However, the news that reached him from Russia was not reassuring; the manifesto was written in a complicated and pompous style, and the people had not understood it. It stated that for a period of two years the serfs—whether attached to the master's land (krepostnye) or to his person (dvorovye)—would be required to obey their owner as before, but the owner would not have the right to sell them, transfer them to another estate or dispose of their children in any way. During the period of transition they would be required to pay a tithe of thirty rubles per man and ten rubles per woman, and in 1863 they would be released from all obligations to their former master. The dvorovye, who were not attached to the land, might seek employment wherever they liked but would receive no land. The krepostnye would have the use of their enclosure (pen, croft, etc.) and a measure of arable land, to be calculated according to detailed scales varying with local conditions. This land would be ceded to the muzhiks in return for two kinds of payment to the owner: the obrok (payment in money, ranging from eight to twelve rubles per person per year) and the barshina (payment in labor, equal to forty days a year for men and thirty for women). The implementation of these measures was to be supervised by "arbiters of the peace," appointed among the nobility in each district of each government. If the muzhiks wished to purchase the land they worked, the State would lend them the necessary amount to pay off their former master, and they would repay the loan over a period of forty-nine years, by annual installments representing 6 per cent of the obrok, amortization and interest included. From these liberal and complicated provisions the muzhiks retained only three things: the land was not to be theirs at once, they were not to be free for two years, and if a dispute arose between them and their master, it was to be settled by the gentry.
From Yasnava Polyana Sergey wrote to Tolstoy on March 12, 1861: "These are fascinating days. The emancipation manifesto was read out to the people, who did not pay close attention, and it seems to me that the)' are all rather dissatisfied. The main thing is that they don't understand a word of the document and appear not to carc. I offered to explain it all to the peasants at Yasnava Polyana while I was there, but nobody seemed to want me to do so."
Thus informed, Tolstoy wrote to Hcrzen:
"Have you read the exact terms of emancipation? To my mind it is utterly futile verbiage. I have received two letters from Russia telling mc that the muzhiks arc all dissatisfied. Before, they could hope that everything would turn out all right; now they know for certain that everything will be all wrong, at least for the next two years, and after that there will be more delays, and the whole tiling is the work of the masters."17
But although he was justifiably anxious about the future, he still made no change in his plans for the present. He had conic to Brussels with two letters of introduction from Ilerzcn—one to Joachim Lclcwel, the Polish revolutionary historian who had been forced to flee the country after Nicholas I had quelled the insurrection of 1830, and the other to Proudhon. Knowing that the Russian police kept paid emissaries abroad, it required a certain amount of daring for Tolstoy to call on these illustrious political refugees.
He found Lelewel in a dust-carpeted attic cluttered with books, talked to him of the legitimate aspirations of martyred Poland and withdrew full of respect for the withered, forgotten, poverty-stricken old man who had preserved his faith in liberty intact despite the passing years. Proudhon received him next, in his little apartment at Ixelles. He was just completing a philosophical work on armed conflict between nations: War and Peace; Tolstoy was struck by the title, and it remained engraved in his memory. The French publicist, very curious to learn what was going on elsewhere, questioned his guest about the state of opinion in Russia. Tolstoy did not dare to tell this stranger what he really thought of the recent emancipation measures and the deplorable conditions of public education. Patriotic first and foremost, he stressed the fact that the serfs were not being freed empty-handed and that all cultivated Russians knew that the education of the people was essential to the construction of a strong state.
"If that is true," cried Proudhon, "the future belongs to you Russians."18
Tolstoy's pride thrilled to this prophecy. Ilis host, with the air of a rough-hewn peasant, shaggy beard and spectacles, struck him as a man of consequence who had "the courage of his convictions." Proudhon, in turn, wrote to Gustave Chaudey after this visit: "Russia is jubilant. The tsar proclaimed his emancipation decree in agreement with the boyars and after consulting all concerned. The pride of these ex-nobles must be seen to be believed. A highly educated man, Mr. Tolstoy, with whom I have been talking the past few days, said to me, 'That is what is called a real emancipation. We are not sending our serfs away empty-handed, we are giving them property along with their freedom.' "19
Tolstoy found life in Brussels "calm and home-like" after London; this sense of comfort and familiarity was due chiefly to the fact that he was a daily guest in the home of Prince Dondukov-Korsakov, vice- president of the Acadcmy of Science. "An old man, an old woman, two daughters ill and another aged fifteen; as you can see, there is no material for matrimony here," he wrote to his brother Sergey on March 12 (24), 1861. "Besides, I don't have much hope left on that score, because my last remaining teeth are crumbling to bits. But my spirits are high!"
Finding no prospect of a fiancee in the Dondukov-Korsakov family, he remembered that one of their nieces, Katcrina Alcxandrovna, who lived with her aunt, Princess Golitsin, in Hy6rcs, had charmed him by her grace and distinction. True, he had not given a thought to her during the three and a half months since he last saw her; but should that stop him from contemplating marriage? The fever had seized him again: a wife—any wife—but quick, quick, a family, children! Without further ado he wrote to his sister Marya, who was still at Hyeres, informing her of his project. Her reply was judicious:
"If it were to work out, wouldn't you suddenly begin asking yourself, 'Why did I do it?' Wouldn't you, one fine morning, quietly begin to hate your wife, thinking, 'If only I hadn't married . . . ?' That is what I fear. If you have really made up your mind to let yourself be harnessed, then you certainly could not find a better girl. She could be happy with you and you could be happy with her. But can you be happy at all, as a married man? That is the question."
Indignant cry of protest from Leo: how could Marya believe he was not certain of his mind? He loved Katcrina with all his soul. It had simply taken him a while to realize it. Convinced by his protestations, Marya then advised her brother to propose without further delay: "If you begin to think about it," she wrote, "all is lost. . . . Put everything else out of your mind and come to Hycrcs."
All Tolstoy required was to be told to put everything else out of his mind: he promptly put anything else into it. Just as the jaws of the trap were about to snap shut on him, he jumped back. Tic himself down for life to some young person whom he knew nothing about, who might be an utter nuisance? Never! He wrote an apology to his sister, another to Katcrina Alexandrovna's aunt, and thought no more of all the little Tolstoys who might have issued from this union.f