CZM Book Club: After the Dance by Leo Tolstoy

rise very long books and they're very Russian. And I decided to read the story because I just finished reading a bunch of stories by mcgone, the Mexican anarchist, and I was like, I think I'm going to do some like anarchist fiction as a kick. And Tolstoy's an interesting character. He's often seen as the sort of founder of Christian anarchism, and whenever he comes up in like every history episode that I do, if it's vaguely related to Eastern Europe

or in Russia in particular. But I haven't actually done as much of a deep dive on him in particular as I would like to, partly because I suspect he was actually kind of a terrible person, but I don't know, because I haven't done it yet. And I like reading these stories not because I'm like, this is the way that we should all think about politics, but instead as ways of understanding, like this is the way that some people were thinking about politics. These are influential ways of

understanding ideas. And the thing about mcgaughone that we read in the last two weeks is that he wrote a fair amount, but his primary thing was that he was a revolutionary, not that he was a writer, and in particular a writer of fiction. Although again he wrote a fair amount of fiction, but they're very simple and direct stories, and that doesn't make them worse or better. But Tolstoy is like a writer, and he's like a writer's writer and stuff, and so I thought it'd be an interesting

comparison to make this particular story. It's called After the Dance. It's also translated as After the Ball. It was written in nineteen oh three, and it wasn't unpublished. It wasn't published until nineteen eleven. He died in nineteen ten, so this is published posthumously, and so it's set well after he's written the books that have made him famous. Anyway, this story, and you say that a man cannot of himself understand what is good and evil, that it is

all environment, that the environment swamps the man. But I believe it is all chance. Take my own case. Thus spoke our excellent friend Ivan Vasilovitch, after a conversation between us on the impossibility of improving individual character without a change of conditions under which men live. Nobody had actually said that one could not of oneself understand good and evil.

But it was a habit of Ivan Vasilovitch to answer in this way the thoughts aroused in his own mind by conversation, and to illustrate those thoughts by relating incidents in his own life. He often quite forgot the reason for his story in telling it, but he always told it with great sincerity and feeling. He did so. Now take my own case. My whole life was molded not by environment, but by something quite different. By what. Then

we asked, Oh, that is a long story. I should have to tell you about a great many things to make you understand well. Tell us. Then, ivan Vasilovitch thought a little and shook his head. My whole life, he said, was changed in one night, or rather mourning why what happened? One of us asked, what happened was that I was very much in love. I have been in love many times, but this was the most serious of all. It is a thing of the past. She has married daughters now.

It was Varenka b ivan Vasilov mentioned her surname. Even at fifty she is remarkably handsome, But in her youth, at eighteen, she was exquisite, tall, slender, graceful, and stately. Yes, stately is the word. She held herself very erect by instinct, as it were, and carried her head high, and that, together with her beauty and height, gave her a queenly

air in spite of being thin, even bony. One might say, it might indeed have been deterring had it not been for her smile, which was always gay and cordial, and for the charming light in her eyes, and for her youthful sweetness. What an entrancing description you give ivan Vassilovitch description. Indeed, I could not possibly describe her so that you could appreciate her. But that does not matter. What I am going to tell you happened in the forties. I was

at the time a student in a provincial university. I don't know whether it was a good thing or no. But we had no political clubs, no theory in our universities. Then we were simply young and spent our time as young men do, studying and amusing ourselves. I was a very gay, lively, careless fellow, and had plenty of money too. I had a fine horse and used to go to boggaining with the young ladies. Skating had not yet come into fashion. I went to drinking parties with my comrades.

In those days we drank nothing but champagne. If we had no champagne, we drank nothing at all. We never drank vodka as they do now. Evening parties and balls were my favorite amusements. I danced well, and I was not an ugly fellow. Come, there is no need to be modest interrupted a lady near him. We have seen your photograph. Not ugly. Indeed, you are a handsome fellow.

Handsome if you like, that does not matter. When my love for her was at its strongest on the last day of the carnival, I was at a ball at the Provincial Marshals. A good natured old man, rich and hospitable, and a court chamberlain. The guests were welcomed by his wife, who was as good natured as himself. She was dressed in puce colored velvet and had a diamond diadem on her forehead, and her plump, old white shoulders and bosom were bare, like the portraits of Empress Elizabeth, the daughter

of Peter the Great. It was a delightful ball. It was a splendid room with a gallery for the orchestra, which was famous at the time, and consisted of serfs belonging to a musical landowner. The refreshments were magnificent, and the champagne flowed in rivers. Though I was fond of the champagne, I did not drink that night, because without it I was drunk with love. But I made up for it by dancing waltzes and polkas till I was

ready to drop, of course, whenever possible. With Varenka, she wore a white dress with a pink sash, white shoes, and white kid gloves which did not quite reach to her thin pointed elbow. A disgusting engineer named Anaismov robbed me of the marazuka with her to this day I cannot forgive him. He asked her for the dance the minute she arrived, and while I had driven to the hairdressers to get a pair of gloves and was late.

So I did not dance the Mazurka with her, but with a German girl to whom I had previously paid a little attention. But I am afraid I did not behave very politely to her that evening. I hardly spoke or looked at her, and saw nothing but the tall, slendid figure in a white dress with a pink sash, a flushed, beaming, dimpled face, and sweet kind eyes. I was not alone. They were all looking at her with admiration, the men and women alike. Although she outshone all of them,

they could not help but admiring her. Although I was not nominally her partner for the Mazurka, I did, as a matter of fact, dance nearly the whole time with her. She always came forward boldly the whole length of the room to pick me out. I flew to meet her without waiting to be chosen, and she thanked me with a smile for my intuition. When I was brought up

to her with somebody else, and she guessed wrongly. She took the other man's hand with a shrug of her slim shoulders, and smiled at me regretfully, much like the regret that you might feel if you don't take advantage of pressing the skip forward several times button, or listening to ads and buying stuff. And we're back Whenever there was a waltz figure in the mazurka, I waltzed with her for a long time, and breathing fast and smiling, she would say, encore. And I went on waltzing and waltzing,

as though unconscious of any bodily existence. Come now, how could you be unconscious of it? If your arm was around her waist, you must have been conscious not only of your own existence, but of hers, said one of the party, Ivan Vassilovitch, cried out, almost shouting in anger. There you are moderns all over. Nowadays you think of nothing but the body. It was different in our day, the more I was in love, the less corporeal she was in my eyes. Nowadays you think of nothing but

the body. Nowadays you set legs, ankles, and I don't know what you undressed the women you were in love with in my eyes, as Alfonse Carr said, and he was a good writer. The one I loved was always draped in robes of bronze. We never thought of doing so. We tried to veil her nakedness like Noah's good natured son. Oh well, you can't understand. Don't pay attention to him, go on, said one of them. Well, I danced for the most part with her and did not notice how

time was passing. The musicians kept playing the same mazurka tunes over and over again, in desperate exhaustion. You know what it is. Towards the end of a ball, Papa's and mamas were already getting up from the card tables in the drawing room, and expectation of supper, the men servants were running to and fro bringing in things. It was nearly three o'clock. I had to make the most of the last minutes. I chose her again for the mazurka, and for the hundredth time, we danced across the room

the quadrille. After supper is mine, I said, taking her to her place. Of course, if I am not carried off home, she said, with a smile, I won't give you up, I said, give me my fan anyhow, she answered, I am so sorry to part with it, I said, handing her a cheap white fan. Well, here's something to console you, she said, plucking a feather out of the fan and giving it to me. I took the feather and could only express my rapture and gratitude with my eyes.

I was not only pleased and gay, I was happy, delighted. I was good. I was not myself but some being not of this earth, knowing nothing of evil. I hid the feather in my glove and stood there, unable to tear myself away from her. Look they are urging father to dance, she said to me, pointing to the tall, stately figure of her father, a colonel with silver epulets,

who was standing in the doorway with some ladies. Varenka, come here, exclaimed our hostess, and the lady with a diamond fairron air with her shoulders like Elizabeth in a loud voice. Varenka went to the door, and I followed her. Persuade your father to dance the mazurka with me, Mancherie, do please, Peter Vassilovitch, she said, turning to the colonel Varenka's father was a very handsome, well preserved old man.

He had good color mustaches curled in the style of Nikolas the First, and white whiskers which met the mustaches. His hair was combed on to his forehead, and a bright smile like his daughter's was on his lips. In his eyes, he was splendidly set up, with a broad military chest, on which he wore some decorations, and he had powerful shoulders and long, slim legs. He was that ultra military type produced by the discipline of Emperor Nicholas

the First. When we approached the door, the colonel was just refusing to dance, saying that he had quite forgotten how But at that instant he smiled, swung his arm gracefully round to the left, drew his sword from its sheath, handed it to an obliging young man who stood near, and smoothed his suede glove on his right hand. Everything must be done according to rule, he said, with a smile. He took the hand of his daughter and stood one

quarter turned, waiting for the music. At the first sound of the mazurka, he stamped one foot smartly through the other forward, and at first slowly and smoothly, then buoyantly and impetuously, with stamping of feet and clicking of boots, his tall, imposing figure moved through the length of the room. Varenka swayed gracefully beside him, rhythmically and easily, making her steps short or long with her little feet and their white satin slippers. All the people in the room followed

every movement of the couple. As for me, I not only admired, I regarded them with enraptured sympathy. I was particularly impressed with the old gentleman's boots. They were not the modern pointed affairs, but were made of cheap leather, square toed, and evidently built by the regimental cobbler in order that his daughter might dress and go out in society. He did not buy fashionable boots, but wore homemade ones, I thought, and his square toes seemed to me most touching.

It was obvious that in his time he had been a good dancer, but now he was too heavy and his legs had not spring enough for all the beautiful steps he tried to take. Still, he contrived to go twice around the room, when at the end, standing with legs apart. He suddenly clicked his feet together and felt on one knee a bit heavily, and she danced gracefully around him, smiling and adjusting her skirts, and the whole room applauded. Rising with an effort, he tenderly took his

daughter's face between his hands. He kissed her on the forehead, and brought her to me. Under the impression that I was her partner for the Mazurka, I said, I was not well. Never mind, just go around the room once with her, he said, smiling kindly, as he replaced his sword in the sheath. As the contents of the bottle flow readily when the first drop has been poured, so my love for Verenka seemed to set free the whole force of loving within me. In surrounding her, it embraced

the world. I loved the hostess with her diet, him and her shoulders, like Elizabeth and her husband, and her guests, and her footman, even the engineer Anismov, who felt peevish towards me. As for Varenka's father, with his homemade boots and his kind smile, so like her own. I felt a sort of tenderness for him. That was almost rapture. After summer, I danced the promised quadrille with her, and though I had been infinitely happy before, I grew still

happier with every moment. We did not speak of love. I neither asked myself nor her whether she loved me. It was quite enough to know that I loved her. I had only one fear that something might come to interfere with my great joy. When I went home and began to undress for the night, I found it quite out of the question. I held the little feather out of her fan in my hand, and one of her gloves, which she gave me when I helped her into the

carriage after her mother. Looking at these things, and without closing my eyes, I could see her before me as she was for an instant when she thought she had to choose between two partners. She tried to guess what kind of person was represented in me, and I could hear her sweet voice as she said, pride, am I right, and merrily gave me her hand. At supper, she took the first sip from my glass of champagne, looking at

me over the rim with her caressing glance. But plainest of all, I could see her as she danced with her father, gliding along beside him and looking at the admiring observers with pride and happiness. He and she were united in my mind in one rush of pathetic tenderness. And you know what else is awkward, like the way that people in old timey describe things like this, cutting to ads in the middle of a story that's also awkward.

And yet here we all are, and we're back. I was living then with my brother, who has since died. He disliked going out and never went to dances, and besides he was busy preparing for his last university examinations and was leading a very regular life. He was asleep. I looked at him, his head buried in the pillow and half covered with the quilt, and I affectionately pitied him, pitying him for his ignorance of the bliss I was experiencing our surf Patrushia had met me with a candle,

ready to undress me, but I sent him away. His sleepy face and toussled hair seemed to me so touching. Trying not to make a noise, I went to my room on tiptoe and sat down on my bed. No, I was too happy. I could not sleep, Besides, it was too hot in the rooms. Without taking off my uniform, I went quietly into the hall, put on my overcoat, opened the front door, and stepped out into the street. It was after four when I had left the ball.

Going home and stopping there a while had occupied two hours, so by the time I went out it was dawn. It was regular carnival weather, foggy, and the road full of water soaked, snow just melting, and water dripping from the eaves. Varenka's family lived on the edge of town, near a large field, one end of which was a parade ground. At the other end was a boarding school

for young ladies. I passed through our empty little street and came to the main thoroughfare, where I met pedestrians and sledges laden with wood, the runners grating the road. The horses swung with regular paces beneath their shining yokes, their backs covered with straw mats, and their heads wet with rain, while the drivers in enormous boots splashed through the mud beside the sledges. All of this, the very horses themselves seemed to me stimulating and fascinating, full of suggestion.

When I approached the field near their house, I saw at one end of it, in the direction of the parade ground, something very huge and black. I heard sounds of fife and drum proceeding from it. My heart had been full of song, and I had heard an imagination the tune of the mazurka. But this was very harsh music. It was not pleasant. What can that be? I thought, and went towards the sound by a slippery path through

the center of the field. Walking about a hundred paces, I began to distinguish many black objects through the mist. They were evidently soldiers. It is probably a drill, I thought, So I went along in that direction, in company with a blacksmith who wore a dirty coat and an apron, and he was carrying something. He walked ahead of me. As we approached the place, the soldiers in black uniforms stood in two rows, facing each other, motionless, their guns

at rest. Behind them stood the fifes and drums incessantly repeating the same unpleasant tune. What are they doing, I asked the blacksmith, who halted at my side. A tartar is being beaten through the ranks. For his attempt to dessert, said the blacksmith in an angry tone, as he looked intently at the far end of the line. I looked in the same direction and saw between the files something

horrid approaching me. The thing that approached me was a man stripped to the waist, fastened with cords to the guns of two soldiers who were leading him. At his side, an officer and overcoat and cap was walking, whose figure had a familiar look. The victim advanced under the blows that rained upon him from both sides, his whole body plunging, his feet dragging through the snow. Now he threw himself backward,

and the subalterns who led him thrust him forward. Now he fell forward, and they pulled him up short while ever at his side marched the tall officer with firm and nervous pace. It was Varenka's father, with his rosy face and white mustache. At each stroke, the man, as if a maze, turned his face, grimacing with pain, towards the side whence the blow came, and, showing his white teeth, repeated the same words over and over, but I could only hear what the words were. When he came quite near.

He did not speak them. He sobbed them out. Brothers have mercy on me, Brothers have mercy on me. But the brothers had no mercy. And when the procession came close to me, I saw how a soldier who stood opposite me took a firm step forward, and, lifting his stick with a whirr, brought it down upon the man's back. The man plunged forward, but the subalterns pulled him back, and another blow came down from the other side, then

from this side, and then from the other. The colonel marched beside him, and, looking now at his feet and now at the man, inhaled the air, puffed out his cheeks, and breathed it out between his protruded lips. When they passed the place where I stood, I caught a glimpse between the two files of the back of the man who was being punished. It was something so many colored, wet, red, unnatural, that I could hardly believe it was a human body.

My God, muttered the blacksmith. The procession moved further away, the blows continued to rain upon the writhing, falling creature. The fifes shrilled, and the drums beat and the tall, imposing figure of the colonel moved alongside the man, just as before. Then, suddenly the colonel stopped and rapidly approached a man in the ranks. I'll teach you to hit him gently. I heard his furious voice say, will you

pat him like that? Will you? And I saw how his strong hand in the suede glove struck the weak, bloodless, terrified soldier from not bringing down his stick with sufficient strength on the red neck of the tartar. Bring new sticks, he cried, and looking round, he saw me, assuming an air of not knowing me, and with a ferocious, angry frown, he hastily turned away. I felt so utterly ashamed, I didn't know where to look. It was as if I had been detected in a disgraceful act. I dropped my

eyes and quickly hurried home. All the way I had the drums beating and the fifes whistling in my ears, and I heard the words brothers, have mercy on me? Or will you pat him? Will you? My heart was full of physical disgust that was almost sickness, so much so that I halted several times on my way, where I had the feeling that I was going to be really sick from all the horrors that had possessed me

that night. I do not remember how I got home and got to bed, but the moment I was about to fall asleep, I heard and saw again all that had happened, and I sprang up. Evidently he knows something I do not know. I thought about the colonel. If I knew what he knows, I should certainly grasp understand what I have just seen, and it would not cause me much suffering. But however much I thought about it, I could not understand the thing that the Colonel knew.

It was evening before I could get to sleep, and then only after calling on a friend and drinking till I was quite drunk. Do you think I had come to the conclusion that the deed I had witnessed was wicked? Oh? No, Since it was done with such assurance and was recognized by everyone as indispensable, they doubtless knew something which I did not know. So I thought and tried to understand, but no matter, I could never understand it then or afterwards, and not being able to grasp it, I could not

enter the service as I had intended. I don't mean only the military service. I did not enter the civil service either, And so now I have been of no use whatsoever, as you can now see. Yes, we know how useless you've been, said one of us. Tell us, rather, how many people would be of any use at all if it hadn't been for you. Oh that's utter nonsense, said Ivan Vassilovitch with genuine annoyance. Well, then what about the love affair? My love it decreased from that day when,

as often happened, and she looked dreamy and meditative. I instantly recollected the colonel on the parade ground and felt so awkward and uncomfortable that I began to see her less frequently. So my love came to nought. Yes, such chances arise, and they alter and direct a man's whole life, he said, And summing up, and you say, and that's the end of the story, this story. And now I always pointed out that I always say this story is interesting to me. But although I won't say I like

this story so much. Instead, I'll say that the story is really interesting in me, and I think it's really well written. But it's also, like I mean, it's written in from my point of view fundamentally misogynist form. Right, it is fundamentally I had this thing, I had this love of this beautiful woman, and it fell apart. I

lost it because of my disgust at her father. Right, But interestingly and not this story is actually based on what happened to his brother, Serge, who was courting the daughter of a commander and then watched the mander overseeing the beating of a soldier, was like, I can't do any of this. I want to have nothing to do with any of this, and like stopped courting the daughter.

And the fact that it's related to that is like particularly interesting, right because at the beginning of this story, the protagonist Ivan Vasilovich is like, oh, I was living with my brother who since died, and this is written about his brother, only the story didn't come out until actually he died, and so it's kind of a weird

ghost story, I don't know whatever. And it's not written in a form that people would write most stories now, where it's this entire build up and then this complete reversal. You know, this story is absolutely cut into two completely opposite parts to give us this sense of this high right, this like you know, overwrought love story, although I think that all along the overall love story is like and then the serfs brought us stuff, But maybe everyone just

I don't know, whatever, you know. It seems to be aware of class, but maybe it's not aware of class. Maybe I'm just hyper aware of class. It doesn't feel like it's aware of the feminist implications of itself. But just yeah, this idea of like he can't even be mad. He's like, oh, yes, I'm clearly the bad one because I don't understand how society works. Is like such an

interesting and dark take. And yeah, that's the story about a soldier running a gauntlet told from the point of view of some rich guy who watches it and it fox his entire life up. And it's called After the Dance by Tolstoi. Thanks for listening, and next week I'll read you more stories. It could Happen here as a production of cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website Coolzonemedia dot com, or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever

you listen to podcasts. You can find sources where It Could Happen here. Updated monthly at cool zonemedia dot com, slash sources, thanks for listening.