Father Sergius by Leo Tolstoy
Father Sergius
I
In Petersburg in the eighteen-forties a surprising event
occurred. An officer of the Cuirassier Life Guards, a handsome
prince who everyone predicted would become aide-de-camp to the
Emperor Nicholas I and have a brilliant career, left the service,
broke off his engagement to a beautiful maid of honour, a
favourite of the Empress's, gave his small estate to his sister,
and retired to a monastery to become a monk.
This event appeared extraordinary and inexplicable to those who
did not know his inner motives, but for Prince Stepan Kasatsky
himself it all occurred so naturally that he could not imagine
how he could have acted otherwise.
His father, a retired colonel of the Guards, had died when Stepan
was twelve, and sorry as his mother was to part from her son, she
entered him at the Military College as her deceased husband had
intended.
The widow herself, with her daughter, Varvara, moved to
Petersburg to be near her son and have him with her for the
holidays.
The boy was distinguished both by his brilliant ability and by
his immense self-esteem. He was first both in his
studies--especially in mathematics, of which he was particularly
fond--and also in drill and in riding. Though of more than
average height, he was handsome and agile, and he would have been
an altogether exemplary cadet had it not been for his quick
temper. He was remarkably truthful, and was neither dissipated
nor addicted to drink. The only faults that marred his conduct
were fits of fury to which he was subject and during which he
lost control of himself and became like a wild animal. He once
nearly threw out of the window another cadet who had begun to
tease him about his collection of minerals. On another occasion
he came almost completely to grief by flinging a whole dish of
cutlets at an officer who was acting as steward, attacking him
and, it was said, striking him for having broken his word and
told a barefaced lie. He would certainly have been reduced to
the ranks had not the Director of the College hushed up the whole
matter and dismissed the steward.
By the time he was eighteen he had finished his College course
and received a commission as lieutenant in an aristocratic
regiment of the Guards.
The Emperor Nicholas Pavlovich (Nicholas I) had noticed him while
he was still at the College, and continued to take notice of him
in the regiment, and it was on this account that people predicted
for him an appointment as aide-de-camp to the Emperor. Kasatsky
himself strongly desired it, not from ambition only but chiefly
because since his cadet days he had been passionately devoted to
Nicholas Pavlovich. The Emperor had often visited the Military
College and every time Kasatsky saw that tall erect figure, with
breast expanded in its military overcoat, entering with brisk
step, saw the cropped side-whiskers, the moustache, the aquiline
nose, and heard the sonorous voice exchanging greetings with the
cadets, he was seized by the same rapture that he experienced
later on when he met the woman he loved. Indeed, his passionate
adoration of the Emperor was even stronger: he wished to
sacrifice something--everything, even himself--to prove his
complete devotion. And the Emperor Nicholas was conscious of
evoking this rapture and deliberately aroused it. He played with
the cadets, surrounded himself with them, treating them sometimes
with childish simplicity, sometimes as a friend, and then again
with majestic solemnity. After that affair with the officer,
Nicholas Pavlovich said nothing to Kasatsky, but when the latter
approached he waved him away theatrically, frowned, shook his
finger at him, and afterwards when leaving, said: 'Remember that
I know everything. There are some things I would rather not
know, but they remain here,' and he pointed to his heart.
When on leaving College the cadets were received by the Emperor,
he did not again refer to Kasatsky's offence, but told them all,
as was his custom, that they should serve him and the fatherland
loyally, that he would always be their best friend, and that when
necessary they might approach him direct. All the cadets were as
usual greatly moved, and Kasatsky even shed tears, remembering
the past, and vowed that he would serve his beloved Tsar with all
his soul.
When Kasatsky took up his commission his mother moved with her
daughter first to Moscow and then to their country estate.
Kasatsky gave half his property to his sister and kept only
enough to maintain himself in the expensive regiment he had
joined.
To all appearance he was just an ordinary, brilliant young
officer of the Guards making a career for himself; but intense
and complex strivings went on within him. From early childhood
his efforts had seemed to be very varied, but essentially they
were all one and the same. He tried in everything he took up to
attain such success and perfection as would evoke praise and
surprise. Whether it was his studies or his military exercises,
he took them up and worked at them till he was praised and held
up as an example to others. Mastering one subject he took up
another, and obtained first place in his studies. For example,
while still at College he noticed in himself an awkwardness in
French conversation, and contrived to master French till he spoke
it as well as Russian, and then he took up chess and became an
excellent player.
Apart from his main vocation, which was the service of his Tsar
and the fatherland, he always set himself some particular aim,
and however unimportant it was, devoted himself completely to it
and lived for it until it was accomplished. And as soon as it
was attained another aim would immediately present itself,
replacing its predecessor. This passion for distinguishing
himself, or for accomplishing something in order to distinguish
himself, filled his life. On taking up his commission he set
himself to acquire the utmost perfection in knowledge of the
service, and very soon became a model officer, though still with
the same fault of ungovernable irascibility, which here in the
service again led him to commit actions inimical to his success.
Then he took to reading, having once in conversation in society
felt himself deficient in general education--and again achieved
his purpose. Then, wishing to secure a brilliant position in
high society, he learnt to dance excellently and very soon was
invited to all the balls in the best circles, and to some of
their evening gatherings. But this did not satisfy him: he was
accustomed to being first, and in this society was far from being
so.
The highest society then consisted, and I think always consist,
of four sorts of people: rich people who are received at Court,
people not wealthy but born and brought up in Court circles, rich
people who ingratiate themselves into the Court set, and people
neither rich nor belonging to the Court but who ingratiate
themselves into the first and second sets.
Kasatsky did not belong to the first two sets, but was readily
welcomed in the others. On entering society he determined to
have relations with some society lady, and to his own surprise
quickly accomplished this purpose. He soon realized, however,
that the circles in which he moved were not the highest, and that
though he was received in the highest spheres he did not belong
to them. They were polite to him, but showed by their whole
manner that they had their own set and that he was not of it.
And Kasatsky wished to belong to that inner circle. To attain
that end it would be necessary to be an aide-de-camp to the
Emperor--which he expected to become--or to marry into that
exclusive set, which he resolved to do. And his choice fell on a
beauty belonging to the Court, who not merely belonged to the
circle into which he wished to be accepted, but whose friendship
was coveted by the very highest people and those most firmly
established in that highest circle. This was Countess Korotkova.
Kasatsky began to pay court to her, and not merely for the sake
of his career. She was extremely attractive and he soon fell in
love with her. At first she was noticeably cool towards him, but
then suddenly changed and became gracious, and her mother gave
him pressing invitations to visit them. Kasatsky proposed and
was accepted. He was surprised at the facility with which he
attained such happiness. But though he noticed something strange
and unusual in the behaviour towards him of both mother and
daughter, he was blinded by being so deeply in love, and did not
realize what almost the whole town knew--namely, that his fiancee
had been the Emperor Nicholas's mistress the previous year.
Two weeks before the day arranged for the wedding, Kasatsky was
at Tsarskoe Selo at his fiancee's country place. It was a hot
day in May. He and his betrothed had walked about the garden and
were sitting on a bench in a shady linden alley. Mary's white
muslin dress suited her particularly well, and she seemed the
personification of innocence and love as she sat, now bending her
head, now gazing up at the very tall and handsome man who was
speaking to her with particular tenderness and self-restraint, as
if he feared by word or gesture to offend or sully her angelic
purity.
Kasatsky belonged to those men of the eighteen-forties (they are
now no longer to be found) who while deliberately and without any
conscientious scruples condoning impurity in themselves, required
ideal and angelic purity in their women, regarded all unmarried
women of their circle as possessed of such purity, and treated
them accordingly. There was much that was false and harmful in
this outlook, as concerning the laxity the men permitted
themselves, but in regard to the women that old-fashioned view
(sharply differing from that held by young people to-day who see
in every girl merely a female seeking a mate) was, I think, of
value. The girls, perceiving such adoration, endeavoured with
more or less success to be goddesses.
Such was the view Kasatsky held of women, and that was how he
regarded his fiancee. He was particularly in love that day, but
did not experience any sensual desire for her. On the contrary
he regarded her with tender adoration as something unattainable.
He rose to his full height, standing before her with both hands
on his sabre.
'I have only now realized what happiness a man can experience!
And it is you, my darling, who have given me this happiness,' he
said with a timid smile.
Endearments had not yet become usual between them, and feeling
himself morally inferior he felt terrified at this stage to use
them to such an angel.
'It is thanks to you that I have come to know myself. I have
learnt that I am better than I thought.'
'I have known that for a long time. That was why I began to love
you.'
Nightingales trilled near by and the fresh leafage rustled, moved
by a passing breeze.
He took her hand and kissed it, and tears came into his eyes.
She understood that he was thanking her for having said she loved
him. He silently took a few steps up and down, and then
approached her again and sat down.
'You know . . . I have to tell you . . . I was not disinterested
when I began to make love to you. I wanted to get into society;
but later . . . how unimportant that became in comparison with
you--when I got to know you. You are not angry with me for that?'
She did not reply but merely touched his hand. He understood
that this meant: 'No, I am not angry.'
'You said . . .' He hesitated. It seemed too bold to say. 'You
said that you began to love me. I believe it--but there is
something that troubles you and checks your feeling. What is
it?'
'Yes--now or never!' thought she. 'He is bound to know of it
anyway. But now he will not forsake me. Ah, if he should, it
would be terrible!' And she threw a loving glance at his tall,
noble, powerful figure. She loved him now more than she had
loved the Tsar, and apart from the Imperial dignity would not
have preferred the Emperor to him.
'Listen! I cannot deceive you. I have to tell you. You ask
what it is? It is that I have loved before.'
She again laid her hand on his with an imploring gesture. He was
silent.
'You want to know who it was? It was--the Emperor.'
'We all love him. I can imagine you, a schoolgirl at the
Institute . . .'
'No, it was later. I was infatuated, but it passed . . . I must
tell you . . .'
'Well, what of it?'
'No, it was not simply--' She covered her face with her hands.
'What? You gave yourself to him?'
She was silent.
'His mistress?'
She did not answer.
He sprang up and stood before her with trembling jaws, pale as
death. He now remembered how the Emperor, meeting him on the
Nevsky, had amiably congratulated him.
'O God, what have I done! Stiva!'
'Don't touch me! Don't touch me! Oh, how it pains!'
He turned away and went to the house. There he met her mother.
'What is the matter, Prince? I . . .' She became silent on
seeing his face. The blood had suddenly rushed to his head.
'You knew it, and used me to shield them! If you weren't a woman
. . . !' he cried, lifting his enormous fist, and turning aside
he ran away.
Had his fiancee's lover been a private person he would have
killed him, but it was his beloved Tsar.
Next day he applied both for furlough and his discharge, and
professing to be ill, so as to see no one, he went away to the
country.
He spent the summer at his village arranging his affairs. When
summer was over he did not return to Petersburg, but entered a
monastery and there became a monk.
His mother wrote to try to dissuade him from this decisive step,
but he replied that he felt God's call which transcended all
other considerations. Only his sister, who was as proud and
ambitious as he, understood him.
She understood that he had become a monk in order to be above
those who considered themselves his superiors. And she understood
him correctly. By becoming a monk he showed contempt for all
that seemed most important to others and had seemed so to him
while he was in the service, and he now ascended a height from
which he could look down on those he had formerly envied. . . .
But it was not this alone, as his sister Varvara supposed, that
influenced him. There was also in him something else--a sincere
religious feeling which Varvara did not know, which intertwined
itself with the feeling of pride and the desire for pre-eminence,
and guided him. His disillusionment with Mary, whom he had
thought of angelic purity, and his sense of injury, were so
strong that they brought him to despair, and the despair led
him--to what? To God, to his childhood's faith which had never
been destroyed in him.
