Lesson 8 Lev Tolstoy

Lesson 8 Lev Tolstoy

Zweig

He was born with a hairy face, with more vegetation than open space, and a thick moustache that made it difficult to see into his inner world. The long beard covered both cheeks, covered the lips, covered the dark face wrinkled like tree bark, one fluttering in the wind, quite an elderly man's style. About a finger wide eyebrows like tangled roots, upside down. Locks of gray curls are piled up like foam on the forehead. No matter from which angle you look, you can see the tropical forest-like dense beard hair. Like Michelangelo's Moses, Tolstoy's unforgettable image comes from his beard, which is like a swirling white wave.

People have tried to use their imagination to remove his facial hair and trim his crazy beard, using the portrait of him as a young man with a shaved beard as a reference, hoping to magically transform a polished face - a signpost to the inner world. In this way, we cannot help but begin to cringe. For it is undeniable that this man from a prestigious family is a rough-looking man, with the face of a country bumpkin. The soul of a genius is willing to live in a low house, and the workroom of the soul of a genius is not much better than a leather tent built by the Kyrgyz. The hut was crudely built by the hands of a rural carpenter, not by the skilled craftsmen of ancient Greece. The beams above the small windows - the foreheads above the small eyes - look like firewood chopped haphazardly with a knife. The skin hides dirt, lacks luster, as rough as the outer wall of the village house tied with branches, and in the middle of the four-sided face, we see a wide, two holes facing the sky lion nose, as if it was collapsed by a punch. Messy hair, how can not cover the two unsightly ears. Two thick lips were born in the middle of the sunken cheeks. The general impression left is of disorder, ruggedness, mediocrity, and even vulgarity.

The melancholy face of the laborer was overshadowed by depression, stagnant and depressed: there was no trace of an upward spirit in his face, no spiritual brilliance, no extraordinary volume that rose slowly like a marble dome between Dostoevsky's brows. There is no glow in his face. Whoever does not admit this is not telling the truth. Undoubtedly, this face was bland, obstructive, irreparable, not a temple for the dissemination of wisdom, but a prison for the confinement of thought; this face was obscure, gloomy, depressed, ugly and repulsive. From his youth, Tolstoy was deeply aware that his face was unpleasant to the eye. He said he hated any illusions about his looks. "Can a man with a wide nose, thick lips and small gray eyes like me find happiness?" Because of this, he soon let his beard grow all over his face, hiding his lips in a sable mask-like beard, which only turned white when he was older, thus showing some kindness and respectability. It was not until the last ten years of his life that the thick layer of cloud over his face was removed; it was not until the late autumn of his life that the light of handsomeness thawed this sad place.

The soul of eternally wandering genius found a humble home in a rustic Russian, from whom nothing spiritual could be seen, lacking the temperament of a poet, a fantasist and a creator. From boyhood to young adulthood, and even into old age, Tolstoy had always been plain-looking and could not be found in the crowd looking for him. For him, wearing this coat, or that coat, wearing this hat, or that hat, there is nothing inappropriate. A man with such a face, which can be seen everywhere in Russia, could be presiding over the Council of Ministers on the stage, or hanging out with a gang of drunkards in a wine shop, or selling bread in the market. With such a face, no matter what your profession, no matter what you wear, and no matter where you are in Russia, there is no possibility of standing out from the crowd. As a student, Tolstoy might have been a mixture of his peers; as an officer, it was impossible to distinguish him from his comrades; and when he resumed his country life, he could not have looked more like the country squire who used to appear on the stage. If you saw a picture of him out in a carriage with a white-bearded attendant sitting alongside him, you might have to think for a while before you could tell that the one holding the reins was the coachman and the one sitting next to him was the Count. Look at another photo, he is talking with some peasants. If you didn't know the truth, you wouldn't be able to guess that Lev, sitting among the old peasants, is a man of status and money, his rank and status is very different from Grigor, Ivan, Ilya, Peter and all the others present. His face was completely featureless, belonging entirely to ordinary Russians, so we have to call him an ordinary man, and at this moment there would be such a feeling that the genius did not have any special looks, but was the general embodiment of the average man. So, Tolstoy did not have his own unique face, he had the face of an ordinary Russian public, because he shared the fate of the whole Russian people.

Therefore, those who met him for the first time were, without exception, disappointed at first. Some of them traveled long distances by train, others drove from Tula and waited for the master's reception in their living rooms in a dignified manner. They had long formed a subjective concept of him, hoping to find in him something majestic and extraordinary, hoping to see a bearded man, a combination of dignity, grandeur, greatness and genius. Before they were about to meet the great living man with their own eyes, they nodded and bowed their brows in respect to the image they imagined of this great literary figure, and their inner expectations expanded to the point of sincerity and trepidation. The door finally opened and in came a short, sturdy man with a beard that twitched with his brisk steps. He just entered the door, almost all the way to the jog, and then suddenly stopped and looked at a stunned visitor smiling kindly. With a relaxed and pleasant tone, he quickly and casually spoke words of welcome, while offering to extend his hand to the guest. The visitor shook his hand while being deeply puzzled and surprised. What? Such a midget! Is such a small and delicate fellow really Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy? The guest raised his eyelids in embarrassment and looked straight into the face of his host.

Suddenly, the guest held his breath in amazement, only to see the small man in front of him, a pair of thick bushy eyebrows, a pair of gray eyes shot a panther-like gaze, although everyone who has seen Tolstoy has talked about this sharp gaze, but no good picture can reflect it. This gaze is like a shiny steel knife stabbed over, steady and accurate, hit the vitals, so that you can not move, can not dodge. As if hypnotically controlled, you have to meekly endure this gaze, no cover-up can resist. It is like a gunshot penetrating the armor of camouflage, it is like a diamond blade cutting through glass. No one can conceal himself from this penetrating scrutiny. --Hundreds of people, including Turgenev and Gorky, have described it beyond doubt.

This penetrating scrutiny lasted only a second, then the sword was sheathed and replaced by a soft gaze and a kind smile. Although the corners of the mouth are tightly closed and unchanged, the pair of eyes can be filled with a big smile, like a magical starlight. And under the influence of beautiful and moving music, they can be like village women with hot tears. They can shine when the spirit feels satisfied and at ease, and then they are dulled by melancholy, covered with clouds, and suddenly become desolate, appearing insensitive and mysterious. They can become cold and sharp, like a scalpel, like X-rays to reveal hidden secrets, not long after the curious look of interest. These are the most emotional pair of eyes that appear on the human face and can express a wide range of feelings. Gorky's apt description of them speaks to our hearts: "Tolstoy has a hundred eyes in this pair."

Thanks to such a pair of eyes, Tolstoy's face was then permeated with a talent. The talent of the man was concentrated in his eyes, just as the richness of the mind of the handsome Dostoevsky was concentrated between the peaks of his eyebrows. The other parts of Tolstoy's face - the beard, the eyebrows, the hair - are just armor to wrap and protect this pair of shining jewels, which have the magic and magnetism to suck in the matter of the world and then radiate the precise and unmistakable frequency waves to our time. Even the smallest things can be seen clearly with the help of this pair of eyes, like a falcon swooping down from a high altitude toward a timid rat. These eyes do not spare insignificant details, and can likewise fully reveal the vast and infinite universe. They can shine on the highest places of the spiritual world, and can likewise succeed in shining a searchlight into the darkest depths of the soul. This pair of glittering crystals has enough heat and purity to look into the heavens with forgetfulness; enough courage to gaze into the nothingness that destroys everything, like the serpent-haired female monster, and turns those who see her into stone. In the eyes of this pair, there is nothing that cannot be done, unless they are allowed to fall into a daydream of inactivity and silent enjoyment in a dream of grace and pleasure. As soon as the eyelids open, this pair of eyes is bound to be unambiguous, awake and relentless in pursuit of prey. They do not tolerate phantoms, to rip off every piece of false pretense, to tear the shallow creed. Everything can not escape this pair of eyes, are going to reveal the naked truth to. When this pair of cold daggers turn to their owner is very terrible, because the blade is relentless, straight to the heart, right into his heart.

He who has such a sharp eye, who can see the truth, can dominate the whole world and its intellectual wealth at will. As a person who always has a good eye and can see things for what they are, he must lack one thing, and that is the share of happiness that belongs to him.