At the beginning of January 1856 he was callcd to Orel, where his brother Dmitry, who had been suffering from tuberculosis for some time, lay dying. Leo Tolstoy had not seen him for two years. In the sordid bedroom he found, in place of the jolly Mitenka of his childhood, a white, bloodless being, so gaunt that he was frightened by him. "I lis enormous wrist was as though soldered to the bones of his forearm. His face had been devoured by his eyes; they were as beautiful, as serious as ever, but now their expression was inquisitorial. He coughed and spat incessantly, and he did not want to die, did not want to believe he was about to die."14 At his bedside were his sister Marya, brother-in- law Valerian, Aunt Toinette and a girl with a pockmarked face and red eyes, a kerchief tied around her head. This was Masha, a prostitute, whom Dmitry had bought from a brothel a few years before—the only woman he had ever known.
In this brother, ravaged by suffering and debauchery, Tolstoy saw a distorted reflection of himself. There seemed to be a propensity in the Tolstoy blood for swinging from good to evil, humility to pride, lechery to virtue, with unusual facility; they were all more or less creatures of extremes, lost in a world of happy-medium. Only, in Leo reason moderated instinct, whereas Dmitry followed his impulses to the end, however absurd their consequences. There was something magnificent in this blind impulsion, something noble in this defeat. Of old, his brothers had laughed at him and callcd him "Noah" because of his exaggerated piety. For years, in Kazan, he had continued his studies, caring for the sick, visiting the prisons and fasting to the point of inanition. Shabbily dressed, unwashed, stooped-shouldered and diffident, his only pleasure was abstinence. After receiving his law degree, he had gone to St. Petersburg and appeared, looking like a tramp, before Tanayev, secretary of state of the Second Division, requesting employment: "Anything at all, so long as I can be useful." Such an aspiration coming from a person of such unlikely appearance could only arouse the official's misgivings. Disappointed with the results of this overture, Dmitry had gone back to Sherbachevka and tried simultaneously to make a living hrom his estate and treat his serfs decently. His friends were pilgrims and monks and an ugly old hermit, short, bandy-legged and dark, who spoke in tones of deepest mystery and was known as Father Luke. No alcohol, no tobacco, total chastity*. One day, however, the youngest Islenyev son had prevailed upon the ascetic to accompany him to Moscow. At twenty-six, the life of sin came to Dmitry as a revelation. He began to drink, smoke, play cards and frequent brothels. But, pure even in his depravity, he resolved to keep the prostitute who had initiated him into the pleasures of the flesh. Scandal and consternation in the family! Brothers, sister, aunts, all opposed him. On his way back from the Caucasus, Leo himself had gone to Sherbachevka and tried to persuade Dmitry to get rid of the girl; for, despite his shining theories of redemption through love, the future author of Resurrection really could not condonc such a misalliance. After I-co's lecture, Dmitry sent Masha away; but his conscience compelled him to fetch her back again before long. Perhaps he was afraid to die alone; the couple roamed from place to place until the day, at Orel, when Dmitry could no longer get up. Masha was there beside him, plumping his pillows, brewing tisanes, holding the basin. He asked to see a miraculous icon, and she brought it. Hands clasped, he prayed to the holy image. Tolstoy readily persuaded himself that his brother was in good hands and he could depart with a clear conscience. "I was particularly loathsome at that time," he later wrote. "I had come from St. Petersburg, where I was very active in society, and I was bursting with conceit! I felt sorry for Mitya [Dmitry], but not very. I simply put in an appearance at Orel and left immediately."15 Three weeks later he was informed that his brother was dead; he was expecting it. One dry note in his diary: "February 2, my brother is dead." And, in a letter written the same day to Aunt Pelagya Yushkov, these few words: "He died a good Christian. That is a great comfort to us all."
He did not bother to go to the funeral. As before, when his father and grandmother had died, his grief was mixed with a feeling of selfish annoyance. Dmitry's death created problems for him. That very evening he had been invited to a reception in the home of a relative of his, a lady of whom he was very fond. He wrote to excuse himself, saying there had been a death in the family. Then, unable to stand it, he dressed and went to her home. She was surprised to see him and asked why he had come. "What I wrote you this morning wasn't true," he said. "If I am here, that means there is no reason why I should not be here." A few days later he told his Aunt Alexandra Tolstoy" that he had also gone to the theater. "I trust you enjoyed yourself!" was her icy comment. "Not at all," he answered. "I came home in agony." "And so that is how you twist the truth, in spite of all your claims to sincerity!" she cricd. He looked at her hard and said, weighing every word, "I must test myself in everything, down to the last detail."16 Later, writing of Dmitry's sorry end, he said, "I honestly believe that what bothered me most about his death was that it prevented me from attending a performance at Court to which I had been invited."17 But no event in his life was lost to literature. The furnished room at Orel, its walls covered with evil-looking stains; Masha, the prostitute with the heart of gold; Dmitry, reduced to skin and bones, dying in a garret; the smell of medicine and sweat, the rattling, coughing, spitting, change of nightshirt, doctor's
• Alexandra Tolstoy's father was Count Andrey Andrcycvich Tolstoy, brother of Leo Tolstoy's paternal grandfather.
visit—he found a place for them all in his description of the death of Levin's brother in Anna Karenina.18
The Crimean War, from which Leo Tolstoy now felt so far removed, ended with the signing of the Treaty of Paris, and Russia heaved a sigh of relief. On March 19, 1856 Alexander II published a manifesto promising the country that a great effort would be made to improve the legal rights of all his subjects. That day, a memorable occasion for the nation, was also noteworthy for Leo Tolstoy, but for a different reason. Having chanced to read an unflattering opinion of himself in a letter which Longinov, a contributor to The Contemporary, had written to Nckrasov, he issued a formal challenge to his detractor. "God knows what will come of it," he wrote two days later, on March 21, "but I shall be firm and bold. O11 the whole, this incident has had a beneficial effect on me. I have made up my mind to go back to the village, get married as soon as possible and not write under my own name any more." The last two of these three resolutions were promptly forgotten, and he meant to wait until after his duel before carrying out the first. But Longinov did not answer the challenge, friends interceded and Tolstoy subsided, with the thought that the puny pen pusher did not even deserve to be grazed by his bullet. A few days later he received a piece of news that was very flattering to his self-esteem and effaced the last traces of the bad feeling left by his abortive dueclass="underline" on March 26, 1856 he was promoted to the rank of lieutenant, "for bravery and resolute conduct displayed on August 4 at the battle of the Chernaya." He immediately requested an eleven-month furlough, for "treatment" abroad. But he had nothing that needed treating and so, instead of going abroad, he packcd his bags for Yasnaya Polyana. The spring must be magnificent just now! And, on the way, he could make a little side trip to pass the time of day with Ivan Turgenev on his estate at Spasskoye. Something had been missing from his life ever since the soft, gentle giant—like a dummy to stick pins into—had been out of reach. He was still thinking about him as he read one of his short stories on the train that carricd him to Moscow: Diary of a Superfluous Man. And he fiercely recorded his reactions on May 17: "Appallingly syrupy, cute, clever and playful." The very image of its author. Really, he could hardly wait to see him!