Another time, Nicholas promised his brothers to take them up Fan-
• As Tolstoy observed in his Reminiscences, Nicholas probably meant to say "Moravian Brothers," which was the name of a religious sect that flourished in Bohemia in the sixteenth century. The confusion in the child's mind arose from the fact that the Russian word for ant is muravey, which is phonetically similar to "Moravian." faron Mountain. But anyone who wanted to join the expedition must first stand in a comer of the room and "not think of the white bear"; then he must walk, without missing a step, along a crack between the floorboards; the third condition was not to have seen a hare, "dead, alive or roasted," for a whole year and to swear he would never tell what he learned there. If anyone passed all these trials—and others, more difficult, to be set later—his wish would come true at the top of the mountain. They all made a wish for the future: Sergey wanted to learn to model horses and hens in wax; Dmitry wanted to draw objects life-size, like real painters did; Leo did not know what to choose and said he would like to draw the same thing, only in miniature.
On the outskirts of this cnchantcd world, tutelary divinities Stood guard. First, in Maman's place, there was Tatyana Alexandrovna Ergolskaya, Aunt Toinette, who cherished the children of Yasnaya Polyana as though they were her own. Leo Tolstoy wrote, "Her chief influence upon me was, from childhood, to make me feel the spiritual joy of loving. I could see and sense how happy she was to love, and I understood this happiness. Secondly, she taught me to appreciate a withdrawn and quiet life. . . . 'llie main features of this life were the absence of material carcs, pleasant relations with other people . . . and the absence of hurry or any sense of the passing of time."4 In Aunt Toinctte's room there were jars full of raisins and cookies and dates and candy standing in a row. No treat wfas sweeter to little Leo than those she dispensed on great occasions to reward him for being good. lie also loved to lie down behind her on the drawing-room sofa, breathing in her perfume, melting into her warmth, laying his check against the small brown hand, "barred by an energetic vein," that hung limply- down from the armrest.
Less close to the children than she, Nicholas Ilich Tolstoy appeared to his youngest son as a paragon of elegance, strength and good humor. I Tow handsome lie was as he set out for town in a redingote and narrow trousers, or went hunting amidst his playful wolfhounds, or inhaled his pipe, slowly and deeply, with eyes half-closed and a bluish haze above his head! Sometimes he came into the boys' room, quickly sketched something with a sure hand, exchanged three or four words of German with Fyodor Ivanovich Rosscl, commanded Leo, his "big pouf," to recite a poem by Pushkin—"Farewell, free element! ..." or "Napoleon," criticized his bombastic delivery, told a funny story, and whirled about and vanished, leaving them all entranced.
The morning hours in the classroom with the tutor passed quickly, and afterward they could go outdoors to play. The grounds were so vast that the children found some new corner to explore every day. During the warm weather they fished for crayfish in the Voronka, tore their skin chasing each other through the brambles, went to visit the horses in the stable and the dogs in the kennel, picked mushrooms and blackberries, chattered with the ragged serf-children, tanned and shy; and in the winter there were skating parties and snowball fights. As soon as they came indoors they had to wash and change and go to the drawing room, where Grandmother, Aunt Alexandra, Aunt Toinette, little Pashenka and Fyodor Ivanovich Rdssel were waiting for Papa to emerge from his study so they could go in to dinner. There he was at last, sturdy and energetic, "with his red neck and soft flat-heeled boots" and eyes sparkling with childish merriment. While he was kissing Grandmother's hand, the painted, dark-red double doors swung open and there in the doorway stood Foka Demidich, the major-domo, one-time second violin in the late Prince Volkonsky's orchestra. Hunched into a navy-blue redingote, he furrowed his brow and declaimed in a rusty voice that dinner was served. Even-body stood up. Papa gave his arm to Grandmother, and the aunts, children, friends and tutor crowded together behind them. 'Hie family filed into the dining room, where a footman stood behind each chair, clutching a plate to his heart. When guests were present, their own servants were posted behind their backs and served them throughout the meal, 'llie table was covered with a coarse linen cloth, the work of local weavers, and on it stood carafes of water, jugs of kvass, old silver spoons, wooden-handled iron knives and forks and plain glasses. The soup was served in the pantry and the footmen handed out the piroshki that went with it, one by one. With the first mouthful the conversation became animated, crackled among the tablemates. Papa ate, joked and drank, his cheeks on fire. At every witticism the children burst out laughing. From the beginning their minds were fixed 011 one thing: dessert—fritters, milk pudding, fried doughnuts, cream cheese and sour cream! Now and then Leo stole a glance at old Tikhon, former flutist in Prince Volkonsky's orchestra. Livid, waxen and shriveled, he stood behind Grandmother's chair, clasping a plate to his bosom, and followed the master's discussion so intently that his shaved lips sometimes gaped wide and his eyes grew round in amazement.
When the meal was over, Tikhon brought the master's pipe, already lighted, and tiptoed away. But he soon reappeared in the mirror that reflected a corner of the paternal study. Yielding to temptation, he would steal a pinch of tobacco from the soft rose-shaped leather pouch Nicholas Ilich had left on his desk. He deserved a scolding a hundred times over, but his magnanimous master merely smiled. Wild with gratitude, Leo caught hold of his father's white hand, which had a pink spot on the fleshy part of the palm, and kissed it.
In the afternoon, when the weather was fine, there were outings in the carriage with the aunts and the tutor, to the hamlet of Grumond, two miles away from Yasnaya Polyana. The canopied charabanc with its leather apron and the high-springed yellow cabriolet jounced along the rutted paths of the forest of Zakaz, in single file. The children shouted and sang, the horses flicked their cars. At the end of the road Matryona the cow-girl was waiting for them with black bread, sour cream and raw milk.