Never lacking an excuse, Tolstoy declared that it was the irregularity of his life alone that prevented him from writing. And, indeed, his gambling debts had mounted at an alarming rate since his arrival in Moscow. Naturally, he was sure he could win it all back in two or three lucky plays, provided he played systematically; he invented extravagant martingales, none of which, alas, worked; and he wrote down com- minatory precepts in his diary: "Play only with people richer than myself." Or, "Never play for less than twenty-five silver kopecks."
While waiting to recoup his fortune at cards lie spent every cent that came to him from the estate, pawned his watch, ordered extra fellings of timber, mortgaged a few acres and humbly inclined before Aunt Toinette's lamentations.
"Dear Aunt," he wrote in French, "everything you tell me of my passion for cards is perfectly true, and I often think the same. That is why I believe 1 shall play no more. I say 'I believe,' but I hope I can soon tell you 'I know'; you see, it is very hard to let go of an idea one has had for a long time."14
At one point, in urgent need of money, he, the Muscovite dandy, conceived the idea of becoming a postmaster. He would expand the postal service between Moscow and Tula. The application for a government license was processed in record time. But a few weeks later he backed out of the undertaking, fearing he might lose his last shirt: oats were too expensive and his partner untrustworthy. Ashamed of his idleness, his "nullity," he decided to begin a special column in his diary, to which he would consign his weaknesses, "in the manner of Benjamin Franklin." For one month, without missing a day, he set down, page after page, the most torrid self-accusations: "vanity," "boasting," "conceit," "sloth," "apathy," "affectedness," "deceitfulncss," "instability," "indecisiveness," "waiting for miracles," "tendency to copy others," "cowardice," "contrariness," "excessive self-confidence," "inclination to voluptuousness," "passion for gambling" . . . How he reveled in reviling himself! Driven by the demon of analysis he split himself in two and became teacher and pupil at once. The teacher set a program for the pupil (" Tomorrow, from 8 a.m. to 10 a.m., write; from 10 to noon, look for money and fence; from 6 p.m. until nightfall, write and receive no one . . .") and scolded the pupil when he did not adhere to it. The pupil confessed his sins to the teacher ("I am not pleased with myself ... I behaved neither well nor badly . . . Lack of perseverance . . .") and promised to "do better" next time. In fact, nothing fascinated Tolstoy as much as himself. He peered at his diary as though it were a mirror, experimenting with new faccs and then grading himself on them. Other people interested him only in terms of his effect upon them. When he thought of the exalting struggle that lay ahead, before he would become morally irreproachable, he was almost happy to be nothing but an amalgam of vices, a kneaded lump of straw and mud.
As spring drew near, something like a breeze blew through his soul, lie wrote to Aunt Toinette: "With the rebirth of nature, one would like to feel reborn oneself; one regrets the past, the wasted time, one repents of one's weakness, and the future lies ahead like a shining light."15 He was eager to leave behind his haggard companions in pleasure, the green baize, the smoke, the gypsies and empty bottles, and plunge back into the calm countryside of Yasnaya Polyana, where the trees were budding. Easter with the family. This time, in addition to Aunt Toinette, he would see his brother Nicholas, artillery lieutenant in the Army of the Caucasus, who had been given a six- months furlough.
Nicholas had arrived home on December 22, 1850, and Leo had gone to Pokrovskoyc to see him at the home of their sister Marya, who was expecting a baby.* After four years, his meeting with his eldest brother had made such an impact upon him that he still thought of it with alternating affection and uneasiness. Nicholas, now twenty-seven, appeared to him in his officer's uniform as a man of experience, self- assured, poised, upright, modest and dignified. Oh, he still liked to laugh and drink, and he told stories as well as ever, but his whole being gave off an air of worldly wisdom and lassitude which commanded respect. He never argued, never condemned, he merely smiled to express his doubt or disapproval. Leo had expected to dazzle him with his elegant outfit from Sharmer's, his fine linen and tales of nights spent at the gaming tables, in aristocratic drawing rooms and with the gypsies; but Nicholas had pursed his lips into a faintly mournful grimace and changed the subject. "Either he is completely blind or else he doesn't like me," Leo noted in his diary after their first meeting. "Or else he is simply pretending not to notice and not to like me."16 This uncomfortable feeling had worn off during Nicholas' short trips to Moscow. But Leo needed to see him back at Yasnaya Polyana, in the atmosphere of their childhood, in order to regain his confidence in their friendship. Unconsciously, he was looking for advice, for a revelation, from his brother, as in the far-off days when they had played at being Ant Brothers together.
Borne up by this unacknowledged hope, he set off, on April 2, 1851, for his domain. Alas! Once the joy of greeting Aunt Toinette and his brothers and sister had worn off, he relapsed into boredom and self- disgust. "April 5. Went to sec Sergey (at Pirogovo). Lied, boasted and acted like a coward." "April 6. Did nothing. I lied and boasted a great deal. Fasted, but without thinking about it, absent-mindedly . . ."
• A son, Nicholas, was bom to Marya Tolstoy on January 1.
"April 7. Lazy and soft. Tomorrow, Easter Sunday . . ." "April 8. Easter. Wrote a sermon; half-hearted, punv, afraid to speak out."
Since he had been at Yasnaya Polyana, his continence had begun to prey upon him. There were so many serf-girls in the house and village. Even when lie avoided them he felt attracted to them: the sway of a skirt, glow of a bare arm, sweat-stain on a shirt clinging to a body. . . . Ilis periods of concupiscence and asceticism always alternated in rapid succession. He was two men—a sybarite and a saint—sewed up inside one skin, each loathing the other. After struggling to remain pure for three days, he gave in: "April 18. Could not hold out. I motioned to something pink which looked very nice from a distance. I opened the back door. She came in. Now I can't stand to see her any more; everything is vile and ugly; I hate her, because she drove me to break my resolution. ... I bitterly repent of it. I have never felt it so strongly as now."