"Leo Nicolayevitch, though I disagree with your religious-philosophical views, I deeply respect in your person the greatest of artists."
And suddenly, under his peasant's beard, under his democratic crumpled blouse, there would rise the old Russian bariny the grand aristocrat: then the noses of the simple-hearted visitor, educated and all the rest, instantly became blue with intolerable cold. It was pleasant to see this creature of the purest blood, to watch the noble grace of his gestures, the proud reserve of his speech, to hear the exquisite pointedness of his murderous words. He showed just as much of the barin as was needed for these serfs, and when they called out the barin in Tolstoi it appeared naturally and easily and crushed them so that they shrivelled up and whined.
One day I was returning from Yasnaya Polyana to Moscow with one of these "simple-hearted" Russians, a Moscow man, and for a long time he could not recover his breath, but kept on smiling woefully and repeating in astonishment: "Well, well, that was a cold bath. He's severe ... pooh!"
And in the middle of it all he exclaimed, apparently with regret: "And I thought he was really an anarchist. Everyone keeps on saying: Anarchist, anarchist,' and I believe it...."
The man was a large, rich manufacturer, with a great belly, and a face the colour of raw meat—why did he want Tolstoi to be an anarchist? One of the "profound mysteries" of the Russian soul!
When Leo Nicolayevitch wished to please, he could do so more easily than a clever and beautiful woman. Imagine a company of people of all kinds sitting in his room: the Grand Duke Nicolay Mikhailovitch, the house-painter Ilya, a social-democrat from Yalta, the stundist Patzuk, a musician, a German, the manager of the estates of Countess Kleinmichel, the poet Bulgakov, and all look at him with the same enamoured eyes. He explains to them the teaching of Lao-Tse, and he seems to me an extraordinary man-orchestra, possessing the faculty of playing several instruments at the same time, a brass trumpet, a drum, harmonium, and flute. I used to look at him just as the others did. And now I long to see him once more—and I shall never see him again.
Journalists have come asserting that a telegram has been received in Rome "denying the rumour of Tolstoi's death." They bustled and chattered, redundantly expressing their sympathy with Russia. The Russian newspapers leave no room for doubt.
To lie to him, even out of pity, was impossible; even when he was seriously ill, one could not pity him. It would be banal to pity a man like him. They ought to be taken care of, cherished, not loaded with the wordy dust of worn-out, soulless words.
He used to ask: "You don't like me?" and one had to answer: "No, I don't."
"You don't love me?"—"No, to-day I don't love you."