Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace (1869)

Consisting of over half a million words, spread over 1200 plus pages of small print, and involving around 600 characters (including roughly 160 historical figures), Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace enjoys almost mythical status as the archetypically monumental novel that most people either casually have on their list of books to tackle one day, or who wouldn’t dream of taking on. It is one of the most famous works of literature in history and generally considered to be an absolute masterpiece.

War and Peace is certainly a challenging read and not one to be tackled lightly. I came across it in a pile of second-hand books left by fellow travellers in a hotel in Peru, of all places, and realised that here was my opportunity to take it on (there must have been quite a few people over the years who have read it whilst on a gap year). Anticipating a slog, but not expecting to derive any actual pleasure from it, I dived in. What a pleasant surprise! Despite some admittedly distended and meandering passages on historiography and some lengthy military minutiae, I found it a thrilling read. It is historical novel, family chronicle, and philosophical treatise, all rolled into one, centred around Napoleon’s invasion of Russia and featuring the intertwined lives of the Bezuhov, Bolkonsky, Rostov and Kuragin families.

If you want to understand the big picture, thinks Tolstoy, you have to examine the details – which is exactly what he did. He studied countless manuscripts, letters, and diaries, and visited all the sites where the battles (Schöngrabern, Austerlitz, Borodino) took place, drawing maps of the area and interviewing locals who had lived through the war. The novel is so long and detailed because he believed that that was the only way to tell this story. To do it justice, the canvas had to be broad.

So War and Peace demands patience and focus, but if you are willing to accept those conditions, it is well worth the effort. If you’re in the market for an epic work encompassing love, war, religion, family, class, history, and philosophy, you could do worse than to bump it up that “must read” list of yours.

 

Leo Tolstoy

Antonio Canova’s Sculpture of the Three Graces (1817)

Back in May, my family and I visited the Victoria & Albert Museum in London, and enjoyed, amongst other things, its impressive collection of sculptures, including this beautiful piece from the great Italian neoclassical sculptor, Antonio Canova. The Three Graces were daughters of Zeus and companions to the Muses, and were a celebrated subject in classical literature and art. They are Thalia (youth and beauty), Euphrosyne (mirth), and Aglaia (elegance), and the goddesses are depicted huddled together, nude, hair braided and held atop their heads in a knot, the three slender figures melding into one in their embrace.

The sculpture is carved from a single slab of white marble. Canova’s assistants would have roughly hewn out the marble, leaving Canova to perform the final carving and shaping of the stone to highlight the Graces’ soft flesh. It was commissioned by John Russel, 6th Duke of Bedford, who visited Canova at his studio in Rome in 1814. Bedford was captivated by the group of the Three Graces which Canova had carved for the Empress Josephine, the estranged wife of Napoleon Bonaparte (“I frankly declare”, he is reported to have said, “that I have seen nothing in ancient or modern sculpture that has given me more pleasure than this piece of work”). Josephine had died in May of that year, and the Duke offered to buy the sculpture from Canova, but Josephine’s son claimed it (and that version is now in the Hermitage, St Petersburg) so Bedford commissioned a new one.

The completed statue was installed at the Duke’s home, Woburn Abbey. An 1822 catalogue of the sculpture at Woburn summed up the appeal of the work: “in the constrained flexibility with which their arms are entwined round each other; in the perfect symmetry of their limbs, in the delicacy of detail, and exquisiteness of finish, in the feet and hands; in that look of living softness given to the surface of the marble, which looks as if it would yield to the touch…this great sculptor has shown the utmost delicacy and judgement”.

It is indeed remarkable to get “up close and personal” with a great sculpture like this and marvel at the skill and delicacy required to achieve such an exquisite finish from a block of stone. Canova’s other masterpiece, Cupid and Psyche in the Louvre, elicits the same admiration.

 

 

Antonio Canova