When Leo Tolstoi emerged as a religious teacher in the 1880s, taking a sharply polemical stance against the Orthodox faith he had been raised in, the Russian church was at a loss to find effective and appropriate ways to react. Several objectives and concerns conflicted with each other, prompting the prelates to take several initiatives, though at cross-purposes. On the one hand, to the very end the church hoped that it might be possible to bring the prodigal son back to the father house. Tolstoi had made a number of spectacular spiritual volte faces earlier in his life, and it could not be excluded that an additional metanoiai might bring him to his senses. In fact, in the course of his tortuous spiritual journey Tolstoi had at least once, in the years 1877- 1879, made strenuous efforts to live and believe like an Orthodox faithful. On that occasion he had failed, perhaps as a result of insufficient spiritual guidance, many Russians vainly hoped. The fact that Tolstoi several times visited the Optina Pustyn’ monastery and looked up the famed startsy there, also after his break with the church, was taken as a sign that his soul might not be irredeemably lost after all. Over the last thirty years of Tolstoi’s life, even while he lay on his deathbed, church dignitaries tried to gain access to the famous writer, to admonish and counsel him, hoping to bring him back to the narrow path.

But while they were engaged in this Sisyphean enterprise a steady stream of ever new anti-Orthodox pamphlets emanated from Iasnaia Poliana spreading the virus of Tolstoyan heresy all across Russia. Even more important than the missionary efforts to convert Tolstoi, therefore, was the necessity to contain, and, hopefully, extinguish, this spiritual plague. In order to achieve this aim Orthodox writers wrote literally hundreds of apologetic and polemical books and pamphlets, none of which, however, seem to have made a very deep impression on the Russian public. In addition, the censors were set to work - even though the authorities realized that they could not very well ban all the works of one of the world’s most famous writers. Only a handful of his most blatantly blasphemous and subversive tracts were banned in toto, while the remainder, such as the sharply acerbic anticlerical novel Resurrection, were allowed to be published, subject to certain cuts.

The encyclical itself is perhaps the best example of an action of the Russian church which badly backfired. With this document the prelates tried to combine an exhortation to Tolstoi to repent with a stern warning to the faithful to abjure his teaching and all his doings. The church leaders were trying to strike a delicate balance between outright condemnation of the heretic, on the one hand, and the extension of Christian love toward a lapsed sinner, on the other. Contrary to received opinion, the encyclical was not tantamount to an official excommunication, but the wording, the circumstances, and the timing of its publication created the definite impression that that was just what it was after all.

While the Encyclical without comparison is the most famous document in the twisted history of the Russian church’s counteroffensive against Tolstoyanism, the promulgation of an encyclical - if judged by the church’s own religious yardstick - was not the strongest measure the prelates could employ against the new heresiarch. A far more serious reaction, with consequences for eternity, would be to deny him a Christian burial. While it was clear that Tolstoi himself did not want any priest to officiate at his funeral, this circumstance by itself was not sufficient to put the issue to rest. As soon as he died, it would up to the bereaved to decide what should be done with his body. Both his wife and at least one of his sons were known to be Orthodox believers and were expected to press for a burial on consecrated ground. If they did, it would be up to the church to decide whether a requiem - otpevanie, panikhida or pominovenie - could be performed.

A protracted and at times convulsive debate for and against a Christian burial and requiem for Leo Tolstoi agitated the Russian public for an entire decade before he died and continued a good three years afterwards as well. In the Western literature on Tolstoi this debate has been almost completely eclipsed by the scandal surrounding the encyclical, and has elicited very few comments, let alone any detailed documentation or analysis. This article is an attempt to remedy this situation.

The requiem debate engaged many of the best minds of the Russian Orthodox Church. They made use of all their erudition and ingenuity to find the right decision and to defend it against criticism afterwards. Much was at stake for the church: its general reputation and theological trustworthiness as well as its relationship to the state authorities, to the general public, and to the faithful. The vacillating positions of the church leadership reflected all these concerns and pressures from all these quarters. As always in its attitude toward Tolstoi and Tolstoyanism, the church tried to pursue containment and damage limitation, on the one hand, and bring about Tolstoi’s conversion, on the other.

In 1900 Tolstoi fell seriously ill, and it was feared that he might die. As he was still formally a member of the Russian church, the Synod anticipated that some members of his family might ask for permission to give him a Christian funeral. The current head of the Holy Synod, Ioannikii, sent a confidential circular to all Russian dioceses, informing them that, should so happen, the request should be granted only in the event of Tolstoi repenting and reconciling with the church prior to his demise. In the contrary case, a Christian burial of Tolstoi could lead the faithful into temptation, the metropolitan maintained.

The contents of the circular were soon publicly known and elicited strong reactions. Believers and non-believers alike reacted both against the secrecy with which it was surrounded as well as against the potential denial of a Christian burial to Leo Tolstoi. The circular was widely regarded as a kind of excommunication, albeit a most irregular one. An anonymous pamphlet published abroad under the title The synod avenges itself on Tolstoi with an Anathema lambasted the circular and its authors.

The hierarchs realized that they would have to issue a public justification of their refusal to give Tolstoi an otpevanie. This, in fact, is an important reason why they the following year decided to publish a poslanie against him. Metropolitan Antonii (Vadkovskii), who by this time had taken over as head of the Synod after Ioannikii, wrote a letter to Konstantin Pobedonostsev, explaining that a public encyclical ´will not be a judgment of a deceased person, as the confidential circular is being depicted, nor a censure against which the accused is unable to defend himself. Instead, it will be a ‘warning’ to a living personª.

Thus, the famous - or infamous - encyclical originated as an element in a strategy to support the requiem ban, a fact which has often been overlooked. Indeed, in an early draft of the encyclical, discussed by members of the Synod, the connection between the two documents was made quite explicit already in the title. In this version, the encyclical was called ´a poslanie to the children of the Orthodox church, [to notify] that no pominovenie must be held over count Lev Tolstoi after his death.ª For reasons unknown the direct reference to the requiem ban was dropped at a later stage, but also in the final version it was stated that prayers or benedictions by Tolstoi’s coffin would not be permitted unless he repented.

While this message was presented in a verbose and roundabout language, its practical conclusion was nevertheless clear enough to be understood by those whom it concerned. In the ensuing debate the questions of excommunication and requiem ban were intimately interrelated.

The day after the publication of the encyclical Tolstoi’s wife, Sof’ia Andreevna, wrote four identical letters which she addressed to Konstantin Pobedonostsev and to the three metropolitan members of the Synod. She told them that the poslanie had filled her with boundless sorrow and indignation. The part which had caused her most revulsion was the requiem ban. The church, which she still belonged to, was in her opinion established by Christ the Lord in order to sanctify all significant moments in the life of man - birth, matrimony, and death, all sorrows and joys of men. But now the church had declared that it would withhold its blessings from her husband when he died, even though Christ has taught us that we shall love our enemies.

Sof’ia Andreevna nevertheless concluded that she could do very well without such a mass. In no way did the eternal fate of Tolstoi depend on the decisions of men, it would be decided by the will of God alone.

Initially, metropolitan Antonii apparently intended to pass over the countess's letter in silence. However, it was soon printed in several foreign newspapers and copies of it circulated in Russia as well. The reticence of the prelate was widely interpreted as a sign that he was stuck for an answer. One of the many anonymous letters to end up in his letter box during those days claimed that ´thousands of thinking people in Russia are expecting an answer from you in the press. If no reply is forthcoming, your silence will be regarded as additional confirmation of your feebleness and mendacity vis-à-vis God and society.ª

We cannot know for sure whether it was this letter that made the metropolitan change his mind, but in any event, on 16 March, Antonii sat down to write. His reply to Sof’ia Andreevna was published in Tserkovnyi vestnik together with the countess’s letter. It was most unusual for a high Church dignitary to involve himself in a public dispute concerning a decision he and his colleagues had made. This is an indication of the considerable problems of communication which the church experienced in its relation with the Russian public. The encyclical, which was intended as a justification of the requiem ban, could not stand on its own, but required additional public underpinnings.

In his reply, Antonii denied that the requiem ban should be seen as a threat of any kind. Furthermore, he agreed with the countess that it was one of the main tasks of the church to sanctify all solemn moments in the life of men, but he added that the church had never done so with regard to non-believers, heathens or blasphemers. While it is true that the love of God is limitless, this love does not forgive everything and everyone. Antonii cited Matt. 12,32 as biblical evidence that sin against the Holy Ghost will not be forgiven, either in this life, or in the next. Thus, if an Orthodox priest was to be bribed into officiating at a requiem mass for Tolstoi, this would be tantamount to a ´criminal profanation of the holy ritualª, the metropolitan asserted. In addition, it would be an offense against the deceased, since Tolstoi on numerous occasions had explicitly asked not to be given a Christian burial.

If the metropolitan had hoped that his reply would put an end to this delicate matter, he miscalculated badly. In fact, his letter poured additional fuel on the debate. The correspondence between him and the countess was discussed in drawing rooms and at street corners all over Russia - though not in the secular press. The press was expressly forbidden to cite or mention criticism of the Encyclical, but this prohibition did not extend to the organs of the church itself. This circumstance meant the ecclesiastical journals and papers could dominate the requiem debate unchallenged.

As was to be expected, all who expressed their opinion in the religious press supported the metropolitan. However, some the articles were so aggressively anti-Tolstoyan that Antonii possibly was more embarrassed than comforted by them. While his own letter to the countess, some harsh words notwithstanding, had clearly been an attempt to calm the sentiments, some of his supporters, deliberately or inadvertently, did their utmost to raise the temperature to new heights. Many of them were anonymous. In Tul’skie eparkhial’nye vedomosti an ´Orthodox laymanª claimed that, in her letter, the countess had professed a creed which on several points diverged from the faith of the Church. Without actually saying so he intimated that the church perhaps ought to excommunicate her as well, along with her husband.

A doctor from Moscow reminded the countess about Job’s wife in the Old Testament: She had advised her husband to curse God and die (Job 2, 9). An ´Orthodox believerª insisted, in direct disagreement with the metropolitan, that the requiem ban should indeed be regarded as a threat: did not Sof’ia Andreevna know that the God of love is also the God of revenge? Tolstoi, the doctor asserted, belonged to those whom Jesus condemned in Matt. 25,41: ´Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.ª

However, Antonii had no reason to believe that these outpourings were typical reactions among the Russian public. He received clear indications that the man-to-man debate, which stirred emotions all over the country, was dominated by quite other viewpoints. As it was not possible to express these viewpoints in public several persons decided that they instead would convey their opprobrium of the metropolitan’s action to him directly by post.

Among the letters to Antonii which are kept in the Saltykov-Shchedrin library in St. Petersburg, several touch upon the requiem question. The irreligious and anticlericals upbraided him, while most professing believers supported him. That was quite predictable. More disconcerting, therefore, from the bishop’s point of view, was probably the fact that also some who shared the faith of the church, took the side of the countess in this matter. The most interesting letter in this category was written by a retired naval officer, Ivan Pavlovich Iuvachev. Iuvachev was a man of letters, and had, over the years, contributed several articles and travelogues to Orthodox journals. He was well read and apparently also versed in Greek.

As a sincere Orthodox believer, Iuvachev wrote, he rejected Tolstoi’s ideas on the church, on the sacraments, etc. On the other hand, he could not but respect and love a man who obviously ´hungers and thirsts for righteousnessª. However, this was not the reason why he had come to the conclusion that a requiem mass over the great author ought to be allowed. Rather, he based his argument on a theological understanding of the Christian church. ´As is known, our Orthodox church, in contrast to many other denominations, prays for the deceased, not asking whether or not they deserve to be accepted into the Heavenly Kingdom. This is one of the reasons why we love this church so much.ª

Iuvachev pointed to Jesus’ healing of the lame in Matt. 9 (with synoptic parallels in Luke 5 and Mark 2): ´When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, ‘take heart, son; your sins are forgiven’ª. As Iuvachev pointed out, the Gospel is here talking not about ´hisª faith (avtou), but ´theirª (avton. All three versions of the miracle agree on this). This must mean that the faith of those who surround a stretcher - or a bier - is sufficient for God to forgive the sins of the person lying on it.

The main reason why the church did not listen to such voices but stood firm on the requiem ban was probably the one given by metropolitan Antonii in his letter to countess Tolstaia: Tolstoi himself had in no uncertain terms let it be known that he would very much resent the presence of any ecclesiastics at his funeral. Thus, starting from diametrically opposite positions the church leadership and Tolstoi in this matter ended up with identical conclusions.

Tolstoi had discussed his funeral in his diary as early as in 1895, in a passage which he would later refer to as his ´willª.

These lines both Sof’ia Andreevna and the metropolitan could in fact turn to their account. In his Reply to the Synod, however, published in 1901, Tolstoi gave a closer interpretation and sterner expression of his will.

Commenting upon these lines in 1902, an ecclesiastical author found them insinuating. They made it sound as if it were the habit of the priests to come running as soon as it was rumored that a person was in the throes of death and besiege the deathbed. No doubt, the Russian priests did not regularly evince such zeal, but they certainly did when Tolstoi was dying in 1910.

The news that Lev Tolstoi was nearing his end at the railway station in the provincial town of Astapovo in the Kaluga province in November 1910, triggered a hectic round of meetings in the Holy Synod. Its members convened for more or less continuous sessions and informal consultations from 3 through 7 November, sometimes both morning and evening. To some extent, this frantic activity was no doubt prompted by pressure from the secular Russian authorities. If the newspaper Russkoe slovo is to be believed prime minister Piotr Arkadievich Stolypin approached the Synod leadership inquiring what the church intended to do in the event of the drama in Astapovo terminating in death. This inquiry led to a hastily convened extraordinary meeting of the Synod where Tolstoi’s bishop, Parfenii of Tula, happened to be in attendance. At this meeting the Procurator of the Synod, Luk’ianov, raised the issue of giving Tolstoi a Christian burial. The bishops pointed to their encyclical from 1901 and added that since that document was issued Tolstoi had shown no signs of repentance.

Even so, they agreed, so many questions remained unanswered that the matter would have to be investigated further. It was therefore decided to send bishop Parfenii to Astapovo as an observer on behalf of the Synod. In addition, a telegram was dispatched to the bishop of Kaluga, in whose diocese Tolstoi now lay, instructing him to make a last-ditch attempt to elicit a change of heart from the great writer. This mission the bishop of Kaluga passed on to the startsy of the nearby Optina Pustyn’ monastery. In fact, the first stop on Tolstoi’s ´flightª from his family - which ended in Astapovo - had been at Optina. He had not looked up any of the startsy while he was there, but it was rumored in the press that he had wanted to do so. What had kept him back was the knowledge that he was under interdict. Acting upon this information, the abbot of Optina, Varsonofii, together with a deacon named Panteleimon, took it upon himself to travel to Astapovo in person to inquire into the causes of Tolstoi’s abortive visit to the monastery. The abbot arrived in the evening of 5 November, but Tolstoi’s daughter Alexandra, who kept vigil over the sick man, denied him entrance.

Bishop Parfenii, having a longer road to travel, arrived only after Tolstoi had died, on 7 November, at six o’clock in the morning. In the meantime, metropolitan Antonii had sent a personal telegram to the patient, beseeching him to return to the church:

Perhaps more than anything else this telegram shows how much it meant to the church to find a way to be reconciled with Tolstoi. The metropolitan no doubt realized that he was investing very much of the prestige and authority of the church in this endeavor. His telegram might well be presented in the secular press as an importunate obtrusion, and, at the same time, such desperate entreaties to a man who had heaped merciless scorn on him and his church for decades might easily turn the metropolitan into a pitiable laughing stock. The strong pressure coming from the secular authorities is probably not sufficient an explanation as to why he nevertheless persisted. Most probably the church leaders to the very end actually hoped - like Abraham "against all hope" (Rom. 4,18) - that a miracle might occur and their prayers would somehow be answered.

It is probable that pressure on the church to be reconciled with Tolstoi emanated not only from the government and the prime minister, but also from the tsar himself. Russkoe slovo asserted that there was deep concern ´at the highest levelsª over the embarrassing situation which the Encyclical had created. ´According to certain rumors the Synod was informed that a positive solution - no matter how - on the question of revoking Tolstoi’s excommunication was highly desired.ª This information is corroborated by Lev Aleksandrovich Tikhomirov (1852- 1923), a former revolutionary who in later life turned a fervent and vocal monarchist with good connections in the inner court circles as well as among the church leadership. On 8 November, Tikhomirov commented in his diary upon a conversation he had had the day before with bishop Parfenii. The bishop had confided that the tsar himself had expressed an impassioned desire to have Tolstoi reinstated in the fellowship of the church on his deathbed. Parfenii also claimed that the members of the Synod had pledged to do their utmost to accede to the wish of his majesty in this matter.

In Tikhomirov’s personal opinion the Synod would ´spit itself in the faceª if it gave in to this pressure. Indeed, it would reveal such fatal weakness in the church leadership that it might lead to a schism, he believed. This diagnosis, while probably grossly exaggerated, is nevertheless an indication of the strong emotions which the burial controversy stirred up.

However, the pressure to give Tolstoi an Orthodox funeral stemmed not only from without, but also from within the church itself. Influential clergymen were very willing indeed to officiate over the writer’s dead body if given permission so to do. According to bishop Antonii (Khrapovitskii, 1864- 1936), one of the most gifted and influential Russian church leaders of the twentieth century, a group of priests during these fateful November days approached the Synod and suggested that they could perform a burial service at Tolstoi’s funeral using an another ritual than the one ordinarily used. The ritual they had in mind was Sviatyi Bozhe which was used when a member of a non-Orthodox (Western) denomination was buried on a Russian Orthodox graveyard. This ritual had been instituted in 1797 to cater for all the non-Russian Christian officers who served in the tsarist army and died on Russian soil. These were persons who, while not followers of the true faith, nevertheless ´adhered to the teachings of the Gospel, and put their trust in Christ the Lord, the Savior of Mankindª. The Sviatyi Bozhe ritual was still in use at the time of Tolstoi's death, indeed, it had been reconfirmed and reformed as late as in 1904 and found an ever wider application.

The group of clergymen apparently reasoned that interring Tolstoi with the rites of Sviatyi Bozhe, the famed writer could be given a Christian burial while conveniently bypassing the thorny issue of his relationship to the Orthodox church. However, theologically this suggestion was at the very best questionable and the political benefit to be drawn from it most uncertain. Theologically, it might leave the impression that the Russian church put Tolstoyanism on a par with Catholicism and Lutheranism. In addition, even if the church by choosing this solution could no longer be accused of ´punishingª the deceased heretic, it would immediately face another from the opposite side, that of trying to make political capital out of him. Indeed, it seems that whatever the Russian church leadership did or failed to do, it would be pilloried all over the globe as a gang of callous, self-righteous bigots. They were clearly in a no-win situation.

While the available evidence is inconclusive, it appears that the Synod seriously debated the Sviatyi Bozhe ritual, seeing it as a straw to cling to. A commemorative book on The last Days of Tolstoi published shortly after the writer’s death claims that a decision was indeed made in the morning session of 7 November to settle for this compromise solution. The reason why it was nevertheless not implemented was that Stolypin at three p.m. the same day received a telegram from the governor of Riazan’, prince Obolenskii stating that Tolstoi’s family had decided to perform the funeral in accordance with the dead man’s own prescriptions. In other words, the close relatives were requesting that no religious observances should be made over the coffin.

The editors of The last Days of Tolstoi do not say how they got hold of this piece of information. The preface only states that the material printed in the book had been culled from various newspapers and journals, and verified to the degree that this had been feasible. As far as I can see this information has neither been referred to nor commented upon in any later accounts of Tolstoi’s death, either in the Soviet Union, or in the West. In my view, however, the episode merits some attention. The Sviatyi Bozhe debate is an indication that there was far greater confusion and vacillation within the Church leadership than has usually be assumed. Outwardly it might seem as if the Synod retained a consistent and unwavering attitude on the question of Tolstoi’s burial, never deviating from its 1901 statement, but this appearance may well be deceptive.

The fact that detailed reports from the confidential deliberations of the Synod could be printed in The last Days of Tolstoi was in itself not very sensational. Leakages from the highest organs of the church belonged to the order of the day: frequently indiscretions resulted in news stories in the Russian press. Even though the Sviatyi Bozhe decision is not directly confirmed by independent sources, it is nevertheless given some credence by the testimonies of Lev Tikhomirov and Antonii Khrapovitskii. Bishop Antonii explained that the proposal of the clerical group was turned down ´as it in all likelihood would not have been accepted by the relativesª.

The attitudes of the Tolstoi family on the requiem issue had for a long time been beset by a high degree of uncertainty. Rumors insisted that certain relatives had asked permission of the Synod to have an Orthodox ritual performed by the grave. Highly placed persons of authority believed in the veracity of these rumors. A Ministry of the Interior official, N.P. Kharlamov, sent a telegram from Astapovo to his superiors in Moscow at twelve-thirty p.m. on the day of Tolstoi's death. He informed that ´the family desires a religious funeral (Tserkovnoe pogrebenie)." On the basis of this telegram his superior, P.G. Kurlov, sent a message to the governor of Riazan’, instructing him that the police authorities should not interfere in the event of a priest wanting to perform panikhida over Tolstoi. If such an eventuality did arise, however, the priest would have to notify the police authorities in advance about his intentions, ´lest the panikhida turned out to be a disguised attempt to organize an antigovernment demonstration.ª Six hours later, however, the porter at Astapovo transmitted another coded telegram from Kharlamov: ´so far, no wish for a panikhida has been expressedª.

Among Tolstoi’s children only Andrei was strongly in favor of giving his father an Orthodox funeral, but in order to preserve peace with his brothers and sisters he did not press the issue. Andrei had a long conversation with bishop Parfenii at Astapovo during which he told the prelate about his decision. Based on Andrei’s communication and other conversations he had at Astapovo Parfenii wrote a comprehensive report to the Synod leadership. Already on the evening of 7 November a circular telegram was sent to all Russian dioceses confirming the requiem ban. If any priest anywhere was approached by someone asking for a panikhida over ´God’s servant Levª, the priest should, contrary to regular custom, inquire about the surname of the deceased before granting the request. If the surname was ´Tolstoiª no mass should be read.

Also after Tolstoi’s death secular pro-government circles exerted pressure on the church leadership to make it change its mind. On 8 November a delegation from the Octobrist party headed by Mikhail Rodzianko handed prime minister Stolypin a petition in which it was pointed out that the Christian church admonishes us to pray for all people, the greatest sinners included. The Octobrists therefore felt that the church was in conflict with its own teaching when it did not allow a requiem mass for Tolstoi. Stolypin replied that the question raised by the delegation was a purely internal church matter, over which he, as a representative of the secular powers, had no authority. Bearing in mind the considerable pressure which Stolypin himself had already exerted on the Synod in this matter this protestation has an ironic ring. The Octobrists nevertheless had to accept this answer and trudged on to find the right person to receive their petition, metropolitan Antonii. Antonii, however, not feeling quite well, declined to see them.

Somewhat later the Octobrist delegation received what amounted to an indirect reply to their petition from the reactionary bishop Nikon (Rozhdestvenskii) of Vologda. In his diary, which was printed in the three December issues of the Orthodox journal Moskovskie tserkovnye vedomosti in 1910, he wrote that, according to some people, the greater a sinner is, the greater is the need for intercession. However, if one were to follow this line of reason to its logical conclusion one would have to pray for all God’s enemies, Nikon argued, even for Judas Iskariot. And according to the bishop Tolstoi was more a sinister and devastating figure than Judas had ever been. Judas had repented after only one day, while Tolstoi had never repented, but had continued to torment the Master for more than 25 full years. Thus, the Russian writer had led far more people into perdition. Tolstoi’s sin was of the kind which the apostle John had been talking about (1 John 5,16). For this category of sins no forgiveness was possible, and no prayers permissible.

Tolstoi’s death caused widespread mourning all over Russia, and indeed all over the world. Escorted by 3000- 8000 people the coffin was brought home to Iasnaia Poliana where he was put to rest in the park under some large oaks. Tolstoi’s will was respected. There were no priests present, either at his deathbed, or at the funeral, no wax candles, crosses or icons. The mourners sang Vechnaia pamiat’, a hymn, which is sung as part of the Orthodox funeral ritual, but which nevertheless was regarded as a philosophically neutral way to part with the great writer. Tolstoi was the first public figure in modern Russian history to be buried without an officiating priest. Several Orthodox scribblers interpreted this as a fulfillment of Jeremiah’s prophesy in 22,19: "He shall be buried with the burial of an ass."

From the very first moment Tolstoi’s burial place became a popular destination for modern pilgrims. On his birthday the next year, 28 August, more than 300 persons congregated at his grave. Shortly thereafter a small paragraph appeared in a number of Orthodox journals under the heading ´A serpent on Tolstoi’s graveª. The anonymous writer claimed that during the commemoration on 28 August a boy had been bitten by a serpent which suddenly had appeared at the grave site. The poison had been transmitted to the chest and it was not known whether or not the boy had survived. The boy was the son of Tolstoi’s biographer, the famous Tolstoyan Pavel Biriukov, it was asserted.

The magazine Troitskoe slovo, whose editor was known to have close connections to the Black Hundreds, explained the incident as a divine intervention.

One-and-a-half years later an Orthodox writer insisted that, as a result of this incident (and, one may probably add, as a result of the interpretation it had been given in the Orthodox press), the number of visitors at Tolstoi’s grave had decreased.

In 1912 the requiem mass entered a new phase. On 3 September of that year a professor at the Moscow theological academy, S. Glagolev, opined that while it had been a correct decision not to give Tolstoi a Christian burial when he died, the situation since then had changed. Perhaps the time was now right to say a panikhida over him. Apparently unconnected to this suggestion, a man turned up in Iasnaia Poliana three months later, spurred by ´God’s inspirationª, he claimed. The person presented himself as a priest of the Russian church and asked permission to celebrate a requiem mass over Tolstoi. The knowledge that such a ´beautiful soul and good man as Tolstoi, who believed in both Christ and Godª, should lay buried in the ground without the blessing of the church, filled him with deep anxiety.

The priest’s request was granted. First, he performed otpevanie by the grave site, then panikhida in Tolstoi’s bed chamber. Only Sof’ia Andreevna, Tolstoi’s last secretary Valentin Bulgakov, and four more persons were present. The same evening the priest moved on. Sof’ia Andreevna described him as ´an energetic and wise priest, 27 years of ageª. To Bulgakov he had presented himself as Grigorii Lavrentevich Kalinovskii.

Sof’ia Andreevna had hoped that the incident could be kept secret, but the press soon got hold of the story. On 21 December, the journalist Aleksandr Savvich Pankratov in Russkoe slovo wrote a short sardonic article about the occurrence. He doubted whether ´Mr. X in the cassockª really was an ordained priest, he could just as easily be a dressed-up lackey or barber. In any case, his action revealed deep ignorance about canonical law as well as contempt for the Holy Synod. According to Pankratov it was ´utterly absurdª to perform otpevanie two years after a funeral, over a person who had been expelled from the church and who, to cap it all, had explicitly asked to be buried without Orthodox ritual. The fact that the priest had not revealed his identity, Pankratov found quite natural. No criminal leaves his card on the site of his crime.

One week later Sof’ia Andreevna defended the incident in a letter to the editors in the same newspaper. She referred to Tolstoi’s words in his diary of 1895 where he writes that if it means a lot to his family, they may give him an Orthodox funeral. His far harsher words in his Reply to the Synod she passed over in silence. She had had no religious scruples with the priest’s proposal, she explained, quite the contrary:

It was true that the two masses had to be held in privacy, but also the first generation of Christians had had to hide from their enemies. After the masses the priest, in the words of the countess, had jubilantly exclaimed: ´now Lev Nikolaevich is no longer a heretic, I have forgiven him his sinsª.

The Synod immediately rose to action, and, as on earlier occasions, commissioned bishop Parfenii of Tula to look into the matter. The bishop presented his report on 3 January 1913. He had not succeeded in establishing the identity of the anonymous priest. Parfenii therefore assumed that the two masses had been a veritable ´mystificationª: Sof’ia Andreevna had been hoodwinked by an impostor. In spite of the conclusion of the bishop’s report the Synod held on to the hypothesis that the services had indeed been performed by a real priest.

Finally, the still anonymous priest sat down and justified his action in a letter to the editors in Russkoe slovo. In his view, an otpevanie may be conducted after the funeral just as well as under it. This was commonly done several places in Siberia and in other remote regions where there are no priests. In any case, an otpevanie is not a travel document which the soul must present to the border guards when he crosses over from earth to heaven. It is a prayer, and it is never too late to pray. The church ought always and under all circumstances to pray for all sinners, even for the condemned. The early Christians had prayed for their executioners. The anonymous priest averred that he did not share Tolstoi’s religious convictions, and had been motivated by no other reasons than that he, a sinner, would pray for another sinner.

The priest did not confirm Sof’ia Andreevna’s startling assertion that he had done away with Tolstoi’s heresy. Most Orthodox writers who condemned him in writing nevertheless assumed that it had indeed been his intention to do just that. The signature ´B.ª in Tserkovno-obshchestvennyi vestnik believed that the priest had tried to turn the prayers of the Church into a magical formula that worked mechanically, independent of the will of man. However, the grace of God cannot save by force. Intercession for the dead, therefore, makes sense only if those who live on can be sure that the dead one would have joined them in prayer if he had been still alive. ´Bª had no doubt in his mind that the otpevanie had been an illegal act and that the priest would be severely punished if he were to be exposed.

Anton Vladimirovich Kartashev (1875- 1960), professor of church history at St.Petersburg theological academy and four years later appointed Minister of Religious Affairs in the Provisional Russian government, commented upon the requiem mass for Tolstoi in Russkoe slovo in January 1913. Kartashev pointed out that the priestly ministry is not a personal spiritual power invested in the priest, but is an organ of the church. Religious rituals performed by a priest, therefore, make sense only when they are performed on behalf of the church. When a priest officiated by Tolstoi’s grave without the blessing of his bishop, therefore, he could only act in the capacity of private person, with no ecclesiastical authority.

However, Kartashev also reminded his readers that Christ had given the church ´an heroic, superhuman commandmentª: pray for your enemies. In the opinion of the professor, therefore, a special ritual ought to be instituted for that purpose. ´That would provide us with a remedy against the feeling of religious impotence which the men of the church are experiencing in the extraordinary situation which Tolstoi’s death has brought about.ª

This suggestion was vehemently rejected by one of Kartashev’s colleagues at the academy, professor A. Bronzov. Even while a special liturgy for prayers for enemies was perhaps a good idea, it could under no circumstances be applied to Tolstoi’s case, he insisted. By reference to Matt. 12,31 (blasphemy against the spirit), 1 John 5,16 (a sin that leads to death) and several other verses in the Bible Bronzov declared that Tolstoi’s soul was irredeemably lost. The idea that an Orthodox priest should feel a divine inspiration to pray for him, Bronzov found preposterous. If this action had resulted from a supernatural impulse of any kind, it had to come from Beelzebub.

In the liberal Orthodox journal Otdykh khristianina, N. Kuznetsov gave a detailed theological and historical analysis of Orthodox prayers for heretics. It was a matter beyond doubt that the ceremony at Tolstoi’s grave had constituted a clear breach of church discipline, Kuznetsov concluded. Canonical law contained explicit strictures against priests who acted without the consent of their bishop. Slavianskaia kormchaia specifically stated that a priest cannot on his own behalf excommunicate, or increase or reduce a punishment (epitimiia) imposed on someone.

At the same time, Kuznetsov emphasized that the Bible unequivocally exhorts us to pray for everyone (1 Tim. 2,1), even for our enemies (Matt. 5,44; Acts 7,60). Indeed, such prayers are included in all Orthodox prayer books, he pointed out. Even so, it was always implicitly, and sometimes explicitly, understood that, in such cases, one would pray for living persons who had a chance to repent and turn away from their wicked ways. However, there were certain exceptions from this rule in the history of the church. In the ninth century Saint Theodore the Studite had given permission to pray for a deceased iconoclast, but on the condition that the prayer was said in private, not in the church. A similar distinction between private and public prayer could be found also in the writings of the learned and highly respected bishop Feofan Zatvornik (Govorov, 1815- 1888), Kuznetsov documented. Applying this rule to the otpevanie conducted at Tolstoi’s grave, he concluded that this incidence could be regarded as an act of private commemoration and prayer. On the other hand, no liturgical ceremony in the Orthodox sense had taken place.

In the end, to many Orthodox Russians concerned about the fate of Tolstoi’s soul, a private prayer proved to be a workable solution. Tolstoi’s son Il’ia in his memoirs relates that his aunt, Marie Tolstaia, a nun, asked permission of her spiritual father, starets Iosif at Optina Pustyn', to pray for her deceased brother. The first time she did so her plea was turned down by reference to Tolstoi’s excommunication. However, the nun found no peace of mind, and approached another priest, hoping to find greater understanding for her predicament. Also this time the answer was negative. According to her nephew these refusals began to tell on the nun’s mental health. Luckily, her spiritual father finally realized the extent of her moral torments, and gave her permission to pray for her brother, on the condition that she did so in her cell only, alone, lest anybody be led into temptation.

The protracted and, in some parts, learned debate on prayer for departed apostates which the requiem mass for Tolstoi provoked, did not lead to any consensus. Instead, two diverging viewpoints crystallized, corresponding to the increasingly sharper division between reactionary and liberal tendencies in the Russian church in the first decades of the twentieth century. The most restrictive party saw the otpevanie for this heretic as a profanation of the sacrament and hence as positively harmful. In contrast to this view, some men of the church took a more relaxed attitude: since such a private prayer could not be regarded as a sacrament at all, it could by definition not be a profanation of any of them. For that reason, there was no need for the church to condemn the incident or to threaten anybody with punishment. With very few exceptions, however, all Orthodox believers in Russia concurred that it would be impossible for the church qua church to conduct any kind of public prayer, let alone requiem mass, over Tolstoi after his death.