The Cossacks

The Cossacks

by Leo Tolstoy

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Overview

THE COSSACKS is one of the finest portrayals in all Russian literature. Written in part in 1852 while Tolstoy was serving in the army of the Caucasus (though not published until 1862, three years before the first installment of his epic WAR AND PEACE), this novel is rich in the descriptions of that superb region.

In a uniquely Russian form, this story is the old romantic European drama of "The Noble Savage." The young hero, Olenin, an educated aristocrat like Tolstoy, comes to the Caucasus to find himself. Olenin falls in love with a young Cossack girl, Maryanka, She shreds his cherished control and refinement, and the desires she awakes in him take his emotions by storm.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9789389438505
Publisher: Throne Classics
Publication date: 08/01/2019
Pages: 224
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.51(d)

About the Author

Count Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy (1828 - 1910), usually referred to in English as Leo Tolstoy, was a Russian writer who is regarded as one of the greatest authors of all time. Born to an aristocratic Russian family in 1828, he is best known for the novels War and Peace (1869) and Anna Karenina (1877), often cited as pinnacles of realist fiction. He first achieved literary acclaim in his twenties with his semi-autobiographical trilogy, Childhood, Boyhood and Youth (1852-1856) and Sevastopol Sketches (1855), based upon his experiences in the Crimean War. Tolstoy's fiction includes dozens of short stories and several novellas such as The Death of Ivan Ilyich, Family Happiness, and Hadji Murad. He also wrote plays and numerous philosophical essays. In the 1870s Tolstoy experienced a profound moral crisis, followed by what he regarded as an equally profound spiritual awakening, as outlined in his non-fiction work A Confession. His literal interpretation of the ethical teachings of Jesus, centering on the Sermon on the Mount, caused him to become a fervent Christian anarchist and pacifist. Tolstoy's ideas on nonviolent resistance, expressed in such works as The Kingdom of God Is Within You, were to have a profound impact on such pivotal 20th-century figures as Mohandas Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr. and James Bevel. Tolstoy also became a dedicated advocate of Georgism, the economic philosophy of Henry George, which he incorporated into his writing, particularly Resurrection.

Date of Birth:

September 9, 1828

Date of Death:

November 20, 1910

Place of Birth:

Tula Province, Russia

Place of Death:

Astapovo, Russia

Education:

Privately educated by French and German tutors; attended the University of Kazan, 1844-47

Read an Excerpt

1

Moscow lies silent. From time to time screeching wheels echo in the wintry streets. Lights no longer burn in the windows, and the streetlamps have gone out. The ringing of church bells rolls over the sleeping city, warning of the approach of dawn. The streets are empty. The narrow runners of a nighttime sleigh mix sand and snow as the driver pulls over to a corner and dozes off, waiting for a fare. An old woman walks past on her way to church, where candles, sparse and red, are already burning asymmetrically, throwing their light onto the golden icon stands. The workers of the city are waking after the long winter night and preparing to go to work.

But fashionable young gentlemen are still out on the town.

Light flickers illegally from behind the closed shutters in one of Chevalier's windows. A carriage, sleighs, and cabs are huddling in a line by the entrance. A troika is waiting to leave. A porter, bundled in a heavy coat, stands crouching behind the corner of the house as if hiding from someone.

"Why do they keep blathering, on and on?" a footman sitting in the hall at Chevalier's wonders, his face drawn. "And always when it's my shift!"

From the brightly lit room next to the hall come the voices of three young men. One is small, neat, thin, and ugly, and gazes with kind, weary eyes at his friend, who is about to leave on a journey. The second, a tall man, is twiddling his watch fob as he lies on a sofa next to a table covered with the remains of a banquet and empty wine bottles. The man about to leave on a journey is wearing a new fur jacket and is pacing up and down the room. From time to time he stops to crack an almond with his thick, strong fingers, whose nails are meticulously clean. For some reason he is continually smiling. A fire burns in his eyes. He speaks passionately, waving his arms. But it is clear that he is searching for words, and that the words which come to him seem inadequate to express what has moved him. He is constantly smiling. "Now I can tell you everything!" he says. "It's not that I am trying to justify myself, but I want you, of all people, to understand me as well as I understand myself—I don't want you to see things the way a vulgar person would. You say that I have done her wrong!" He turns to the small man, who is gazing at him with kindly eyes.

"Yes, you have done her wrong," the small, ugly man answers, and it seems that even more kindness and weariness are reflected in his eyes.

"I know your point of view," the man about to leave continues. "You feel that there is as much happiness in being the object of love as there is in loving—and that if you attain it once, it's enough for a lifetime!"

"Oh yes, quite enough, my dear fellow! More than enough!" the small, ugly man says with conviction, opening his eyes wide and then closing them.

"But why not experience love oneself?" the man setting out on a journey says. He becomes pensive for a moment and then looks at his friend as if pitying him. "Why not love? I don't mean 'Why not be loved?' No, being loved is a misfortune! It's a misfortune because you feel guilty that you cannot return the same feelings, that you cannot reciprocate. Lord!" He waves his hand disparagingly. "If only this could all happen reasonably. But it seems to have a will of its own. It's as if I had made her fall in love with me. I know that's what you think—I know you do. Don't deny it! But will you believe me if I tell you that of all the bad and foolish things I have done in my life, this is the only one I do not and cannot repent of! I did not lie to her, not at the beginning and not later! I really thought I had finally fallen in love, but then I realized that the whole thing was an unintentional lie, that one cannot love that way. So I simply could not continue. And yet she did. Is it my fault I couldn't? What was I to do?"

"Well, it's all over now!" his friend said, lighting a cigar to chase away his drowsiness. "But one thing is clear: you have not yet loved, and you don't know what love is!"

The young man about to set out on a journey clasped his head in his hands, again wanting to express something, but unable to find words. "You are right! I have never loved! But I have a desire within me to love, a burning desire! Yet the question remains: Does such a love exist? Somehow everything is so incomplete. But what's the point of even talking about it! I have made a mess of my life, a complete mess! But you're right, it's all over now. I feel that I am about to embark on a new life!"

"A new life that you'll also make a mess of," the man on the sofa cut in.

But his friend did not hear him. "I am sad to be leaving but also happy," he continued. "Though I have no idea why I am sad." He began to speak about himself, not noticing that the others did not find the topic as interesting as he did. A person is never so much an egoist as in moments of rapture. He feels that at such times there is nothing more splendid or interesting than himself.

A young house serf wrapped in a scarf and wearing a heavy coat came into the room. "Dmitri Andreyevich, the driver says he cannot wait any longer—the horses have been harnessed since midnight, and it's already four in the morning!"

Dmitri Andreyevich looked at his serf Vanyusha. In the serf's coarse scarf, his felt boots, and his drowsy face, he heard the voice of another life calling to him—a life full of hardship, deprivation, and work.

"Yes, we must leave! Farewell!" he said, patting the front of his jacket to see if any of the hooks were unclasped. The others urged him to tip the driver to wait a little longer, but he put on his hat and stood for a moment in the middle of the room. The friends kissed good-bye—once, twice, then stopped and kissed a third time. He walked up to the table, emptied a glass, took the small, ugly man by the hand, and blushing said, "I must speak my mind before I go....I must be straightforward with you, because I love you dearly, my friend....You are the one who loves her, aren't you? I sensed it from the beginning...no?"

"Yes, I love her," his friend replied, smiling even more gently. "And perhaps..."

"Excuse me, but I have been ordered to put out the candles," one of the sleepy waiters said, hearing the last words of the conversation and wondering why gentlemen always kept saying the same things. "Who should I make the bill out to? To you, sir?" he asked, turning to the tall man, knowing very well that he was the one who was to pay.

"Yes, to me," the tall man said. "How much do I owe?"

"Twenty-six rubles."

The tall man thought for an instant but said nothing and slipped the bill into his pocket.

The other two friends were continuing their farewell. "Good-bye, you are a splendid fellow," the small, ugly man said.

Their eyes filled with tears. They went out onto the front steps.

"Oh, by the way," Dmitri Andreyevich said, blushing as he turned to the tall man. "Take care of the check, will you? And then send me a note."

"Don't worry about it!" the tall man said, putting on his gloves. "Ah, how I envy you!" he added quite unexpectedly.

Dmitri Andreyevich climbed into the sleigh and wrapped himself in a heavy fur coat. "Well, why don't you come along?" he said, his voice shaking. He even moved over and made room. But his friend quickly said, "Good-bye, Mitya! God grant that you..." He could not end his sentence, as his only wish was for Dmitri Andreyevich to leave as soon as possible.

They fell silent for a few moments. One of them said another farewell. Someone called out, "Off you go!" And Dmitri Andreyevich's driver set off.

One of the friends shouted, "Elizar, I'm ready!" And the cabbies and the coachman stirred, clicked their tongues, and whipped their horses. The wheels of the frozen coach creaked loudly over the snow.

"Olenin is a good fellow," one of the two friends said. "But what an idea to set out for the Caucasus, and as a cadet of all things! Not my notion of fun! Are you lunching at the club tomorrow?"

"Yes."

The two friends drove off in different directions.

Olenin felt warm in his heavy fur, even hot, and he leaned back in the sleigh and unfastened his coat. The three shaggy post-horses trudged from one dark street to the next, past houses he had never seen before. He felt that only travelers leaving the city drove through these streets. All around was darkness, silence, and dreariness, but his soul was filled with memories, love, regrets, and pleasant, smothering tears.

2

"I love them! I love them dearly! They are such wonderful fellows!" he kept repeating, on the verge of tears. But why? Who were these wonderful fellows? Whom did he love? He wasn't quite sure. From time to time he looked at one of the houses and was astonished at how odd it was. There were moments when he was surprised that the sleigh driver and Vanyusha, who were so alien to him, were sitting so close, rattling and rocking with him as the outrunners tugged at the frozen traces. Again he said, "What fine fellows, I love them dearly!" He even burst out, "I'm overcome! How wonderful!" And he was taken aback at saying this, thinking, "I'm not drunk, am I?" Olenin had drunk a good two bottles of wine, but it was not only the wine that had affected him: He remembered the words of friendship that had seemed so sincere, words that had been uttered shyly, impulsively, before his departure. He remembered his hands being clasped, looks, moments of silence, the special tone in a voice saying, "Farewell, Mitya!" as he was sitting in the sleigh. He remembered how sincere he had been. All this had a touching significance for him. He felt that it was not only good friends and acquaintances who had rallied around him before his departure. Even men indifferent to him, who actually disliked him, or indeed were hostile to him, had somehow resolved to like him and to forgive him, as one is forgiven in the confessional or at the hour of one's death.

"Perhaps I will never return from the Caucasus," he thought and decided that he loved his friends, and the others too. He felt sorry for himself. But it was not his love for his friends that raised his soul to such heights that he could not restrain the foolish words that spontaneously burst from him; nor was it love for a woman which had reduced him to this state. (He had never been in love.) What made him cry and mutter disconnected words was love for himself—a young, burning love filled with hope, a love for all that was good within his soul (and he felt at this moment that everything within his soul was good). Olenin had not studied anywhere, was not employed anywhere (except for some nominal appearances he put in at an office), had already squandered half his fortune, and though he was twenty-four had not yet chosen a career or done anything in life. He was what Moscow society calls "a young man."

At eighteen, Olenin had been free as only the rich, parentless young of Russia's eighteen forties could be. He had neither moral nor physical fetters. He could do anything he wanted. He had no family, no fatherland, no faith, and wanted for nothing. He believed in nothing and followed nothing. And yet he was far from being a dry, bored, or somber young man. Quite the contrary. He was fascinated by everything. He decided that love did not exist, but whenever he happened to be in the presence of an attractive young woman, he found himself rooted to the spot. He had always been of the opinion that honors and titles were nonsense, and yet had felt an involuntary pleasure when Prince Sergei walked up to him at a ball and spoke a few pleasant words. He gave himself up to all his passions, but only to the extent that they did not bind him. The instant he immersed himself in a certain activity and felt the imminence of a struggle, the tiresome struggle of everyday life, he instinctively hurried to tear himself away and reassert his freedom. This was how he had approached work, society, dabbling in agriculture, music (which for a while he had thought of devoting himself to), and even the love of women, in which he did not believe. He thought a great deal about where he should direct the power of youth that is granted a man only once in a lifetime. Not the power of mind, spirit, or education but the power to make of himself and of the whole world whatever he wants. Should he direct this power toward art, science, love, or toward some practical venture? There are people who lack this drive, who the moment they enter life slip their heads beneath the first yoke that comes their way and diligently toil beneath it to the end of their days. But Olenin was too aware of the presence of the all-powerful god of youth, the capacity to stake everything on a single aspiration, a single thought, the capacity to do what one sets out to do, the ability to dive headfirst into a bottomless abyss without knowing why or what for. He bore this awareness within him, was proud of it and unconsciously pleased with it. Until now he had loved only himself and could not do otherwise, because he expected nothing but good. He had not yet had time to be disappointed in himself. Now that he was leaving Moscow he was in that happy, youthful state of mind in which a young man, thinking of the mistakes he has committed, suddenly sees things in a different light—sees that those past mistakes were incidental and unimportant, that back then he had not wanted to live a good life but that now, as he was leaving Moscow, a new life was beginning in which there would be no such mistakes and no need for remorse. A life in which there would be nothing but happiness.

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Cossacks 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 11 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Tolstoy¿s COSSACK is another fascinating story where purpose is found in the atmosphere of war. This goes for the jaded Olenin, an heir to a fortune that he had half squandered until he abandons his jaded life as a Moscow socialite for the adventures as a soldier in the Caucasus where he finds his purpose and true love.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book evokes all the old tales about the ethnic groups in Russia and the Caucasus. The book begins with a young, powerful man (Olénin)leaving with the Czarist army toward the regions around the Caspian sea, in search for love, since he has never been able to love a woman. With an excellent accuray, the author then portrays what the life in a cossack village is all about, as well as the relationship with the tartars, chéchens, etc. The book goes on describing Olénin's search for love amongst the typical cossack girls. Tolstoy's style in describing the everyday human behaviour and the mindmaze of the main character captivates the reader through the novel to then come across a surprising -and shocking- ending.
mishmashmusic More than 1 year ago
When you think of Tolstoy, you most likely think of his epic novels, like Anna Karenina or War and Peace. You probably don't think of his shorter pieces like The Cossacks, a shorter novella that is considered to be the author's autobiography. The book centers around an unhappy Muscovite nobleman named Dmitri Olénin who joins the army in search of adventure and purpose in his life. He winds up in the Caucasus and is intrigued by the geography and the simple people who live there. Along the way, he discovers himself and falls in love for the first time, and in turn discovers the pain love can bring. We meet a cast of characters that includes the manly Cossack soldier Lukashka, the beautiful Cossack girl Maryanka, and the larger-than-life grandfather figure, Uncle Yeroshka, each of who play an important role in the life education of Olénin. Since this has always been one of my favorite books, I was curious to see how it translated into the audiobook format. The voice work is done by Jonathan Oliver, an English actor who has over a decade of experience reading audiobooks for the blind. At first, I was a little thrown by his English accent, as I know many Russians personally, and I always lent a Russian accent to The Cossacks characters in my mind. But as the story progressed, I got used to Oliver's accent and it became very natural sounding, as he took on the life of the characters. He also did a wonderful job of changing out his vocal style as each different character spoke, making it easy to tell who was speaking as the conversations took place. I especially liked his portrayal of Uncle Yeroshka, the colorful old man of the Cossack village who takes Olénin under his wing. Oliver's voice bellows and rings out with intensity, bringing the character to life in incredible fashion. Oliver is obviously very familiar with the story as well as Tolstoy in general, and he adds touches here and there to make the story even more special. For example, he reads the descriptive sections with the same enthusiasm as the speaking roles, painting a perfect picture of the Cossack village and the activities of its inhabitants as they go about daily life. He also sings their songs with a convincing air, staying in character the whole time. As far as classic literature goes, this one is an easy listen. It is not too long, and the story moves quickly, filled with adventure and a touch of innocent romance. Plus, it is a great introduction to Tolstoy without getting lost in the epic length of some of his other works. Highly recommended.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Even his first novel held the romantic style of writing that later made him famous. It's a very simple story, but it is written so well. It's not just a look at where Tolstoy began his literature career, but it's also a look at Tolstoy's life. He himself was actually stationed in the Cossacks and used his experience to effectively write the book. The book is a pretty quick read too, so there's no reason not to read it.
Stbalbach on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Considered Tolstoy's best novel from his early years. Begun in 1853 and completed in 1862, after nearly 10 years of fits and starts he was compelled to finish it after loosing badly at cards in order to pay the debt. The novel describes life among the martial Cossacks as seen through the eyes of a young Russian soldier stationed in a native village on the frontier. Descriptions of Caucuses geography and wildlife are the strongest part of the novel in my opinion, the story itself is slow and uneventful. The Cossack's are a clannish community and the outsider Olenin who tries to penetrate it with modest success discovers himself in the process. It's like Dances with Wolves where a soldier who is sent to subjugate and civilize instead discovers indigenous wisdom and attempts to go native, but finds in the end he can never fully cross over and returns a changed man.
DRFP on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
One of Tolstoy's best short stories / novella. Highly readable and exciting, I found this much more enjoyable than Tolstoy's other, more highly praised, Caucus novel "Hadji Murad".
pfax on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Quick, wonderful read. Tolstoy's insights into another culture are poignant and relevant. This novel speaks much of the problems of the multinational Russian empire, and maintains its relevance in the modern era's issues of globalization.
EPClark More than 1 year ago
When he set off for the Caucasus in the early 1850s, the young Leo Tolstoy was in many ways much the same as most other young noblemen: caught up in gambling and chasing women, concerned with appearances and enjoying the moment. But even then Tolstoy was already thinking about other, more serious, more permanent things. The novella "Cossacks" was one of the earlier books he began, in the early 1850s, although it was not completed until 1862 and not published in its final form until January 1863. "Cossacks" has many of the hallmarks of early Tolstoy: the writing is, while not as spare as his later work, elegant and clear, with considerable use of dialogue to convey both plot and character. The setting is delineated with local details on every level: clothes, horses, food, housing, landscape, and language are all used to convey the life of the Caucasian Cossack life. The impression is one of total immersion into a vibrant, foreign culture, one that attracts and repels the reader just as it does Olenin ("Deer"), the Russian officer who is the main character. Olenin is drawn to the Cossack lifestyle for its simplicity and its closeness to nature. He believes that they are happier than he is because they think less about life and their place in it, a common belief amongst his aristocratic characters. In retrospect it's easy to criticize that belief--surely all people think about life and their place in it, and probably even very "simple" people live fully fledged inner lives--but "Cossacks" does bring up the eternal issue of how much of the experience of all living beings (Tolstoy, as do I, includes non-human animals in his considerations) is shared, and how much is dependent on specific, individual experience. Olenin, the educated aristocrat, can comprehend his life through his knowledge of European and Classical literature, while Lukashka, his simple Cossack counterpart, tells tales and sings folk songs, and the "abreks"--Caucasian warriors--rarely speak at all and are seen only from the outside, although they, too, it is suggested, are living full inner lives, complete with recognizable emotions such as sorrow and fear. The Cossacks speak Tatar almost as much as they do Russian--when Lukashka is wounded he curses in a mixture of Tatar and Russian, for example, and most of the Cossacks drop Tatar and Arabic words into their speech at important moments--dress like Abreks, and "dzhigit"--act the dashing hero, from the Caucasian word for it--on their horses when they want to show off; in many ways they are more Caucasian than they are Russian, and they admire their Chechen counterparts more than they do their Russian masters. This attraction-repulsion, and simultaneous sensation of total merging with the Other and total inability to ever understand and become one with the Other, is characteristic of Tolstoy's work and shows a lifelong concern of his in all his writings. For all its philosophy, though, "Cossacks" is at its heart a ripping yarn, with hunts, battles, and a tense love triangle between the refined, reflective Olenin, the spontaneous child of nature Lukashka, and the strong-willed, independent Maryana, who like all the Cossack women is treated both by the characters and the author as something between a unique and powerful individual and a piece of goods to be bought and sold. Longtime fans of Tolstoy owe it to themselves to read this story.
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