what he said." Christ meant, that is to say, that the wrongdoer must be allowed a free hand to rob, to murder, and to ravish; that there must be no armies, no police force, no government machinery of any kind; that we ought all to live celibate lives. Christ also meant-though the authority for this is not so clear-that we must all be teetotalers, non-smokers, and vegetarians. That is the thesis-on which two comments present themselves.

The first comment is that there is no reason to suppose that Christ meant anything of the kind, seeing that He "came eating and drinking,” accepted an invitation to a marriage feast, and there turned water into wine. The second comment is that Christ's meaning, whatever it may have been, is, from the strict Tolstoyan point of view, immaterial. Tolstoy, as has already been pointed out, only agrees with Christ when Christ agrees with him. "Ego et Christus meus" is the order of ideas to which his eclecticism commits him; and his teaching must stand or fall on its own merits. Does it stand? Are the Tolstoyans standing behind it? Or do they merely accord it a sentimental, rhetorical support on general principles, while letting it collapse whenever the pressure of a particular case is found inconveniently hard?

Very likely they accept and observe the simpler austerities; but these are hardly of the essence of the system. It is easy for the vegetarian or the teetotaler so to order his life that no difficult question in casuistry will ever be raised by his self-imposed rules of abstinence. These virtues, if virtues they be, are purely self-regarding. Similarly with the precept that we ought to avoid taking any office which involves the swearing of allegiance to any organized government. It is quite easy not to be a soldier, or a policeman, or a civil servant-as easy as the French critic said that it was not to

Consist

write a tragedy in five acts. ency in act here presents no embarrassing difficulties, and inconsistency in thought, even if it exists, may evade detection. So far, therefore, the teaching of Tolstoy, though eccentric, is of no great theoretical interest or practical importance. We only reach the heart of the subject when we come to consider the doctrines of non-resistance, and universal continence-doctrines which do really strike at the roots of society, and threaten to destroy it. What, then, have the Tolstoyans to say on these branches of the subject? Let us first examine their attitude towards the doctrine of non-resistance in its bearing, not only upon the conduct of individuals, but also upon the policy of nations.

In so far as the policy of nations is concerned Mr. Crosby gives away the whole case in the opening sentences of his chapter entitled "The Christian Teaching in Practice." "Are the injunctions of Christ (that is to say, of Tolstoy) practicable? We can only answer that they have often proved so." Perhaps. But a doctrine which is to be of universal application must be practicable not only "often" but "always." A single contrary instance is sufficient to destroy the force of a generalization. This naïve use of the word "often" is by itself a refutation of Tolstoy-by a Tolstoyan; and, if we want to supplement the refutation, we have only to analyze the affirmative instance which Mr. Crosby triumphantly adduces. He cites the case of William Lloyd Garrison-"a non-resistant and one of the most extreme"-and he asks: "Is it a mere coincidence that this typical non-resistant should have been the man who, in the history of America, has, without any exception, accomplished the most for humanity?"

The suggestion is, of course, that William Lloyd Garrison, without striking a blow, effected the emancipation

of the slaves. It is perfectly true that the blacks were emancipated, and it is also perfectly true that William Lloyd Garrison took no part in the fighting. But there was nevertheless plenty of fighting as the result of William Lloyd Garrison's burning words; and, if there had been no fighting, the blacks would not have been emancipated. Mr. Crosby's argument requires that not only William Lloyd Garrison but also General Grant should have been a nonresister. But Grant was nothing of the kind; and, just as We see Mr. Crosby refuting Tolstoy by his use of the word "often," so we may see Grant refuting Mr. Crosby at the Battle of the Wilderness.

Indeed, the Tolstoyan appeals to history can always without difficulty be refuted by the historian. Even when the instances which they select do not, under close inspection, disprove their points instead of proving them, alternative instances pointing to opposite conclusions can invariably be cited. One of their favorite texts, quoted by them from Tolstoy, and by Tolstoy from the Bible, is: "He that taketh the sword shall perish by the sword." And to this they add their gloss: Great aggressive military Empires, like that of Napoleon, have ended in humiliation. Weak States, like the Republic of San Marino, which have thrown themselves on the mercy of their enemies, have preserved their independdence. Perhaps. But we knew already that o'erweening ambition might o'erleap itself, and that the weak consult their best interests by not giving provocation to the strong; and that is all that these examples prove. On the other hand, the case of the Incas of Peru demonstrates that a nation of non-resisters may be exterminated; and the case of the Swiss Confederation proves that resistance may build up a stable and prosperous State. On this side of the subject, it is clear that, if

the Tolstoyans will only go as far as history takes them, they cannot go all the way that Tolstoy wants to lead them. They can scarcely be said to do so when they content themselves with asking, as Mr. Crosby does: "Would it not be better to forget Alsace and Lorraine than once again to sow the fratricidal seed that has so often filled Europe with a bloody harvest?" No doubt it would; but there is nothing essentially Tolstoyan in that sentiment. Essential Tolstoyism condemns a good deal besides the idea of the revanche-the oath on Grütli, for example, and the battles of Mortgarten and Sempach, and the "embattled farmers," and "the shot heard round the world." Do the Tolstoyans really admire the friends of humanity who stayed at home on those occasions?

Apparently they do not. Mr. Stead -one of the first Englishmen to draw attention to the sacro-sanctity of Tolstoy-has lately been calling upon us to add Dreadnought to Dreadnought. Mr. Crosby practically evades the issue by looking forward to a time when "it will become as impossible for a Christion to . . . fire a bombshell .

as it would be now for him to indulge in an act of cannibalism." It may be So. But the word "become," like the word "often," gives the case away. We are all agreed that, in a world in which nobody resisted evil, there would be no evil to resist. To say that, however -and to say no more-is to substitute prophecy for exhortations; and the Tolstoyans who do that are not merely following Tolstoy at a distance, but are separated from him by a gulf. Tolstoyism is not a prediction but a code of conduct-a code which, so far as the affairs of nations are concerned, no Tolstoyan outside a lunatic asylum seems to endorse.

Do they even accept the precept of non-resistance as an infallible guide to the duty of the individual in his rela

tions with bad men? Some of them certainly try very hard to do so. They are not satisfied, with other Christians, to denounce vindictiveness. They agree-Mr. Crosby at any rate agrees --that landlords should not evict their tenants, and that creditors should not go to law to recover their debts. They can easily avoid the temptation to do so by conducting their business on a cash basis, and by not investing their capital in land or house property; but these, for that very reason, are not test cases. One test case occurred when

an

American magazine published a garbled version of something that Tolstoy had written; and, on that occasion, the appeal to Cæsar was threatened by Tolstoyans. A still more crucial test

can easily be propounded.

A Tolstoyan, let us imagine, is taking a country walk. He hears a cry for help. Running up, he discovers that a tramp is endeavoring to commit a criminal assault upon a woman. Is he to interfere? Or is he to pass by on the other side, treating the matter as no concern of his? The doctrine, "Resist not evil," literally interpreted, clearly prescribes the latter course; and Tolstoy has as clearly laid down that the doctrine must be literally interpreted, because Christ "was not exaggerating," but "meant what he said." Are the Tolstoyans at one with him? That they would actually, as a matter of practice, resist evil in such a case, one does not venture to doubt; but that is not the point. Do they regard the resistance which they would assuredly offer in such circumstances as a concession to the Old Adam and an act of infidelity to the ideal? Or do they hold that the resistance would be not only justified but obligatory? That is the question; and to ask it is surely to answer it.

The question, in fact, was once put to Tolstoy himself. He replied that, in the circumstances indicated, the

"use of force might be necessary." Assuredly it not only might but would; but the admission is not the less damaging to the argument on that account. It entails the admission that Christ "was exaggerating," and did not "mean what he said"-and also, as a further consequence, that Tolstoy is "exaggerating," and does not mean what he says. For, if the rule does not apply to all the cases, where is the principle enabling us to determine which are the cases to which it does apply? Our rule, in the absence of any such principle to direct its application, amounts only to a rule that evil should not be resisted unless there is some advantage to be gained; and we certainly do not need to go to Tolstoy for such a maxim as that. So that, on this branch of the subject, not even Tolstoy himself is a Tolstoyan, since he has, with his own hands, removed the support that was essential to the solidity of his doctrine, and brought the edifice down in crumbling ruins about his ears.

So much, then, of his social gospel. What of his sexual teaching?-his rule that we ought all to live as celibateseven those of us who are married?

The temptation is strong to remark that Tolstoy's own celibacy has been of a mitigated character. His family is so large that even the Tolstoyans do not seem to know how large it is. Thirteen, fifteen and sixteen are the estimates of three different Tolstoyans whose commentaries lie at present on the table. Tolstoy is not, of course, to be held responsible for the faulty arithmetic of his followers; but he, and not they, must take the blame, if blame there be, for the fact that his last child was born some years after the publication of the Kreutzer Sonata-the very work in which he lays down his rule of abstinence for married men. recognizes his inconsistency, however, and deplores it. "When speaking of

He

how married people should live," he writes, "I do not imply that I myself have lived, or now live, as I should."

-a fine outburst of frankness by which all the most obvious criticisms are disarmed. We may be content to note it, and pass on.

We may refrain, too, since the discussion would take us too far afield, from any comment upon the outrage on sentiment-a sentiment profound, intense, and practically universalwhich this glorification of asceticism in matrimonial relations must seem to the vast majority of Tolstoy's readers to convey. It will suffice for our purpose to consider what the doctrine really is -how far it is sometimes modified and qualified by its author-what would be the results of its adoption, whether with or without the qualifications-what the Tolstoyans think of it.

It is a doctrine which has varied considerably from time to time. In 1884, when My Religion was published, the precept was: "Let

every man in possession of his natural powers take to himself a wife... and let them under no pretext whatever dissolve the personal relations consequent on marriage." In The Relations of the Sexes we read: "Marriage, of course, is good and necessary for the continuation of the race." In the Kreutzer Sonata, however, the extinction of the race is contemplated with equanimity; and, in an article in The New Age, printed in 1897, and reprinted in 1901, it is definitely laid down that "marriage is an un-Christian (which is to say, an un-Tolstoyan) institution." The contradiction is flagrant, and Tolstoy's gloss, reported by Mr. Tchertkoff, that "all depends on the plane in which a man finds himself" is not a reconciliation of the contradictory propositions, but an independent proposition which contradicts both of them. Let us take the three

propositions separately, and consider their significance.

In the first proposition, of course, there is nothing distinctively Tolstoyan. It only expounds the ordinary moral ideal of the ordinary man in a monogamous community. The second proposition, involving the extinction of the race in the course of a single generation, really renders the rest of the Tolstoyan philosophy-non-resistance and the like-superfluous. The point of the third proposition lies in the application of it, and on the meaning to be attached to the word "plane." If Tolstoy means that a man arrives at the celibate plane by growing old, he is merely calling upon us to make a virtue of a necessity. If, on the other hand, he means by the celibate plane the plane of highest morality, he is proposing a code the observance of which would result in the extinction of Tolstoyans, while leaving the wicked to flourish like a green bay tree. It is only the two latter propositions which count, since they alone distinguish Tolstoy from other moralists. Do the Tolstoyans accept either of them?

If the comments of Mr. Crosby are any guide, they certainly do not. "Tolstoy," he writes, "does not seem to have considered the possibility of a true spiritual marriage and of the effect it might produce in purifying physical relations"-a sentiment which may be sound, but assuredly is not Tolstoyan. "It is certainly true," he adds, "whether we lean to these conclusions of Tolstoy's or not, that the last word has not yet been said on the subject of Christian marriage." Very likely it has not. But Tolstoy unquestionably claims to have spoken the last word on the subject; and Mr. Crosby's gloss only amounts, in effect, to thisthat though Tolstoy, on the face of it, is talking nonsense, possibly some of his opponents sometimes talk nonsense too. Mr. Crosby does not support

Tolstoy, but apologizes for him; and that, as we have seen, is the common tone of the Tolstoyan disciples towards their master. Tolstoy, they seem to say, is mad; but there is method in his madness.

Perhaps there is. Madness is not necessarily inconsequential or illogical. The difference between a fool and a madman, it has been said, is this: A fool reasons incorrectly from true premises; a madman reasons correctly from false premises-and that is, broadly speaking, what Tolstoy has done. A sane reasoner, following his argument, and being led to his conclusions, would say: This is absurd; there must be something wrong with the premises; let us re-examine them and start afresh. Tolstoy, on the contrary, never flinches from his conclusions, and never doubts his premises. An argument which another man would regard as a reductio ad absurdum is to him a demonstration that the absurd is true. The Tolstoyans evidently feel this, though they do not admit it, and do not even see it.

For what reason, then, are they Tolstoyans? Why do they persist in walking, and in trying to persuade others to walk, in a path which they perceive to be so beset with stumbling-blocks? They write as men laid under a spell to which they would like to yield, but which both instinct and experience bid them resist. What is the nature of the fascination? Do they themselves understand it?

Apparently they do not; for Tolstoyism, as they present it to us, bristles with fallacies which any amateur logician can detect. The only premises from which the conclusions of popular Tolstoyism can be derived are these: that Christ spoke with divine authority and meant what he said when he said certain things, but did not speak with authority, and did not mean what he said, when

he said certain other things. That is absurd, whatever view one takes of the divinity of Christ; but the Tolstoyans lack nerve to brush the absurdity aside. Their instincts and their reason conflict. Reason tells them that Tolstoy is wrong; instinct tells them that he has grasped a profound and valuable truth. They cling to the absurdities for fear lest the truth should perish with them.

In

Perhaps we may best get at the root of the matter by distinguishing between exoteric and esoteric Tolstoyism. Exoteric Tolstoyism does consist of wrong-headed Christian exegetics. esoteric Tolstoyism the selected sayings of Christ-certain selected saying, that is to say-are merely used as illustrations of a philosophy which is independent of them and might just as well be based upon the selected sayings of Buddha. Esoteric Tolstoyism, in short, is not a kind of Christianity, but a kind of Pantheism.

Pantheism, of course, is not necessarily a religious conception. To say that matter is God is neither to add to our knowledge of its attributes, nor (from the point of view of the materialist) to introduce any fresh theory of the Universe. It is merely (the materialist would say) to give matter a new name. And the materialists will also tell us that no other kind of Pantheism is possible. None the less, however, the Pantheism which is current is the Pantheism of the "God-intoxicated man" who insists upon imposing the religious conceptions of his own mind upon a philosophical conception which does not contain them; and the reason why it is current is that we are all, materialists included, God-intoxicated more or less-a condition of things with which every philosophy must, whether logically or illogically, in the long run, make terms. The real standpoint of Tolstoy as a teacher is that of the God-intoxicated Pantheist.