, a reward, it is not goodness either. So goodness is outside the chain of cause and effect.

"And yet I know it, and we all know it.

"What could be a greater miracle than that?

Can I have found the solution of it all? Can my sufferings be over? thought Levin, striding along the dusty road, not noticing the heat nor his weariness, and experiencing a sense of relief from prolonged suffering. This feeling was so delicious that it seemed to him incredible. He was breathless with emotion and incapable of going farther; he turned off the road into the forest and lay down in the shade of an aspen on the uncut grass. He took his hat off his hot head and lay propped on his elbow in the lush, feathery, woodland grass.

Yes, I must make it clear to myself and understand, he thought, looking intently at the untrampled grass before him, and following the movements of a green beetle, advancing along a blade of couch grass and lifting up in its progress a leaf of goatweed. What have I discovered? he asked himself, bending aside the leaf of goatweed out of the beetle’s way and twisting another blade of grass above for the beetle to cross over onto it. "What is it makes me glad? What have I discovered?

I have discovered nothing. I have simply opened my eyes to what I knew. I have come to the recognition of that Power that not only in the past gave me life but now too gives me life. I have been set free from fallacy, I have found the Master.

3.

The Death of Ivan Ilyich

A Selection from the Novella

Ivan Ilyich, an ambitious and conventionally successful judge, moves to St. Petersburg to pursue his career. While helping his wife arrange the décor in their new house, he slips from a ladder and injures himself. Bedridden after the accident, he is cared for by the young peasant Gerasim.

HIS WIFE RETURNED late at night. She came in on tiptoe, but he heard her, opened his eyes, and made haste to close them again. She wished to send Gerasim away and to sit with him herself, but he opened his eyes and said: No, go away.

Are you in great pain?

Always the same.

Take some opium.

He agreed and took some. She went away.

Till about three in the morning he was in a state of stupefied misery. It seemed to him that he and his pain were being thrust into a narrow, deep black sack, but though they were pushed further and further in, they could not be pushed to the bottom. And this, terrible enough in itself, was accompanied by suffering. He was frightened yet wanted to fall through the sack, he struggled but yet cooperated. And suddenly he broke through, fell, and regained consciousness. Gerasim was sitting at the foot of the bed dozing quietly and patiently, while he himself lay with his emaciated stockinged legs resting on Gerasim’s shoulders; the same shaded candle was there and the same unceasing pain.

Go away, Gerasim, he whispered.

"It’s all right, sir. I’ll

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