“The Maid and the Queen” describes two ways exceptional women found to exercise power in the Middle Ages. Yolande — who ran Aragon while her husband (and, later, her son) pursued a fairly hopeless claim to the throne of Sicily — raised money, sponsored advisors, negotiated strategic marriages and otherwise worked, often indirectly, to further the interests of her six children. She backed the Armagnac side in the protracted French civil wars that weakened the country to the point that Henry V and Henry VI of England found it ripe for the picking. The other side, the eel-like Burgundians, formed on-again, off-again alliances with the limey invaders.

Charles, who became dauphin (heir to the French throne) only after his four elder brothers died, had gone to live with Yolande in her castle at Angers at age 11, when he was betrothed to her daughter, Marie. His father was intermittently mad (a situation that led to much of the chaos in France) and his own mother was so self-serving that eventually she repudiated him as the illegitimate product of an adulterous affair in order to appease a more useful ally. (Goldstone finds persuasive proof of his legitimacy.) Charles called Yolande his “Bonne Mère” (good mother) and, as Goldstone writes, “became very attached to her, relying on her judgment and reflexively turning to her in moments of distress. No one had more influence with Charles than Yolande.”

Nevertheless, after Charles’ father died, Yolande’s sway was eclipsed by that of avaricious Georges de la Trémoille, grand chamberlain, whose interest lay in, as Goldstone puts it, “undermining the king’s confidence as a means of controlling him and enriching himself as much as possible.” A major military defeat against Henry V spooked Charles, and he became obsessed with his disputed legitimacy and the possibility that God had thwarted him because he was not, in fact, the rightful king. As he tarried, the English solidified their base in northern France. Yolande raised and funded a substantial army, but she still couldn’t get her lily-livered, self-doubting son-in-law to fight.

Goldstone believed that Yolande’s extensive network of spies and contacts — particularly her youngest son, Renè, who was in line to become the Duke of Lorraine — notified her when a teenage peasant girl from the northern village of Domrèmy (on the border between Lorraine and Champagne) developed a following. In a touch right out of a J.J. Abrams series, there was a well-known prophecy, first circulated by a Provencal seeress, that “France will be lost by a woman [Charles' profligate and unpopular mother] and shall thereafter be restored by a virgin.” No one believed in Charles more than the charismatic and manifestly pious Joan, who treated his coronation and rule as sacramental.

Like medieval churchwomen with more conventional careers, Joan wielded an authority rooted in both her chastity and her claim to a hot line to heaven — in Joan’s case, the voices of the saints who directed her actions and promised success to Charles. (When she was finally captured by French allies of the English and subjected to a kangaroo trial for heresy, the question of whether, by wearing men’s clothes, she had behaved “immodestly” was given great weight.) At her famous meeting with the dauphin in 1429, Joan was said to have delivered an unspecified “sign” to Charles, confirming her holy status. Goldstone believes that she simply addressed his most corrosive, secret anxiety by immediately assuring him that she had been sent by God to verify his legitimacy and help him retake his kingdom.

Historians differ on how much military authority Joan exercised over the next year and how effective that authority was. But there is no doubt that her symbolic power was immense; she transformed a grinding dynastic squabble into a holy war in the eyes of French commoners, who had previously had little reason to side with any of the aristocratic combatants. Her valor in the heat of battle rallied flagging French troops again and again, above all in the raising of the siege of Orleans, a huge morale booster for Charles loyalists. The retrial that overturned her conviction for heresy 25 years after her execution became “a collective catharsis staged at the national level, in which not only Joan but the entire French population achieved redemption,” Goldstone writes.

Because so much of this material is familiar, delivery becomes a crucial factor in any popular history of these events. Goldstone’s is vigorous, witty and no-nonsense in the tradition of the late, great popular historian Barbara Tuchman. She registers moral disgust at the Burgundian lackeys who tormented and killed Joan of Arc, as well as pragmatic admiration for the campaign-trail chops of Yolande and her mother-in-law, Marie of Blois, who knew that the best way to consolidate support in your son’s or husband’s duchy was to travel from one provincial town to another, patiently listening to the local burghers’ gripes and then handing out plenty of cash. And she’s very funny when exploring the roots of the campaign to rehabilitate Joan’s reputation in a theological conflict within the University of Paris: “So much of life is fleeting, ephemeral: Seasons change, civilizations rise and fall; people are born, they live a little, they die. But faculty disagreements endure.”

“The Maid and the Queen” does suffer a bit from the fact that the figure Goldstone presents as driving events, Yolande, is almost never at the scene when the action occurs. Her influence must be inferred by the presence or behavior of men who were allied to her in one way or another. Of course, this is the only way Yolande could have operated, but it makes Goldstone’s central argument difficult to substantiate. “There is no more effective camouflage in history than to have been born a woman,” she writes. Not all of that camouflage can be conclusively cleared away, but thanks to this book, a bit more of this remarkable life has been coaxed out into the open.

A year abroad is far from a rare experience for American college students these days, but it’s a surprisingly undercontemplated custom; Kaplan — a professor of French at Yale and the author of a memoir and several prize-winning books on French history — singles out a recently-published academic study by Whitney Walton. However, most attempts to understand the transformative visits of young Americans to other countries have come in the form of coming-of-age memoirs and autobiographical first novels. About Paris, above all, American youth has spun extravagantly romantic fantasies of self-discovery, blossoming cosmopolitanism and creative ferment.

Jacqueline Bouvier arrived in 1949, to a Paris that was, literally, black. Its white stone buildings hadn’t been cleaned of street soot since the war. This, like the ration card issued to Bouvier for sugar and coffee, is the sort of detail that sketches an entire mode of life, scrimping and shadowed. Kaplan is a master at delivering such details and at selecting just the right aspect of everyday experience to illuminate an important point she wants to make.

In the section on Sontag, Kaplan notes, “There’s rarely a published account of Parisian intellectual life in the 1950s — French or American — that doesn’t involve hotel rooms.” Sontag, who, unlike Bouvier and Davis, spoke only “elementary” French during her 1957 sojourn to Paris, inhabited a “social world that was essentially American,” a hotel world. For the ambitious young critic, her months in Paris were primarily a period of introspective and erotic exploration; with a husband and child back in America, she submerged herself in an affair with a woman, Harriet Sohmers, who some thought to be the real-life model for the character Jean Seberg played in “Breathless.”

For Bouvier, to the manor born and raised but essentially broke due to the profligacy of her father, France offered a chance to steep herself in the European art and culture she adored. As part of a program run by Smith College, she stayed with a comtesse in the respectable 16th arrondissement, but only because the comtesse (who’d been in the Resistance and done time in a German labor camp), had to take in boarders to make ends meet. The shortage, in this shabby genteel milieu, of both bath tubs and baths, and especially the very basic nature of French toilets, delivered the “most intense” culture shock that Bouvier and her wholesome cohort experienced. The unheated houses of their host families ran a close second. Their Paris was uncomfortable, but replete with the exotic riches of the past.

Davis, on the other hand, arrived in 1963, a fluent French speaker and precocious academic intellectual expected to achieve great things as a philosopher by her mentor at Brandeis, Herbert Marcuse. She’d been imprinted with what Kaplan calls “the mythical power that France held for black Americans” as a realm where a full portion of freedom and dignity, inaccessible in America, could at last be enjoyed. Raised in segregated Birmingham, Ala. — in a neighborhood so plagued by racist bombers it was dubbed “Dynamite Hill” — Davis and her sister had once entered a white shoe store speaking French and pretending to be from Martinique. Instead of being shown to the back entrance for “colored” customers, they were treated “like dignitaries” in the front of the shop. French, for Davis, was the language of liberty, an escape hatch to another, better life.

As Kaplan recounts in an insightful passage on the role of newspapers in the education of American students overseas, Davis had no sooner arrived in France than she picked up a copy of the Herald Tribune to read of the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in her hometown. This act of domestic terrorism killed four 14-year-old girls, two of whom were Davis’ friends. Kaplan compares the American and French coverage of the event, all of which Davis must have studied avidly, to illustrate how each society was far more likely to acknowledge the prevalence of racism away from home. In Paris, Davis receive more respectful treatment than she got in the U.S., but all around her she saw Algerians targeted for abuse much like that she’d endured back home.

Kaplan devotes a section of each of the book’s three parts to “The Return,” the story of each woman’s later life in America and the role France and French culture played in it. There’s Jackie Kennedy’s expert negotiation of the politics of the visual, redecorating the White House, and herself, in a manner that satisfied her taste for French design without appearing unpatriotic. (Her husband did complain of “too Frenchy” official dinners, with menus that “nobody could read or understand.”) Sontag became the most visible American intellectual to champion the French “New Novel” to stateside readers. And Davis, when tried in 1970 for conspiring in a courtroom kidnapping and shoot-out in California, became a symbol of the battle for social justice to many French people, tens of thousands of whom marched to protest her imprisonment. French schoolchildren and secretaries sent her letters of support.

Some books are well-written on a sentence-by-sentence basis; you leaf back through the pages to find you’ve underscored choice lines. “Dreaming of French” is the sort of book where you (well, I) draw vertical lines next to entire paragraphs. Kaplan produces some exquisite lines, yes, but she is positively incandescent on the level of thoughts and observations. Of Sontag, she notes the obsessive list-making and sees the outsider, the girl from the provinces schooling herself on the societies she longed to infiltrate: “Throughout her life, she would enter a new world by recording its manners, its important people, creating her own grammar in the form of lists.” The big lectures and rote learning methods of the Sorbonne, she describes as “the part of French education that was as ritualistic as Catholic mass.” In Davis’ childhood efforts to teach herself French, she sees that, “for such a person, a counterlife of dreams and imaginary travel was an absolute necessity.”

Although Davis may have needed it most, all three of these women cherished an imaginary French counterlife as girls. Tracing the effect of an unlived fantasy on a person’s actual life is a delicate operation, but then so is accounting for the influence of that first immersion in a foreign country. Kaplan writes of her subjects that “the deep history of their transformation involved smells and tastes and visions — fleeting sensual experiences not easy to capture in a conventional life story.” An eccentric landlady or the first sampling of couscous can make an indelible impression on a sensibility cast wide open by travel, an impression that can in turn color ideas and feelings for decades to come. No, it’s not easy to capture such things, but Kaplan proves that it can be done.

“Island of Vice” is Zacks’ account of Roosevelt’s tenure on New York’s police commission during the mid-1890s. As such, it faces a dilemma. The hero of the story is, obviously, TR, that quintessential American, with his boundless energy and can-do spirit, his faith in traditional values and the moral use of violence, his omnivorous mind, his machismo and his naivete. The antagonist is sin-loving New York, Roosevelt’s hometown but above all the decadent and narcissistic big city that salt-of-the-earth Americans love to hate. Yet the book’s main attraction isn’t the glimpse it offers of a larval president or the chance to revel in rural/suburban rectitude. Anyone who settles in with “Island of Vice” will be reading it for the vice.

Few subjects are more amusing than tales of mischief and malfeasance executed by colorful characters with the antique flamboyance of an earlier era. Zacks, who knows this, extravagantly butters his book with figures like the brawling tavern-keeper Mike Callahan, who demonstrated his commitment to 24/7 service by tossing the keys to his establishment’s front door into the East River. (He would not need them again for 25 years.) It’s delightful to learn that the current site of the NYU campus was once a neighborhood known as Frenchtown, notorious for importing European filles de joie willing to engage in oral sex — a service that, by all reports, few of their American colleagues offered. Or that a “tight house” on Bayard Street featured women who wore formfitting bodystockings and danced with soldiers. (A private show without the tights was referred to as a “dance of nature.”)

Roosevelt, a Republican, came into office on a wave of political discontent with the once-supreme Democratic Party machine known as Tammany Hall. Police corruption scandals and a very energetic Presbyterian minister named Charles H. Parkhurst had rubbed the city’s nose in its own cesspit. Parkhurst formed a society of moral crusaders, including a team of detectives who took the reverend on a tour of New York’s fleshpots, everything from opium dens to dirt-floored “stale beer” joints (serving dregs collected from other bars) to a whorehouse where the reverend and an oversensitive congregant watched naked women play a game of leapfrog. Then they moved on to Frenchtown, where they witnessed some girl-on-girl action that Parkhurst declared “the most brutal, most horrible exhibition that I ever saw in my life.”

Although Parkhurst’s nocturnal research raised an eyebrow or two, like all such reformers he needed proof of New Yorkers’ easy access to vice in order to refute police claims that they had such crimes under control. In a way, they did. The police chose to let assorted rascals flourish unchecked not because they took a worldly view toward “victimless” crimes, but because they were extracting payoffs to look the other way. From shoeshine boys who “owned” certain street corners to shopkeepers whose sidewalk displays violated city ordinances, New York presented a (literal) wealth of shakedown opportunities for the boys in blue. Catching thieves and murderers was more of a sideline.

This nasty state of affairs was the result of the pervasive cronyism and political patronage of Tammany Hall. Roosevelt, appointed with three other commissioners by a rich and idiosyncratically independent mayor, had the job of cleaning it up. Initially popular, he went on legendary “midnight rambles” with his friend, the journalist Jacob Riis, looking for patrol officers who slept or drank on the job, hassled innocent civilians or fraternized with streetwalkers. When it came to slapping down bullying or negligent officers, the public stood behind TR.

That’s not to say Roosevelt didn’t meet with considerable resistance. The figure Zacks offers up as his antithesis is William “Big Bill” Devery. Devery was a thoroughly crooked yet strangely endearing precinct captain who, as the New York Times noted in his obituary, “was always on trial for something or other and always being acquitted” — the latter due entirely to his political connections. Devery, a product of Hell’s Kitchen, epitomized the kind of cop Roosevelt wanted to see ejected from the force. The force and its various allies fought back every step of the way.

Roosevelt also feuded bitterly, and self-destructively, with his fellow commissioners and other city officials. He angered the leaders of his own party’s machine by alienating sizable portions of New York’s population. This he achieved by deciding to strictly enforce “excise” laws preventing bars from serving alcohol on Sundays. Previously, the law had seemed to exist solely for the financial benefit of the police, and in truth very few citizens besides Puritans like Parkhurst really wanted to see a Sabbath-day prohibition put into effect. But Roosevelt mulishly insisted that “while the law is on the statute book it must be strictly enforced.” He refused to back down, even when, among others, the entire German community (who viewed Sunday outings at the biergarten as a wholesome family activity) rose up against him and his party and helped vote Tammany Hall back into power.

Some of the most entertaining parts of “Island of Vice” describe the ingenuity of saloonkeepers in circumventing the excise laws. Because a “hotel” that also served food was entitled to sell booze on Sundays, many bars converted their second floors to “rooms” — cubicles where drinks could be ordered — or required that each beer be accompanied by a sandwich. It wasn’t necessary that the sandwich actually be eaten and often the same dessicated specimen would be passed from customer to customer. A joke circulated about a dive where drinking had to be temporarily suspended (with much cursing) because “somebody ate the sandwich.” An unanticipated side effect of these bogus “hotels” was that females of the type Roosevelt described as “semi-respectable” ended up drinking in dangerous proximity to private “rooms” where they might easily lose what remained of their virtue.

The most lustrous resource for anyone writing about Gilded Age New York are the archives of the city’s multiple newspapers. Saucy, scathing and flagrantly partisan, they are irresistibly quotable, and Zacks does not resist. The Pulitzer-owned New York World was the nation’s largest-circulation paper and an implacable Roosevelt critic. Insisting that “RUM RULED THE CITY” despite the police commissioner’s best efforts, it told of a Sunday when “the Tenderloin [neighborhood] glistened with its brilliant evil; the eastside wallowed in beer.” Complaining of the “ponderous” ankles of an actress whose performance in “Ten Minutes in the Latin Quarter; or, a Study in the Nude” had provoked a scandal, another paper demanded that “she ought not to be allowed to reappear upon the stage unless submerged in bloomers and shoulder-of-mutton sleeves.” Bemoaning the “dry” Sundays of the Roosevelt regimen, yet another broadsheet wrote “New York is rapidly becoming a jay and hayseed village such as had the supreme felicity of giving birth to Dr. Parkhurst.”

Roosevelt himself seldom drank and was devoted to his wife and children, but one of his flaws was an impatient inability to see how anyone else might experience life differently. He stubbornly squandered his political capital on a battle that seems entirely pointless and quixotic to contemporary eyes. His skirmishes with other officials over issues like budgetary allotments and promotion protocol are bureaucratic matters that Zacks tries, and often fails, to make interesting. The reader returns with pleasure to the Leigh Sisters and their famous “umbrella dance” and longs to hear more of the pool hall and betting parlor on Bleecker St. that catered exclusively to women.

There’s grist for a few good movies between the covers of “Island of Vice,” but none that would feature a Hollywood ending. Because it’s hard to side with Roosevelt in this fight, the book offers more ambiguous pleasures. Between risque anecdotes and vintage dirty jokes, it provides a vigorous depiction of large-scale municipal politics in all its sticky, sweaty glory, and an ever-useful reminder that there are limits to even the most dynamic leader’s ability to dictate personal morality. Sin-loving New Yorkers wouldn’t have it any other way.

Putin comes across as a sort of malevolent and murderous Russian Bismarck, expertly consolidating power after a decade-long anarchic slide. Once in power, Gessen claims, he and his government have spared no effort or life to silence critics and cow the population into acquiescence. Gessen strongly implies that Putin has something akin to a mental defect that compels him not only to triumph over but to rob and destroy his enemies.

As a biography, “The Man Without a Face” struggles to weave the sparse available details of Putin’s life into a coherent narrative. We know certain facts about his childhood: by his admission, Putin grew up a “real thug,” a bloody-knuckles neighborhood brawler constitutionally incapable of backing down from a challenge. His father suffered terrible war wounds but survived, and even as a child, Putin aspired to join the KGB. Normal Russian kids from that era, Gessen says, wanted to be Yuri Gagarin. Putin wanted to be the guy who kept tabs on Yuri Gagarin.

He got his wish and joined the KGB as an operative sniffing out internal dissent. Subsequently, as an officer in Dresden, East Germany, he watched the Soviet Bloc unravel around him. When the newly free East Germans rioted and confronted him personally, Putin appealed to Moscow for guidance and was permanently shaken when his superiors responded that they were powerless and left him and his young family at the mercy of uncertain times.

Gessen contends, contra Putin’s publicly acknowledged CV, that after the break-up of the Soviet Union he never left the intelligence services, and that nearly from the start of the new Russia he has been insidiously tunneling under Russian democracy and preparing it for the utter collapse that we witness today. When he came to power, as Yeltsin’s chosen successor, few knew much about his origins or fitness for the job. He appeared to be “malleable and disciplined,” says Gessen, and therefore a good caretaker for the rich Yeltsin-linked incumbents from the first decade of independent Russia. But, she says, “the people who lifted him to the throne knew little more about him than you do,” and they were spectacularly wrong.

After sketching this thin biography (the ingredients of a detailed version are presumably locked in a KGB vault somewhere) Gessen describes a long series of crimes, most of them well-known, and in almost every case sees Putin as either a silent partner in their execution or as solely responsible. None of the accusations are new — for years journalists and activists have accused the FSB of blowing up apartment buildings, killing hundreds, as false-flag operations designed to boost Putin’s support as an anti-terror figure — but arrayed here in series they make Putin’s government look insanely sinister. These crimes, needless to say, include the murder and beating of the anti-Putin press.  Putin has even menaced foreign journalists. At a public press conference in Brussels, a Frenchman asked an uncomfortable question about Chechnya, and Putin responded by inviting him to come to Russia and have his gonads chopped off.

But the darkest note in Gessen’s book is not political but psychological. Putin’s need for total dominance of others, personally and politically, reaches levels that — if these stories are true — should spook us all. In 2005, when Putin met Robert Kraft, owner of the New England Patriots, he asked to examine the American’s ring, a diamond-encrusted monstrosity given to winners of the Super Bowl. “I could kill someone with this,” Putin said, creepily, and then placed it in his pocket and left. Putin’s fortune is estimated at $40 billion, allegedly the result of skimming a huge share of business deals, so he doesn’t need to take such items for money.  But Gessen says Putin’s nature is to covet, and when he combines pathological covetousness with unrestrained power, the result is the kleptocratic disaster that is contemporary Russia.

Putin’s public presence has, of course, been an occasion for some comedy. Bloggers half-jokingly have professed crushes on him, Stephen Colbert called for a “Putin ’08” write-in campaign for the White House, and we see a photo gallery every time the Kremlin’s releases another album of beefcake publicity photos (showing Putin in varying states of virile undress, performing outdoors activities such as fly-fishing and underwater archaeology).

For those of us safely abroad, where the free press and its gonads are relatively secure, it’s easier to appreciate the humor in all this. Even Russians have been known to laugh: when George W. Bush announced that he had looked into Putin’s eyes and “was able to get a sense of his soul,” Russians thought the quote was a real knee-slapper, since among Russians it is common knowledge that Putin has no soul. But in the context of Gessen’s jeremiad, and the recent elections, the only humor possible about Putin is of the gallows variety.

With a life as long, important and public as Tolstoy’s — a life rightly described by Rosamund Bartlett, in “Tolstoy: A Russian Life,” as “gargantuan” — the Boswellian approach would appear the natural one. And prior biographers have indeed followed this path. Tolstoy’s former secretary Nikolay Gusev embarked on the definitive Russian-language life in the 1950s but died after a mere four volumes. The work was taken up by Lidiya Gromova Opulskaya, who produced a further two before dying in her turn, so that to date the last 18 years of Tolstoy’s life remain uncovered. Ernest J. Simmons’ “Leo Tolstoy” (1946), now out of print, is probably still the most inclusive and definitive English-language life. Henri Troyat’s 1967 “Tolstoy” totals 900 pages; A. N. Wilson’s 1988 biography of the same title is shorter but still sizable at 625.

So what about all those readers who are interested in Tolstoy’s life but might not want to commit the time demanded by such comprehensive accounts? Great figures require the Boswellian treatment, there’s no doubt about it, but biographies that deliver lives in more digestible portions are clearly necessary, as the recent success of Claire Tomalin’s “Charles Dickens: A Life” indicates. Bartlett has skillfully compressed the 82 years of Leo Tolstoy’s intensely active life into a smoothly written and very readable 450-page narrative.

Much, inevitably, has had to be left out in order to achieve this streamlined effect. Tolstoy — in Anton Chekhov’s words, a “giant, a Jupiter” — was possessed of superhuman energies that drew him into myriad interests and passions. According to his wife, Sofya,

He developed enthusiasms for the most diverse things throughout his life: games, music, [ancient] Greek, schools, Japanese pigs, pedagogy, horses, hunting — too many in fact to count. And that’s not including his intellectual and literary interests: they were most extreme. He was madly passionate about everything at the height of his enthusiasm, and if he could not convince whomever he was talking to of the importance of the activity he was caught up in, he was capable of being even hostile to that person.

Wisely, Bartlett has not expanded on her subject’s passion for Japanese pigs, and few readers will regret the omission. A more noteworthy gap is the lack of any detailed discussion of Tolstoy’s great works of fiction. Tolstoy’s ancestors and acquaintances are examined as real-life prototypes for the famous characters in “War and Peace” and “Anna Karenina,” but the fiction itself and even Tolstoy’s significance in literary history are merely glossed over. Not that this is necessarily a fault in the book, for it was not Bartlett’s intention to write a critical biography. She makes it clear from the very beginning that she is at least as interested (and probably more so) in Tolstoy the philosopher and social activist as in Tolstoy the artist. As she has pointed out in an interview with the Guardian, “Tolstoy not only bequeathed to the world some of the greatest novels ever written, but also a huge and much less well-known spiritual and philosophical legacy to which he attached far greater importance than all his fictional work.”

Bartlett, a lifelong scholar of Russian cultural history, has another agenda, and that is to put Tolstoy into his specifically Russian context and to show him as the exemplar of several key Russian archetypes. In this she is quite successful. Western readers of Tolstoy’s two major novels have always remarked on how European, how specifically Francophile, his Russian aristocrats are; Bartlett, in contrast, shows us their roots in the land, a rural civilization infinitely more foreign to us than anything in Western Europe. After all, at the time of Tolstoy’s birth in 1828, his father, as the proprietor of the grand estate of Yasnaya Polyana, was the owner of 1,600 serfs — quite literally the owner. Young men like Tolstoy and his brothers were not infrequently presented with the gift of a peasant girl for their “health.” During Tolstoy’s youth he was aware of an illegitimate, poverty-stricken half brother, who hung round the estate and looked far more like their father than Tolstoy or his brother did. The writer, in turn, was to father a son of his own on a peasant girl and later to employ the child of this union, Timofey, as a coachman. It is at least as strange, heart-rending, and ironic a tale as anything in his fiction. Only in the contemporaneous, slaveholding American South can one find comparable stories.

And what stories they are! Tolstoy’s grandmother was the possessor of one Lev Stepanych, a blind storyteller. Lev Stepanyich

would sit in his long blue frock-coat with puffy sleeves on a low windowsill there, and some supper would be brought to him while he waited for Palageya Nikolaevna to retire. Since he was blind, she undressed in front of him without qualms, and then she and whichever grandchild was with her would climb into bed to get comfortable for that night’s story. Tolstoy vividly recalled the moment when the candle was extinguished in his grandmother’s bedroom, leaving the flickering light of the small lamp burning beneath the icons in the corner.

Many of these gorgeous details will be familiar to readers of Tolstoy’s own “Childhood, Boyhood, Youth,” but as Bartlett points out these are the least documented years in what was, she says half-complainingly, an over-documented life, and the images she brings to light are incomparably exotic and romantic. One of the classic Russian archetypes to which Tolstoy conformed was that of the landed aristocrat; it was an identity he acted out in youth (during which time horses, cards and peasant women, with whom he exercised the traditional droit du seigneur, featured largely) and adhered to even late in life, when he donned peasant garb, divided his property among his heirs, and tried to assume the role of a “holy fool” — another quintessentially Russian archetype. It was Tolstoy the arrogant aristocrat who achieved his great works on the backs of underlings and minions, and expected others (particularly his badly put-upon wife and children) to make whatever sacrifices he deemed necessary and salutary. He did nothing by halves: by turns he played the aristocrat and the peasant, the literary genius and the holy fool. As Bartlett writes,

This oscillation between the setting of unrealistic, puritanical goals for a future life of purity and self-denial and the self-mortification which followed his actual pursuit and enjoyment in the present of a hedonistic social life, is the leitmotif of Tolstoy’s first diary entry…. In fact, one could say that the battle between these two opposing sides of Tolstoy’s personality was the main theme of his entire life as an adult, and certainly fundamental to his creative processes. Simultaneous possession of these two warring impulses was not unique to Tolstoy, but may be seen as the mark of a quintessentially Russian nature.

It was as early as 1855, when Tolstoy was still in his 20s, that he discovered his vocation as a religious proselytizer. At that time he recorded in his diary “a great and stupendous idea”: the “foundation of a new religion corresponding to the development of mankind — the religion of Christ, but purged of dogma and mystery, a practical religion, not promising future bliss but providing bliss on earth.” His experiences as an officer in the Crimean War, where he stood for the first time beside common soldiers, had inspired these thoughts, though they were not to reach full fruition until a couple of decades later. Still, he began to put his new beliefs into practice. He opened a school for peasant children at Vasnaya Polyana. (Less than 6 percent of the Russian population was literate during the 1850s.) He liberated his serfs somewhat ahead of the official 1861 Emancipation of Serfdom Manifesto. He performed invaluable work in famine relief and in publicizing famines in little-known parts of the empire.

His genius as a writer was also pressed into service. Tolstoy spent years on a four-volume, 700-page ABC and reading primer, a work he regarded more highly than “War and Peace.” (Upon its publication in 1872 it received neither good reviews nor official approval, but with its republication 13 years later it became a bestseller, thenceforth having a powerful influence on Russian primary education until the 1917 Revolution.) Eventually, in the 1880s, he fully assumed the mantle of prophet with a tetralogy he thought his most important life work: “Investigation of Dogmatic Theology, Union and Translation of the Four Gospels,” “Confession” and “What I Believe.” He was the leading guru of vegetarianism, nonviolence and anti-materialism. His moral authority seemed boundless: Some called him Russia’s true tsar. Some went further: Speaking of Tolstoy’s relationship with God, Maxim Gorky likened them to “two bears in one den.” When Tolstoy was excommunicated by the Orthodox Church in 1901, it was the Church’s prestige that declined, not his own.

Saint or crank? His fellow artists resented time taken away from what they considered his true vocation. From his deathbed, Ivan Turgenev harangued the errant novelist: “My friend, return to literary activity! This gift has come to you from where everything else comes from. Oh, how happy I would be if I could think that my request makes an impact on you!! I am a finished man…. I can’t walk, I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, but so what! It’s even boring to repeat all this! My friend, great writer of the Russian land — heed my request!” Chekhov sometimes felt considerable distaste for Tolstoy in his chosen role of priest. “To hell with the philosophy of the great men of this world! All great wise men are as despotic as generals and as rude and insensitive as generals, because they are confident of their impunity.” In the role of artist, though, he believed the older author to be unsurpassed: “What he does serves to justify all the hopes and aspirations invested in literature…. [S]o long as he lives, bad taste in literature, all vulgarity, insolence and sniveling, all crude, embittered vainglory, will stay banished in outer darkness.”

It is easy enough to lament, with Turgenev and Chekhov, the great writer’s inattention to literary matters in the latter part of his life. It is also easy to laugh at the myriad ways in which he failed to practice what he preached, and at his gross vanity and monstrous ego. But countless people found inspiration in Tolstoy’s proselytism. The 25-year-old Mohandas Gandhi, a lawyer in South Africa, read his tract “The Kingdom of God Is Within You” and found there the courage of his own convictions. Ludwig Wittgenstein found in Tolstoy’s “Gospel in Brief” a lifeline that kept him sane through the First World War. And as Bartlett demonstrates, Tolstoy played a key role in the changes Russian society underwent leading up to 1917.

Her final chapter, dealing with the way the Soviet regime handled Tolstoy and his legacy, is perhaps the most fascinating in the book. To a large degree the Bolsheviks continued the tsarist policy of glorifying Tolstoy the novelist while persecuting his followers. The tsarist regime had known better than to arrest or harass the great man himself; they had no wish to create a martyr. In 1917, Tolstoy had been dead seven years. In the early years of the Soviet Union lip service was paid to the Tolstoyan legacy, but this did not last long, and over the course of several decades many innocent Tolstoyans were imprisoned, exiled and shot. Among those persecuted were the two chief torchbearers, Tolstoy’s daughter Alexandra and his closest disciple, Vladimir Chertkov. It was not until the coming of glasnost in the 1980s that Tolstoyanism began to be put back into perspective in its founder’s native land.

Turgenev nicely described Tolstoy as “a mixture of poet, Calvinist, fanatic, nobleman — something reminiscent of Rousseau, but more honest than Rousseau — highly moral and at the same time unattractive.” Bartlett’s treatment gives us the man in full but not, perhaps, the artist in full, and for this reason her biography will probably not supersede those of Troyat, Wilson and Simmons. But since these authors have already provided rich critiques of Tolstoy’s fiction, Bartlett’s unconventional focus should be considered all the more valuable. A post-Soviet look at Tolstoy the Russian might be more necessary, now, than yet another critical biography.