It Could Happen Here - CZM Book Club: After the Dance by Leo Tolstoy

Episode Date: June 15, 2025

Margaret reads you a story about what it takes to break from society in disgust. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

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DNA test proves he is not the father. Now I'm taking the inheritance. Wait a minute, John, who's not the father? Well, Sam, luckily it's your not the father week on the OK Storytime podcast, so we'll find out soon. This author writes, my father-in-law is trying to steal the family fortune worth millions from my son, even though it was promised to us.

He's trying to give it to his irresponsible son, but I have DNA proof that could get the money back. Hold up, they could lose their family and millions of dollars? Yep, find out how it ends by listening to the OK Storytime podcast on the iHeartRadio app, Apple podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. The Medal of Honor is the highest military decoration in the United States.

Recipients have done the improbable, the unexpected, showing immense bravery and sacrifice in the name of something much bigger than themselves. This medal is for the men who went down that day. On Medal of Honor, Stories of Courage, you'll hear about these heroes and what their stories tell us about the nature of bravery. Listen to Medal of Honor on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Callzone Media Book Club, Book Club, Book Club.

Hello and welcome to the Callzone Media Book Club, the only book club where you don't have to do the reading because I do the reading for you. I'm your host Margaret Killjoy and every week I bring you stories. And this week, you're going to be so surprised by what I'm going to do. I'm going to bring you a story. This story is by Tolstoy. That's right, the most famous author guy who no one actually reads. I mean, some people read. He writes very long books, and they're very Russian. And I decided to read this story because I just finished reading a bunch of stories by McGahn, the Mexican anarchist, and I was like, I think I'm going to do some anarchist fiction as a kick. And Tolstoy is an interesting character.

He's often seen as the sort of founder of Christian anarchism and whatever. He comes up in every history episode that I do, if it's vaguely related to Eastern Europe or in Russia in particular, but I haven't actually done as much of a deep dive on him in particular as I would like to, partly because I suspect he was actually kind of a terrible person,

but I don't know, because I haven't done it yet. And I like reading these stories, not because I'm like, this is the way that we should all think about politics, but instead as ways of understanding, like this is the way that some people were thinking about politics. These are influential ways of understanding ideas. And the thing about McGaughan that we read the last two weeks

is that he wrote a fair amount, but his primary thing was that he was a revolutionary, not that he was a writer, and in particular, a writer of fiction. Although again, he wrote a fair amount of fiction. But they're very simple and direct stories, and that doesn't make them worse or better. But Tolstoy is like a writer, and he's like a writer's writer and stuff. And so I thought it'd be an interesting comparison to make. This particular story is called After the Dance. It's also translated as

After the Ball. It was written in 1903 and it wasn't published until 1911. He died in 1910, so this is published posthumously. And so it's set well after he's written the books that have made him famous. Anyway, this story. And you say that a man cannot of himself understand what is good and evil, that it is all environment, that the environment swamps the man, but I believe it is all chance. Take my own case. Thus spoke our excellent friend, Ivan Vasilievich, after a conversation between us on the impossibility

of improving individual character without a change of conditions under which men live. Nobody had actually said that one could not of oneself understand good and evil, but it was a habit of Ivan Vasilievich to answer in this way the thoughts aroused in his own mind by conversation and to illustrate those thoughts by relating incidents in his own life. He often quite forgot the reason for his story and telling it, but he always told it with great sincerity and feeling. He did so now. Take my own case. My whole life was molded not by environment, but by something quite different. By what then, we asked? Oh, that is a long story. I should have to tell you about a great many things to make you understand.

Well, tell us then. Ivan Vasilievich thought a little and shook his head. My whole life, he said, was changed in one night, or rather, morning. Why, what happened, one of us asked? What happened was that I was very much in love. I have been in love many times, but this was the most serious of all. It is a thing of the past. She has married daughters now.

It was Varenka B. Ivan Vasilievich mentioned her surname. Even at 50, she is remarkably handsome, but in her youth at 18, she was exquisite, tall, slender, graceful, and stately. Yes, stately is the word. She held herself very erect, by instinct as it were, and carried her head high, and that, together with her beauty and height, gave her a queenly air, and carried her head high, and that, together with her beauty and height, gave her a queenly air, in spite of being thin, even bony, one might say. It might indeed have been deterring, had it not been for her smile, which was always gay

and cordial, and for the charming light in her eyes, and for her youthful sweetness. What an entrancing description you give, Ivan Vasilevich. Description indeed, I could not possibly describe her so that you could appreciate her. But that does not matter. What I am going to tell you happened in the 40s. I was, at the time, a student in a provincial university. I don't know whether it was a good thing or no, but we had no political clubs, no theories in our universities then. We were simply young and spent our time as young men do, studying and amusing ourselves. I was a very gay, lively, careless fellow,

and had plenty of money too. I had a fine horse and used to go tobogganing with the young ladies. Skating had not yet come into fashion. I went to drinking parties with my comrades. In those days we drank nothing but champagne. If we had no champagne, we drank nothing at all. We never drank vodka as they do now. Evening parties and balls were my favorite amusements. I danced well and I was not an ugly fellow. Come, there is no need to be modest, interrupted a lady near him. We have seen your photograph. Not ugly, indeed. You are a handsome fellow.

Handsome, if you like. That does not matter. When my love for her was at its strongest on the last day of the carnival, I was at a ball at the provincialvincial Marshals, a good-natured old man, rich and hospitable, and a court chamberlain. The guests were welcomed by his wife, who was as good-natured as himself. She was dressed in peice-colored velvet and had a diamond diadem on her forehead, and her plump old white shoulders and bosom were bare like the portraits of Empress Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the Great.

It was a delightful ball. It was a splendid room with a gallery for the orchestra, which was famous at the time, and consisted of serfs belonging to a musical landowner. The refreshments were magnificent and the champagne flowed in rivers. Though I was fond of the champagne, I did not drink that night, because without it, I was drunk with love. But I made up for it by dancing waltzes and polkas till I was ready to drop.

Of course, whenever possible, with Varenka. She wore a white dress with a pink sash, white shoes, and white kid gloves, which did not quite reach to her thin, pointed elbows. A disgusting engineer named Anizmov robbed me of the marasuka with her. To this day, I cannot forgive him. He asked her for the dance the minute she arrived, and while I had driven to the hairdressers to get a pair of gloves, and was late. So I did not dance the mazurka with her, but with a German girl

to whom I had previously paid a little attention. But I am afraid I did not behave very politely to her that evening. I hardly spoke or looked at her and saw nothing but the tall, slender figure in a white dress with a pink sash, a flushed, beaming, dimpled face, and sweet, kind eyes. I was not alone. They were all looking at her with admiration, the men and women flushed, beaming, dimpled face and sweet, kind eyes.

I was not alone. They were all looking at her with admiration, the men and women alike, although she outshone all of them. They could not help but admiring her. Although I was not nominally her partner for the Mazurka, I did as a matter of fact, dance nearly the whole time with her. She always came forward boldly, the whole length of the room to pick me out.

I flew to meet her without waiting to be chosen, and she thanked me with a smile for my intuition. When I was brought up to her with somebody else and she guessed wrongly, she took the other man's hand with a shrug of her slim shoulders and smiled at me regretfully. Much like the regret that you might feel if you don't take advantage of pressing the skip forward several times button or listening to ads and buying stuff. Camp Shane, one of America's longest running weight loss camps for kids, promised extraordinary

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it's far from what I originally intended it to be. These days, I'm interested in expanding what it means to be voiceover, to make it customizable for anyone who feels the need to explore their relationship to relationships. I'm talking to a lot of people who will help us think about how we love each other. It's a very, very normal experience to have times where a relationship is prioritizing other parts of that relationship that are being naked together. How we love our family.

I've spent a lifetime trying to get my mother to love me, but the price is too high. And how we love ourselves. Singleness is not a waiting room. You are actually at the party right now. Let me hear it. Yes. Listen to VoiceOver on the iHeartRadio app,

Apple podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. DNA test proves he is not the father. Now I'm taking the inheritance. Wait a minute, John, who's not the father? Well, Sam, luckily it's your not the father week on the OK Storytime podcast, so we'll find out soon. This author writes, Hold up, so what are they going to do to get those millions back? That's so unfair.

Well, the author writes that her husband found out the truth from a DNA test they were gifted two years ago. Scandalous. But the kids kept their mom's secret that whole time. Oh my god. And the real kicker, the author wants to reveal this terrible secret, even if that means destroying her husband's family

in the process. So do they get the millions of dollars back, or does she keep the family's terrible secret? Well, to hear the explosive finale, listen to the OK Storytime podcast on the iHeart ReadyWeb, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. The Medal of Honor is the highest military decoration

in the United States. Recipients have done the improbable, showing immense bravery and sacrifice in the name of something much bigger than themselves. This medal is for the men who went down that day. It's for the families of those who didn't make it. I'm JR Martinez. I'm a U.S. Army veteran myself.

And I'm honored to tell you the stories of these heroes on the new season of Medal of Honor, Stories of Courage from Pushkin Industries and I Heart Podcast. From Robert Blake, the first black sailor to be awarded the medal, to Daniel Daly, one of only 19 people to have received the Medal of Honor twice. These are stories about people who have distinguished themselves by acts of valor going above and beyond the call of duty. You'll hear about what they did, what it meant, and what their stories tell us about

the nature of courage and sacrifice. Listen to Medal of Honor on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. And we're back. Whenever there was a waltz figure in the Mazurka, I waltzed with her for a long time, and breathing fast and smiling, she would say, Encore. And I went on waltzing and waltzing as though unconscious of any bodily existence.

Come, now. How could you be unconscious of it if your arm was around her waist? You must have been conscious not only of your own existence, but of hers," said one of the party. Ivan Vasilievich cried out, almost shouting in anger. There you are, moderns all over. Nowadays you think of nothing but the body. It was different in our day. The more I was in love, the less corporeal she was in my eyes. Nowadays, you think of nothing but the body. Nowadays, you set legs, ankles, and I don't know what. You undress the women you are in love with. In my eyes, as Alphonse Carr said, and he

was a good writer, the one I loved was always draped in robes of bronze. We never thought of doing so. We tried to veil her nakedness, like Noah's good-natured son. Oh, well, you can't understand. Don't pay attention to him. Go on, said one of them. While I danced for the most part with her and did not notice how time was passing, the musicians kept playing the same Mazurka tunes over and over again in desperate exhaustion. You know what it is towards the end of a ball. Papas and mamas were already getting up from the card tables in the drawing room in expectation of supper.

The men servants were running to and fro bringing in things. It was nearly three o'clock. I had to make the most of the last minutes. I chose her again for the Mazurka, and for the hundredth time we danced across the room. The quadrille after supper is mine, I said, taking her to her place. Of course, if I am not carried off home, she said with a smile. I won't give you up,' I said. "'Give me my fan anyhow,' she answered. "'I am so sorry to part with it,' I said, handing her a cheap white fan.

"'Well, here's something to console you,' she said, plucking a feather out of the fan and giving it to me." I took the feather and could only express my rapture and gratitude with my eyes. I was not only pleased and gay, I was happy, delighted. I was good. I was not myself but some being not of this earth, knowing nothing of evil. I hid the feather in my glove and stood there, unable to tear myself away from her. Look, they are urging father to dance, she said to me, pointing to the tall, stately

figure of her father, a colonel with silver epaulettes, who is standing in the doorway with some ladies. Verinka, come here, exclaimed our hostess and the lady with the diamond farinere with her shoulders like Elizabeth, in a loud voice. Verinka went to the door and I followed her. Persuade your father to dance the mazurka with me, Manchurie, do please, Peter Vasilievich, she said, turning to the Colonel.

Varenka's father was a very handsome, well-preserved old man. He had good color, mustaches curled in the style of Nicholas I, and white whiskers which met the mustaches. His hair was combed on to his forehead, and a bright smile like his daughter's was on his lips and in his eyes. He was splendidly set up with a broad military chest on which he wore some decorations, and

he had powerful shoulders and long slim legs. He was that ultra-military type produced by the discipline of Emperor Nicholas I. When we approached the door, the Colonel was just refusing to dance, saying that he had quite forgotten howl. But at that instant, he smiled, swung his arm gracefully around to the left, drew his sword from its sheath, handed it to an obliging young man who stood near and smoothed his suede glove on his right hand. "'Everything must be done according to rule,' he said with a smile. He took the hand of his daughter and stood one quarter turned, waiting for the music.

At the first sound of the mazurka, he stamped one foot smartly, through the other forward, and, at first slowly and smoothly, then buoyantly and impetuously. With stamping of feet and clicking of boots, his tall, imposing figure moved through the length of the room. Varenka swayed gracefully beside him, rhythmically and easily, making her steps short or long with her little feet and their white satin slippers. All the people in the room followed every movement of the couple. As for me, I not only admired, I regarded them with enraptured sympathy. I was particularly impressed with the old gentleman's boots. They were not the modern pointed affairs,

but were made of cheap leather, square-toed, and evidently built by the regimental cobbler. In order that his daughter might dress and go out in society, he did not buy fashionable boots, but wore homemade ones, I thought, and his square toes seemed to me most touching. It was obvious that in his time he had been a good dancer, but now he was too heavy and his legs had not spring enough for all the beautiful steps he tried to take. Still, he contrived to go twice around the room. When at the end, standing with legs apart, he suddenly clicked his feet together and

fell on one knee a bit heavily, and she danced gracefully around him, smiling and adjusting her skirt and the whole room applauded. Rising with an effort, he tenderly took his daughter's face between his hands, he kissed her on the forehead, and brought her to me, under the impression that I was her partner for the Mazurka. I said I was not. Well, never mind, just go around the room once with her, he said, smiling kindly, as he replaced his sword in the sheath. As the contents of the bottle flow readily when the first drop has been poured, so my love for Varenka seemed to set free the whole force of loving within me. In surrounding

her it embraced the world. I loved the hostess with her diadem in her shoulders like Elizabeth, and her husband and her guests and her footmen, even the engineer Anasmov, who felt peevish towards me. As for Varenka's father, with his homemade boots and his kind smile, so like her own, I felt a sort of tenderness for him that was almost rapture. After summer I danced the promised quadrille with her, and though I had been infinitely happy before, I grew still happier with every moment. We did not speak of love.

I neither asked myself nor her whether she loved me. It was quite enough to know that I loved her. I had only one fear that something might come to interfere with my great joy. When I went home and began to undress for the night, I found it quite out of the question. I held the little feather out of her fan in my hand, and one of her gloves which she gave me when I helped her into the carriage after her mother.

Looking at these things and without closing my eyes, I could see her before me, as she was for an instant when she thought she had to choose between two partners. She tried to guess what kind of person was represented in me, and I could hear her sweet voice as she said, Pride, am I right? And merrily gave me her hand. At supper, she took the first sip from my glass of champagne, looking at me over the rim with her caressing glance. But plainest of all, I could see her as she danced with her father, gliding along beside him and looking at the admiring observers with pride and happiness. He and she were united in my mind in one rush of pathetic tenderness." And you know what else is awkward, like the way that people in the old timey describe

things like this? Cutting to ads in the middle of a story. That's also awkward. And yet, here we all are. Camp Shane, one of America's longest running weight loss camps for kids, promised extraordinary results. Campers who began the summer in heavy bodies were often unrecognizable when they left. In a society obsessed with being thin, it seemed like a miracle

solution. But behind Camp Shane's facade of happy, transformed children was a dark underworld of sinister secrets. Kids were being pushed to their physical and emotional limits as the family that owned Shane turned a blind eye. Nothing about that camp was right. It was owned Shane turned a blind eye. Nothing about that camp was right. It was really actually like a horror movie. In this eight episode series, we're unpacking and investigating stories of mistreatment and reexamining the culture of fatphobia that enabled a flawed system to continue for so

long. You can listen to all episodes of Camp Shame one week early and totally ad free on iHeart True Crime Plus. So don't wait, head to Apple podcasts and subscribe today. Have you ever thought about going voiceover? I'm Hope Woodard, a comedian, creator and seeker of male validation. To most people, I'm the girl behind VoiceOver, the movement that exploded in 2024. VoiceOver is about understanding yourself outside of sex and relationships.

It's more than personal, it's political, it's societal, and at times, it's far from what I originally intended it to be. These days, I'm interested in expanding what it means to be voiceover, to make it customizable for anyone who feels the need to explore their relationship to relationships. I'm talking to a lot of people who will help us think about how we love each other. It's a very, very normal experience to have times where a relationship is prioritizing

other parts of that relationship that are being naked together. How we love our family. I've spent a lifetime trying to get my mother to love me, but the price is too high. And how we love ourselves. Singleness is not a waiting room. You are actually at the party right now. Let me hear it. Listen to VoiceOver on the iHeartRadio app,

Apple podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. DNA test proves he is not the father. Now I'm taking the inheritance. Wait a minute, John, who's not the father? Well, Sam, luckily it's your not the father week on the OK Storytime podcast, so we'll find out soon. This author writes, my father-in-law is trying to steal the family fortune

worth millions from my son, even though it was promised to us now I find out he's trying to give it to his irresponsible son instead But I have DNA proof that could get the money back hold up So what are they gonna do to get those millions back? That's so unfair Well the author writes that her husband found out the truth from a DNA test. They were gifted two years ago Scandalous, but the kids kept their mom's secret that whole time. Oh my God. And the real kicker,

the author wants to reveal this terrible secret, even if that means destroying her husband's family in the process. So do they get the millions of dollars back or does she keep the family's terrible secret? Well, to hear the explosive finale, listen to the OK Storytime podcast on the iHeart ReadyWAP, Apple Podcast,

or wherever you get your podcasts. The Medal of Honor is the highest military decoration in the United States. Recipients have done the improbable, showing immense bravery and sacrifice in the name of something much bigger than themselves. This medal is for the men who went down that day. It's for the families of those who didn't make it.

I'm JR Martinez. I'm a US Army veteran myself, and I'm honored to tell you the stories of those who didn't make it. I'm JR Martinez. I'm a US Army veteran myself. And I'm honored to tell you the stories of these heroes on the new season of Medal of Honor Stories of Courage from Pushkin Industries and I Heart Podcast. From Robert Blake, the first black sailor to be awarded the medal, to Daniel Daley, one of only 19 people

to have received the Medal of Honor twice. These are stories about people who have distinguished themselves by acts of valor going above and beyond the call of duty. You'll hear about what they did, what it meant, and what their stories tell us about the nature of courage and sacrifice. Listen to Medal of Honor on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. And we're back. I was living then with my brother, who has since died. He disliked going out and never went to dances. and besides, he was busy preparing

for his last university examinations and was leading a very regular life. He was asleep. I looked at him, his head buried in the pillow and half covered with the quilt, and I affectionately pitied him, pitied him for his ignorance of the bliss I was experiencing. Our serf, Petrusha, had met me with a candle, ready to undress me, but I sent him away. His sleepy face and tousled hair seemed to me so touching. Trying not to make a noise, I went to my room on tiptoe and sat down on my bed. No, I was too happy I could not sleep, besides it was too hot in the rooms. Without taking off my uniform, I went quietly into the hall, put on my overcoat, opened

the front door, and stepped out into the street. It was after four when I had left the ball, going home and stopping there a while, had occupied two hours. So by the time I went out, it was dawn. It was regular carnival weather, foggy and the road full of water-soaked snow just melting, and water dripping from the eaves. Varenka's family lived on the edge of town near a large field, one end of which was a parade ground, at the other end was a boarding school for young ladies.

I passed through our empty little street and came to the main thoroughfare, where I met pedestrians in sledges laden with wood, the runners grating the road. The horses swung with regular paces beneath their shining yokes, their backs covered with straw mats and their heads wet with rain, while the drivers in enormous boots

splashed through the mud beside the sledges. All of this, the very horses themselves, seemed to me stimulating and fascinating, full of suggestion. When I approached the field near their house, I saw at one end of it, in the direction of the parade ground, something very huge and black. I heard sounds of fife and drum proceeding from it. My heart had been full of song, and I had heard in imagination the tune of the Mazurka,

but this was very harsh music. It was not pleasant. What can that be? I thought, and went towards the sound by a slippery path through the center of the field. Walking about a hundred paces, I began to distinguish many black objects through the mist. They were evidently soldiers. It is probably a drill, I thought. So I went along in that direction in company with a blacksmith who wore a dirty coat and an apron, and he was carrying something. He walked ahead of me as we approached the place. The soldiers in black uniforms stood in two rows, facing each other motionless, their guns at rest. Behind them stood the fives and drums,

incessantly repeating the same unpleasant tune. What are they doing? I asked the blacksmith who halted at my side. A Tartar is being beaten through the ranks for his attempt to desert, said the blacksmith in an angry tone as he looked intently at the far end of the line. I looked in the same direction and saw between the files something horrid approaching me.

The thing that approached me was a man, stripped to the waist, fastened with cords to the guns of two soldiers who were leading him. At his side, an officer in overcoat and cap was walking, whose figure had a familiar look. The victim advanced under the blows that rained upon him from both sides, his whole body plunging, his feet dragging through the snow. Now he threw himself backward and the subalterns who led him thrust him forward. Now he fell forward and they pulled him up short. While ever at his side marched the tall officer with firm and nervous pace. It was Verenka's father, with his rosy face and white mustache.

At each stroke the man, as if amazed, turned his face, grimacing with pain, towards the side whence the blow came, and showing his white teeth, repeated the same words over and over. But I could only hear what the words were when he came quite near. He did not speak them. he sobbed them out. Brothers have mercy on me. Brothers have mercy on me. But the brothers had no mercy.

And when the procession came close to me, I saw how a soldier who stood opposite me took a firm step forward and lifting his stick with a whir, brought it down upon the man's back. The man plunged forward but the subalterns pulled him back, and another blow came down from the other side, then from this side and then from the other. The Colonel marched beside him and, looking now at his feet and now at the man, inhaled the air, puffed out his cheeks, and breathed it out between his protruded lips. When they passed the place where I stood, I caught a glimpse between the two files of the back of the man who was being punished. It was something so many-colored, wet, red, unnatural, that I could hardly believe it was a human body. My God, muttered the blacksmith.

The procession moved further away. The blows continued to rain upon the writhing falling creature. The fives shrilled and the drums beat, and the tall, imposing figure of the Colonel moved alongside the man just as before. Then suddenly the Colonel stopped and rapidly approached a man in the ranks. I'll teach you to hit him gently, I heard his furious voice say. Will you pat him like that? Will you? And I saw how his strong hand and a suede glove struck the weak, bloodless, terrified

soldier from not bringing down his stick with sufficient strength on the red neck of the Tartar. Bring new sticks, he cried, and looking round he saw me. Assuming an heir of not knowing me, and with a ferocious, angry frown, he hastily turned away. I felt so utterly ashamed, I didn't know where to look. It was as if I had been detected in a disgraceful act. I dropped my eyes and quickly hurried home. All the way, I had the drums beating and the fives whistling in my

ears, and I heard the words, Brothers have mercy on me, or Will you pat him? Will you? My heart was full of physical disgust that was almost sickness, so much so that I halted several times on my way, for I had the feeling that I was going to be really sick from all the horrors that had possessed me that night. I do not remember how I got home and got to bed, but the moment I was about to fall asleep,

I heard and saw again all that had happened and I sprang up. Evidently, he knows something I do not know, I thought about the Colonel. If I knew what he knows, I should certainly grasp, understand what I have just seen, and it would not cause me much suffering. But however much I thought about it, I could not understand the thing that the Colonel knew. It was evening before I could get to sleep, and then only after calling on a friend and drinking till I was quite drunk.

Do you think I had come to the conclusion that the deed I had witnessed was wicked? Oh no. Since it was done with such assurance and was recognized by everyone as indispensable, they doubtless knew something which I did not know. So I thought and tried to understand. But no matter, I could never understand it then or afterwards. And not being able to grasp it, I could not enter the service as I had intended. I don't mean only the military service. I did not enter the civil service

either. And so now I have been of no use whatsoever, as you can now see." "'Yes, we know how useless you've been,' said one of us. "'Tell us, rather, how many people would be of any use at all if it hadn't been for you." "'Oh, that's utter nonsense,' said Ivan Vasilievich, with genuine annoyance. "'Well then, what about the love affair?' "'My love?' It decreased from that day. When, as often happened, she looked dreamy and meditative, I instantly recollected the Colonel on the parade ground and felt so awkward and uncomfortable that I began to see her less frequently. So my love came to naught. Yes, such chances

arise and they alter and direct a man's whole life," he said in summing up. And you say... and that's the end of the story. This story... and now I always point it out that I always say this story is interesting to me, but although I won't say I like this story so much, instead I'll say that this story is really interesting to me and I think it's really well written, but it's also like, I mean it's written in, from my point of view, a fundamentally misogynist form, right? It is fundamentally, I had this thing, I had this love of this beautiful woman and it fell apart.

I lost it because of my disgust at her father, right? But interestingly and not, the story is actually based on what happened to his brother, Sergey, who was courting the daughter of a commander and then watched the commander overseeing the beating of a soldier was like, I can't do any of this. I want to have nothing to do with any of this

and like stopped courting the daughter. And the fact that it's related to that is like particularly interesting, right? Because at the beginning of this story, the protagonist Ivan Vasilevich is like, oh, I was living with my brother who's since died. And this is written about his brother only the story didn't come out until actually he died. And so it's kind of a weird ghost story. I don't know, whatever. And it's not written in a form that people would write most stories now, where it's kind of a weird ghost story. I don't know whatever. And it's not written in a form that people would write most stories now where it's this entire build up and then this complete reversal. You know the story is absolutely cut into two completely opposite parts to give us this sense of this high, right? This like you know overwrought love story. Although I think that all along the overwrought

love story is like and then the serfs brought us stuff but maybe everyone just I don't know whatever. You know it seems to be aware of class, but maybe it's not aware of class. Maybe I'm just hyper aware of class. It doesn't feel like it's aware of the feminist implications of itself, but just, yeah, this idea of like, he can't even be mad. He's like, oh, yes, I'm clearly the bad one because I don't understand how society works is like such an interesting and dark take. And yeah, that's the story about a soldier running a gauntlet told from the point of view of some rich guy who watches it and it fucks his entire life up. It's called After the Dance by Tolstoy.

Thanks for listening and next week I'll read you more stories. It could happen here is a production of Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from Cool Zone Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.com, or check us out on the iHeard Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for It Could Happen Here, updated monthly, at coolzonemedia.com slash sources. Thanks for listening. Camp Shane, one of America's longest runningrunning weight loss camps for kids, promised extraordinary

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Have you ever thought about going voiceover? I'm Hope Woodard, a comedian, creator, and seeker of male validation. I'm also the girl behind voiceover, the movement that exploded in 2024. You might hear that term and think it's about celibacy, but to me, voiceover is about understanding yourself outside of sex and relationships. It's flexible, it's customizable, and it's a personal process. Singleness is not a waiting room. You are actually at the party right now.

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