countess rebuked him sharply for such conduct before the children, and refused to interfere in the quarrel. The man pulled his torn shirt over his body and slouched off. That evening, after tea, the count happened to hit upon a couple of Mr. Rider Haggard's books for discussion, and, for the benefit of those in the company who had not read it, gave the chief points of 'She' in particularly lively style, which kept us all in laughter. In describing the heroine, he said that 'she was clothed in an airy garment, like Vasily Alexei'itch;' and again that 'she dropped her garment, and stood like Vasily Alexei'itch.' He pronounced 'She' and other works of Haggard 'the lowest type of literature,' and said that 'it was astonishing how so many English people could go wild over them.' He seemed to read everything, good and bad, and to possess not only an omnivorous literary appetite, but a wonderful memory for books, even in small details.
Among the innumerable things which he read were Mormon publications, sent him regularly from headquarters. I cannot explain the object of the Mormons in making him the point of attack. He thought very highly of the doctrines of the Mormons as set forth by themselves, and could not understand why they were 'persecuted' in America. No one had ever sent him documents on the other side of the question, and he seemed as ignorant of it as I was of the Mormon arguments. In answer to his queries, I told him that the problems involved were too numerous, serious, and complicated for me to enter upon; that the best way, under such circumstances, was for him to read statements set down in black and white by recognized authorities on the subject; and that I would cause books on the matter to be forwarded to him, which I did. But he persisted that our government is in the wrong.
'It is a shame,' said he, 'that in a great and free country like America a community of people should be so oppressed, and not allowed that liberty of which you boast.'
'You know your Dickens well,' I answered. 'Have you any recollection of Martin Chuzzlewit? You will remember that when Martin was in America with Mark Tapley he saw a slave being sold. Mark Tapley observed that 'the Americans were so fond of Liberty that they took liberties with her.' That is, in brief, what ails the Mormons. The only argument in favor of them which can possibly be made is that their practice, not their preaching, offers the only solution of your own theory that all women should be married. But that theory has never been advanced in extenuation of their behavior. I offer it to you brand new, as a slight illustration of a very unpleasant subject.'
One day, during a chat in his study, he had praised Dickens.
'There are three requisites which go to make a perfect writer,' he remarked. 'First, he must have something worth saying. Second, he must have a proper way of saying it. Third, he must have sincerity. Dickens had all three of these qualities. Thackeray had not much to say; he had a great deal of art in saying it; but he had not enough sincerity. Dostoevsky possessed all three requisites. Nekrasoff knew well how to express himself, but he did not possess the first quality; he forced himself to say something, whatever would catch the public at the moment, of which he was a very keen judge. As he wrote to suit the popular taste, believing not at all in what he said, he had none of the third requisite.' He declared that America had not as yet produced any first-class woman writer, like George Eliot and George Sand.
Count Tolstoy's latest book at that time was 'What to Do?' It was much discussed, though not very new. It will be remembered that in the final chapter of that work he argues that woman's whole duty consists in marrying and having as large a family as possible. But, in speaking of Mr. Howells's 'The Undiscovered Country,' which he had just discovered,-it was odd to think he had never heard of Mr. Howells before,-he remarked, in connection with the Shakers, that 'it was a good thing that they did not marry.'
He said this more than once and at some length. I did not like to enter on the subject lest he should go too far, in his earnestness, before the assembled company. Therefore I seized an opportunity to ask his wife how he reconciled that remark with his creed that all women should marry.
She answered that it certainly was not consistent, but that her husband changed his opinion every two years; and, to my consternation, she instantly appealed to him. He did not go into details, however. He pulled out a letter which he had received from a Russian woman, a stranger to him. The writer said: 'While acknowledging the justice of your views, I must remark that marriage is a fate which is not possible to every woman. What, then, in your opinion, should a woman who has missed that fate do?'
I was interested in his reply, because six months earlier he had advised me to marry. I inquired what answer he intended to send,-that is, if he meant to reply at all. He said that he considered the letter of sufficient importance to merit an answer, and that he should tell her that 'every woman who had not married, whatever the reason, ought to impose upon herself the hardest cross which she could devise, and bear it.'
'And so punish herself for the fault of others, perhaps?' I asked. 'No. If your correspondent is a woman of sufficient spirit to impose that cross, she will also have sufficient spirit to retort that very few of us choose our own crosses; and that women's crosses imposed by Fate, Providence, or whatever one pleases to call it, are generally heavier, more cruel, than any which they could imagine for themselves in the maddest ecstasy of pain-worship. Are the Shaker women, of whom you approve, also to invent crosses? And how about the Shaker men? What is their duty in the matter of invoking suffering?'
He made no reply, except that 'non-marriage was the ideal state,' and then relapsed into silence, as was his habit when he did not intend to relinquish his idea. Nevertheless I am convinced he is always open to the influence-quite unconsciously, of course-of argument from any quarter. His changes of belief prove it.
These remarks anent the Shakers seemed to indicate that another change was imminent; and as the history of his progress through the links of his chain of reasoning was a subject of the greatest interest to me, I asked his wife for it. It cannot be called anything but a linked progress, since the germs-nay, the nearly full-fledged idea-of his present moral and religious attitude can be found in almost all of his writings from the very beginning.
When the count married, he had attained to that familiar stage in the spiritual life where men have forgotten, or outgrown, or thoroughly neglected for a long time the religious instruction inculcated upon them in their childhood. There is no doubt that the count had been well grounded in religious tenets and ceremonies; the Russian church is particular on this point, and examinations in 'the law of God' form part of the conditions for entrance to the state schools. But, having reached the point where religion has no longer any solid grasp upon a man, he did not like to see other people observe even the forms.
Later on he began a novel, to be called 'The Decembrists.' The Decembrists is the name given to the participants in the disorders of 1825, on the accession of the Emperor Nicholas I. to the throne. Among the preparations which he made for this work were excursions taken with the object of acquainting himself with the divers dialects and peculiarities of expression current in the different parts of the empire. These he collected from pilgrims on the highways and byways.
'A pilgrim,' said the witty countess, 'is a man who has grown tired of the jars and the cares and responsibilities of the household; out of patience with the family in general. He feels the necessity, inborn in every Russian, for roaming, for getting far away from people, into the country and the forests. So he makes a pilgrimage to some distant shrine. I should like to be a pilgrim myself, but the family ties me down. I feel the need of freshening up my ideas.'
In these excursions the count came to see how great a part religion plays in the life of the lower classes; and he argued that, in order to get into sympathy with them, one must share their ideas as to religion. Accordingly he plunged into it with his customary ardor,-'he has a passionate nature,'-and for several years he attended every church service, observed every rite, kept every fast, and so on. He thought it horrible if those about him did not do the same,-if they neglected a single form. I think it quite probable that he initiated the trouble with his stomach by these fasts. They are nothing to a person who has always been used to them; but when we consider that the longer fasts cover about four solid months,-not to mention the usual abstinence on Wednesdays and Fridays and the special abstinences,-and that milk, eggs, cheese, and butter are prohibited, as well as other customary articles of food, it is not difficult to imagine the effect of sudden and strict observance upon a man accustomed during the greater part of his life to a meat diet. The vegetable diet in which he now persists only aggravates the evil in one who is afflicted with liver trouble, and who is too old to train his vital economy in fresh paths.
His religious ardor lasted until he went to church one day, during the last Russo-Turkish war, when prayers were offered for the success of the Russian army. It suddenly struck him that it was inconsistent with 'Love your enemies,' 'Love one another,' 'Do not kill,' that prayers should be offered for the death of enemies. From that day forth he ceased to go to church, as he had also perceived that the practice of religious forms did not, in reality, bring him much nearer to the peasants, and that one must live among them, work among them, to appreciate their point of view.
The only surprising thing about this is that he should never have noticed that the army is prayed for, essentially
