A gruff, astonishing old fellow, this double of Tolstoy. A strange coincidence that Tolstoy should die at his station. He is heavy, awkward, unpleasant-looking, like a Guy Fawkes effigy of Tolstoy; and as you watch him cross the waiting-room it seems as if his hair might fall off and prove to be a wig, and as if one might pull his beard and whiskers away.
But he is quite obliging to me, and shows me the marble tablet in the stationmaster's wooden wall, and directs me to the room in which everything stands just as it did then, which is being preserved so for all time—if Time spares Tolstoy's memory.
The first I ever heard of Tolstoy was the discrediting whisper, "His wife banks his money; everything is in his wife's name." And later on, when I came to Russia, coupled with national pride in Leo Nikolaevitch was always the rumour: "When he wants to go to Moscow he travels first-class; he does not go on foot as he advises others to do. He counsels us to live simply while he himself lives in style at Yasnaya Polyana. He disbelieves in doctors, but when the least thing is the matter with him doctors are in attendance." I suppose no one really put these things in the balance against Tolstoy's sincerity—unless, perhaps, it was Tolstoy himself.
Tolstoy was evidently heavily oppressed by the worldly life in which he seemed to share and which he seemed to countenance. It was mirrored in his soul
