Tolstoy’s War and Peace holds a contradictory position in the academy. On the one hand, it is known as a masterwork of Russian literature. On the other hand, the academy has widely ignored its deterministic philosophy, which critics dismiss as dogmatic and inferior to the rest of the work. As such, they resolve the contradiction by divorcing the two dimensions of the work, taking it up as literature without any regard for its philosophy. This strategy, however, is unfair because it ignores how inseparable Tolstoy’s philosophy in War and Peace is from the work's more conventionally “literary” aspects. Moreover, the strategy is dishonest because, while it masquerades as objective and apolitical, it largely stems from the political malice of Tolstoy’s contemporaries.
The practice of historical contextualization can ostensibly separate Tolstoy’s views from his literary contributions. Over the past few decades, universities have grappled with the content of their curricula, debating whether they should remove authors they considered bigoted from syllabi. In response, some have argued the writers’ opinions were reflections of the political trends of their time, which can be separated from their unique intellectual contributions. I call this line of reasoning the “separation argument.” While the separation argument has effectively rehabilitated these writers in the eyes of the modern academy, it simultaneously trivializes their opinions as historically determined, rather than as views that deserve serious intellectual engagement. In the case of War and Peace, applying the separation argument allows one to appreciate Tolstoy’s novelistic work while safely dismissing his philosophical views as “the opinions of the time.” In fact, this argument is appealing precisely because it enables readers to appreciate an author whom they love while ignoring the parts of his legacy they find objectionable.
Notwithstanding the risks, in some cases the separation argument has been beneficial to the author’s legacy. It has worked especially well, for instance, when applied to popular works of literature, where the authors’ philosophical or political views can often be distinguished from their intellectual contributions. Indeed, most (non-overtly political) literature lends itself to a basic distinction: the actual novel itself, which can be enjoyed independent of its normative implications, and the writer’s opinions and prejudices, which have little bearing on the reader’s experience. While the two sides are often connected, the lack of an explicit moral argument can allow a reader to experience the work without engaging with any moral or political ideology. For example, scholars and literary critics have interpreted Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice as an ideologically conservative work.1 One might imagine that for many liberal readers of Austen, this diagnosis would turn them off from certain aspects of the novel. But as these political undertones are only implicit, readers can still engage with the novel without losing their appreciation for Austen’s literary skill. Moreover, if one were to argue that Austen’s conservatism was a mere reflection of prevailing trends of the time (and thus easily separable from the rest of her work), readers could dismiss her views without losing their appreciation for the work as a whole. This rationale might appear stretched; after all, just because an author never explicitly states their views doesn’t mean those views don’t play an important part in their work. But if the separation argument is insufficient in the case of writers like Austen, then it makes even less sense in works where the author interrupts the narrative to make philosophical claims.
This is exactly what happens in War and Peace. The book contains elements of a traditional novel alongside sections where the author explicitly discusses historiography and philosophy. Because these latter sections lack the mediating force of a narrator, they are much closer to traditional philosophy than anything else. Readers can skip this material without losing the plot, but if they choose to engage, they must do so as readers of philosophy, not literature. This addition makes War and Peace unusual in the broad set of nineteenth- and twentieth-century literature. Even works like James Joyce’s Ulysses, where philosophy plays a significant role in the novel, include a narrator to provide a buffer between the author’s views and those written on the page. If Joyce were found to have views unpopular with a modern audience, they could be separated from the novel without that novel losing its force. Conversely, Tolstoy’s views cannot be separated from War and Peace without ignoring a large part of the author’s intellectual legacy.
Of course, the reason to apply the separation argument in the first place arises from the “objectionable” character of an author’s views, a label often applied to the opinions of conservative writers and intellectuals. Throughout War and Peace, Tolstoy expresses views that align closely with a version of social conservatism. This conservatism largely manifests through historical determinism, which leads him to reject the narrative of inevitable social and scientific progress, alongside his defense of the deeply religious and traditional life of the Russian peasantry and his disdain for the more secular nobility. In his article “The Hedgehog and the Fox,” philosopher Isaiah Berlin writes that “Tolstoy is…obsessed with his thesis – the contrast between the…delusive experience of free will…and the reality of inexorable historical determinism.”2 This determinism contrasts harshly with socialist theories, which argue that humankind has the freedom to affect its historical destiny. Tolstoy’s admiration for the peasantry is perhaps best encapsulated in the character Platon Karataev, whom he describes as “the embodiment of the spirit of simplicity and truth,”3 someone free, in Berlin’s words, from “bureaucratic or scientific or other rationalistic forms of blindness.”4 Indeed, Karataev’s character is defined largely in juxtaposition to these “rationalistic” views, which were dominant among the Westernized nobility.
Tolstoy’s views, as espoused in the philosophical sections of War and Peace, have been largely dismissed by the academy. But rather than acknowledging the political bias inherent in this dismissal, scholars more often point to the dogmatic, repetitive character of Tolstoy’s philosophical writing and its lack of clarity and sophistication. While these criticisms have some merit, Berlin suggests that political prejudice has, historically, played a role in informing the consensus. He writes, “the Russian left wing intellectuals attacked Tolstoy for ‘social indifferentism,’ for disparagement of all noble social impulses as a compound of ignorance and foolish monomania, and an ‘aristocratic’ cynicism about life as a marsh that cannot be reclaimed… the only critic who took the doctrine seriously and tried to provide a rational refutation was the historian Kareev.”5
Berlin’s commentary has two implications.
First, it shows that Tolstoy’s conservatism was out of vogue even among his contemporaries; his views thus cannot be dismissed as representative of the “general trends of time.” Even if, as with Austen, separating Tolstoy’s philosophical views from his literary skill was beneficial to his overall legacy, this separation cannot be applied honestly. Berlin shows that Tolstoy’s views were far from commonplace at the time of his writing; they were, rather, fundamentally at odds with the progressive orientation of Russian intellectuals.
Second, the passage suggests that the academic consensus on Tolstoy’s philosophy of history is connected to the political attacks on Tolstoy’s writing by left-wing intellectuals. Admittedly, the opinions Berlin outlines were supplied long before the current discourse of the academy. But as the academy has not become more conservative over time (indeed, the opposite is true), the prejudice Berlin describes likely persists and informs the modern consensus.
By understanding the role political bias has played in the academy’s dismissal of Tolstoy’s philosophical views, we can better appreciate War and Peace as a holistic work that combines elements of literature and philosophy. Moreover, by recognizing the uniqueness of these views, we can challenge a counterargument often raised in such cases — that the opinions expressed represent the trends of the time, elements that can be extracted and dismissed without invalidating the author’s legacy. Rather than seeing the philosophy of War and Peace as a mere reflection of the prevailing dogmas or an aspect of the work too inferior to merit our consideration, we can understand its significance as an element of Tolstoy’s unique perspective that demands our engagement.
Marilyn Butler, Jane Austen and the War of Ideas (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), 197–214.
Isaiah Berlin, The Hedgehog and the Fox: An Essay on Tolstoy’s View of History, 2nd ed., ed. Henry Hardy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2013), 28.
Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace, trans. Richard Pevear and Larisa Volokhonsky (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2007), 974.
Berlin, The Hedgehog and the Fox, 27.
Ibid., 30.