“It may be. We certainly are not encouraged in America to depict life as it is. That is one reason I think why foreign authors sell their books by the thousands in America, and by the hundreds in their own country.”
“Then the taste is there, is it?” asked Tolstoy.
“The common sense is there,” I said, bluntly,—”the common sense to know that our authors are limited to depicting a phase instead of the whole life, and then, if you are going to get the whole life, you must read foreign authors. It’s just as if a sculptor should confine himself to shaping fingers, and toes, and noses, and ears because the public refuses to take a finished study.”
“But why, why is it?” said Tolstoy, with a touch of impatience. “If you will read the whole thing when written by foreign authors, why do you not encourage your own?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” I said, “unless it is on the simple principle that many men enjoy the ballet scene in opera, while they would not permit their wives and daughters to take part in it.”
“America is the protector of the family,” said Jimmie, regarding me with a hostile eye.
Tolstoy tactfully changed the subject out of deference to Jimmie’s displeasure.
“Do many Russians visit America?” asked Tolstoy.
“Oh, yes, quite a number, and they are among our most agreeable visitors. Prince Serge Wolkonsky travelled so much and made so many addresses that he made Russia more popular than ever.”
“Do you know how popular you are in America?” said Jimmie, blushing at his own temerity.
“I know how many of my books are sold there, and I get many kind letters from Americans.”
“Isn’t he considered the greatest living man of letters in America?” said Jimmie, appealingly to me boyishly.
“Undoubtedly,” I replied, smiling, because Tolstoy smiled.
“Whom do you consider the greatest living author?” asked Jimmie.
“Mrs. Humphrey Ward,” said Tolstoy, decisively.
This was a thunderbolt which stopped the conversation of the other members of the party.
“And one of your greatest Americans,” went on Tolstoy, “was Henry George.”
“From a literary point of view, or—”
“From the point of view of humanity and of the Christian.”
Jimmie and I leaned back involuntarily. Judged by these standards, we were none of us either Christians or human, in our party at least.
The Countess Tolstoy, who seemed to be in not the slightest awe of her illustrious husband, having become somewhat impatient during this conversation, now turned to me and said:
“It has been so interesting to talk with your sister and Mrs. Jimmie about Paris fashions. We see so little here that is not second hand, and your journey is so fascinating. It seems incredible that you can be travelling simply for pleasure and over such a number of countries! Where do you go next?”
“We have come from everywhere,” I said, laughing, “and we are going anywhere.”
The countess clasped her hands and said:
“How I envy you, but doesn’t it cost you a great deal of money?”
“I suppose it does,” I said, regretfully. “I am going to travel as long as my money holds out, but the rest are not so hampered.”
“Alas, if I could only go with you,” said the countess, “but we are under such heavy expense now. It used to be easier when we had three or four children nearer of an age who could be educated together. Then it cost less. But now this boy, my youngest, necessitates different tutors for everything, and it costs as much to educate this last one of thirteen as it did any four of the others.”
“But then you educate so thoroughly,” I said. “Russians always speak five or six, sometimes ten languages, including dialects. With us our wealthy people generally send their children to a good private school and afterward prepare them by tutor for college. Then the richest send them for a trip around the world, or perhaps a year abroad, and that ends it. But the ordinary American has only a public school education. Americans are not linguists naturally.”
“Ah! but here we are obliged to be linguists, because, if we travel at all, we must speak other languages, and, if we entertain at all, we meet people who cannot speak ours, which is very difficult to learn. But languages are easy.”
“Oh! are they?” said Jimmie, involuntarily, and everybody laughed.
“Jimmie’s languages are unique,” said Bee.
“Are you going to Italy?” said the countess.
“Yes, we hope to spend next spring in Italy, beginning with Sicily and working slowly northward.”
“How delightful! How charming!” cried the countess. “How I wish, how I wish I could go with you.”
“Go with us?” I cried in delight. “Could you manage it? We should be so flattered to have your company.”
“Oh, if I could! I shall ask. It will do no harm to ask.”
We had all stood up to go and had begun to shake hands when she cried across to her husband:
“Leo, Leo, may I go—”
Then seeing she had not engaged her husband’s attention, who was talking to Jimmie about single tax, she went over and pulled his sleeve.
“Leo, may I go with them to Italy in the spring? Please, dear Leo, say yes.”
He shook his head gravely, and the little countess smiled at her mother’s enthusiasm.
“It would cost too much,” said Tolstoy, “besides, I cannot spare you. I need you.”
“You need me!” cried the countess in gay derision. Then pleadingly, “Do let me go.”
“I cannot,” said Tolstoy, turning to Jimmie again.
The countess came back to us with a face full of disappointment.
“He doesn’t need me at all,” she whispered. “I’d go anyway if I had the money.”
As I said before, Russia and America are very much alike.
As we left the house my mind recurred to Max Nordau, whose personality and methods I have so imperfectly presented. The contrast to Tolstoy would intrude itself. In all the conversations I ever had with Max Nordau, he spent most of the time in trying to be a help and a benefit to me. The physician in him was always at the front. His aim was healing, and I only regret that their intimate personality prevents me from relating them word for word, as they would interest and benefit others quite as much as they did me.
The difference between these two great leaders of thought—these two great reformers, Nordau and Tolstoy—is the theme of many learned discussions, and admits many different points of view.
To me they present this aspect: Tolstoy, like Goethe, is an interesting combination of genius and hypocrisy. He preaches unselfishness, while himself the embodiment of self. Max Nordau is his antithesis. Nordau gives with generous enthusiasm—of his time, his learning, his genius, most of all, of himself. Tolstoy fastens himself upon each newcomer politely, like a courteous leech, sucks him dry, and then writes.
Max Nordau, like Shakespeare, absorbs humanity as a whole. Tolstoy considers the Bible the most dramatic work ever written, and turns this knowledge of the world’s demand for religion to theatrical account. Tolstoy is outwardly a Christian, Nordau outwardly a pagan. Tolstoy openly acknowledges God, but exemplifies the ideas of man, while Max Nordau’s private life embodies the noble teachings of the Christ whom he denies.
It was not until months afterward, we were back in London in fact, when Jimmie’s opinion of Tolstoy seemed to have crystallised. He came to me one morning and said:
“I’ve read everything, since we left Moscow, that Tolstoy has written. Now you know I don’t pretend to know anything about literary style and all that rot that you’re so keen about, but I do know something about human nature, and I do know a grand-stand play when I see one.
Now Tolstoy is a genius, there’s no gainsaying that, but it’s all covered up and smothered in that religious rubbish that he has caught the ear of the world with. If you want to be admired while you are alive, write a religious novel and let the hoi polloi snivel over you and give you gold dollars while you can enjoy ’em and spend ’em. That’s where Tolstoy is a fox. So is Mrs. Humphrey Ward. She’s a fox, too. They are getting all the fun now. But it’s all gallery play with both of ’em.”
I said nothing, and he smoked in silence for a moment. Then he added:
“But I say, what a ripper Tolstoy could write if he’d just cut loose from religion for a minute and write a novel that didn’t have any damned purpose in it!”
Verily, Jimmie is no fool.
The End
