- Project Runeberg -  In the Land of Tolstoi /
2

(1897) [MARC] Author: Jonas Jonsson Stadling Translator: Will Reason With: Gerda Tirén, Johan Tirén - Tema: Russia
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could see a few trees that marked a landowner’s dwelling, or a
village with its church cupola and row of small, grey huts. At
one part our journey took us for two miles along a road built
by the Empress Catherine II., lined on either side with stately
trees. It was heavy driving through the deep snow, so that
we did not reach the River Don, on the further shore of
which lay the village of Begichevka, our destination, until the
afternoon.

The moment was now drawing near when I was, for the first
time, to meet Count Tolstoi—a moment to which I had been
looking forward throughout my long journey as to one of the most
interesting occasions of my life. I was about to come into
personal contact with a man whose greatness not even his
bitterest enemies can dispute, in whom many an earnest
seeker after truth discerns a seer and prophet, marking the
dawn of a new era in the history of man.

Soon our driver drew up before a plain, one-storied wooden
house, and called out, “Vot dom Tolstova!” (“This is Tolstoi’s
house.”) About the premises were a number of peasants,
carting loads of flour and grain. As we entered, we passed first
through a kind of ante-chamber, densely crowded with
mushiks, waiting to see the Count, then into a larger
apartment that served as a dining-room. Tolstoi himself was not
in, but I was shown into his private room behind the hall—a
small apartment simply furnished with a sofa, a cot-bed, a few
plain wooden chairs, and a large table covered with account
books and papers. I found myself occupying the waiting time
in speculations as to the impression Count Tolstoi would make
on me. I could not succeed in divesting myself of the “great
man” idea of the Count, the aristocrat, the famous author, the
great genius. All these hid from me the image of him as a
man, the brother of men.

After a few minutes, a young lady came in, and gave me a
cordial greeting. I asked if she were the Count’s daughter,
but she replied, “No; I am his niece. My name is
Kuzminsky.” While I was speaking with her another young lady
entered, with an energetic expression and lively eyes; she, too,
greeted me in good English.

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