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