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sary. It is all so easy. It is simply obedience to the words of Christ. Your first business," he said, "is to yourself. You must obey even if others will not obey. You are not here, first of all, to reform society, but first of all to reform yourself. The fact is," he continued, "you have no right to teach Christianity until you are a Christian yourself; and from what you told me, you are only struggling to be one. You people in America organize societies and appoint committees to reform the world, and you leave yourselves, your leaders, unreformed. You can have no Christian society until you have Christian individuals, and then no organization is necessary." I ventured to say that it is easy to teach such a theory but hard to practice it, and he answered: "You are mistaken; it is just the opposite. It is hard to teach it, as I have found. Just as soon as you announce such a theory, then all will come, saying, 'You say you don't

THE SCHOOL-HOUSE ON TOLSTOY'S ESTATE

that memory! that memory! Yes, I have
it: Thou shalt not commit adultery.'
Out of the ten commandments," he con-
tinued, "you keep one or two;
pick out the easiest, and make
believe that you obey God.

"And you have entered the ministry?" he said abruptly, and fixed his gray eyes upon me, which searched me in a disapproving way. "That is bad," and he shook his head. "That is not Christian; you disobey Christ's commandment. He said, 'Call no man teacher.""

Of course he is no friend of priests and churches; in fact, they are outspoken enemies; but his condemnation is much too sweeping, and he seems to have no idea of the churches and the ministers that are working and struggling to obey Christ, and to lead their flocks toward the Christian ideal. I told him that I could mention the names of many Christian leaders with whom he seemed well acquainted, but he replied, "There is no struggle neces

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PEASANT HOUSE ON TOLSTOÏ'S ESTATE

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want any property: give it to me.'" "And what

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then?" I asked. Then the Count answered slowly, "You must persuade them not to want your property. You must teach them to work, to sacrifice, to give and not to take." "And then?" I continued, querying. "Then, if he will not be persuaded, you give it to him. There is the easiest part of it. The hardest part is the teaching of Christianity. The easiest part is the practicing." But what about my own? In how far may I give away all I have without regard to my wife and children?" And quickly. and sharply he replied, "Why your wife and children more than another man's wife and children? Are you not under the same obligations to all men? You say," he said, rather urgently, "you are a Christian minister, and that you keep property. You help your Government to kill the Filipinos. If you do that, you are not a Christian, and you teach your people a lie. Christ," said

AT THE RAILROAD STATION IN TULA

he, "came to bear witness to the truth, and you must, regardless of your own welfare, witness for the truth. Of course," he went on, "we may be inconsistent in our practice, and must be perhaps, but in our teaching we have no right to be inconsistent. For instance, if you should ask me, 'Where is Tula ?' and I answered that Tula is south of here, I would tell you a lie, for it is north of here; but if I would lead you to Tula, I should first have to go a little south, then perhaps turn west, and at last north, and finally, in spite of my wrong leading, lead you right to Tula. The great trouble," he said, "with men like Dr. Herron and others of the same class," and he seemed to know them thoroughly, "is that they are willing to teach things which are not absolutely true, in order ultimately to reach

the truth, but that is an impossibility. They have no right to teach thus, and they are like the blind men who led the blind." The Count seemed thoroughly acquainted with our social conditions in America, and he said that our millionaires will bring about a revolution in America much more quickly than kings and armies will in Europe. He thinks our position at the present time very grave and delicate, and deplores very much the lack of thoroughly consecrated leaders among the laboring men.

How thoroughly acquainted with us he is, is proved by the fact that he knows of Mayor Jones, of Toledo, and his platform, that he has followed the development of the single-tax idea, and, strangest of all, understands the political platforms of both great parties and is acquainted with the

personalities of the leaders. He asked me a torrent of questions in regard to everything of importance in America, in regard to everybody, and I wondered all the time who was the interviewed and who the interviewer. Nothing seems to have escaped his notice, for he knows our prominent sects and societies, the Quakers, Shakers, Mormons, and the Social Settlements, University Extension courses, and Cooper Institute lectures, and I had to describe in detail every new agency which I mentioned which was put forth to help the masses. His sympathies, politically, are with the Prohibition party, which he says "is a paradox, but," he adds, "liquor is such a curse that, if I voted at all, I would vote it out of existence."

It is not difficult to judge where he stands upon the question of so-called imperialism, and he gave me the following peppery sentence: "You Americans are worse than the Mohammedans. They preach war, and they fight. You preach liberty and peace, and you go out to conquer through war.' The world's politics, the struggle for supremacy, have no interest for him, for to him there is neither Russian nor Anglo-Saxon. To him there is only one nation, Christian people. What we call patriotism is a very abhorrent word to him.

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From the discussion of politics, which stirred us both in an uncomfortable way, we turned to literature.

"You had a wonderful pleiad in literature," said the Count, "about the time of the war of secession. What wonderful men they were! Emerson, whom I love and to whom I owe very much, Lowell and Whittier, Theodore Parker, Thoreau, Longfellow. Now," he said, "whom have you? Nothing and nobody. I have sent to me your magazines. They are beautiful picture-books, but they are not literature. Oh, yes," he said, "there is Howells; and I suppose there are others, whom I do not know," and then followed a general discussion upon our modern literature.

We then drifted again into the subject of theology, and dwelt especially upon the person of Christ; and as we walked into the thick forest, which grew gloomy and pathless, "I fear I have lost the way," said the Count. "Yes," I said, “we are in the woods ;" and he understood me, and

I know the path, Sometimes I The path

said, "Not I, but you. and I will find it again. lose it, for I am only a man. out of the woods is the commandment of Christ. Get on to it, young man, just as fast as you can." It took the Count a long time to find that path, and as Bialok, his Siberian dog, was dancing anxiously about us, the Count called my attention to him. "This dog," he said, "was once a slave. He pulled sleds over the plains of Siberia. But now he is free. I like to look at him, and think of his people, who now are slaves, and whom I long to make free."

We entered the Count's study, a plain, narrow room in which a crowded table, a chair, and a narrow bed are the only pieces of furniture except the bookcases, which are full to overflowing. The literature of the world seems to have poured all its output into this little chamber, and the old friends from America shine out conspicuously from the rest. Emerson's Essays is a well-nigh worn-out book; Miss Willard's Life, Henry George's "Progress and Poverty," Herron's " Larger Christ," are among the many books which have seen hard usage. The Count showed me the manuscript of his new book, which in Russian bears the name "The New Slavery," and also an article which had just been returned from Moscow, called "Thou Shalt Not Kill," which had not passed the censor, and will have to be sent to England to see the light of day.

The Count told me of his method of work. He begins his literary labors at ten o'clock in the morning, and remains undisturbed until two o'clock, while his mighty pen moves swiftly over the pages. The manuscript is then copied by any one who happens to be enjoying the hospitality of this city of refuge, which person at the present time is called Mr. Alexandrov. I was told by Mr. Alexandrov that some $17,000, which were the profits from the Count's book, "The Resurrection," had been turned over to the account of the Duchobors, and that he felt grateful to the American publishers, and especially to Mr. Ernest Crosby, of New York, who had this matter in charge.

We were soon shaken out of our rather solemn conversation by a crowd of gay young people, and in their chatter about tennis and gathering mushrooms we for

got the world's woe and its great problems.

At nine o'clock, regularly, dinner was served; around the table gathered the Count's numerous household, among whom there were men and women with faces which spoke of much suffering and hardship. There was no formal introduction to these nameless guests, and that careless sort of informality characterized every meal. Dinner was served in the large diningroom upstairs, where signs of comfort and even of luxury are not wanting. There are a large piano, handsome lamps, wellbound books, and other such luxuries which we have not been in the habit of associating with the Count and his family.

66

The Countess sat at the head of the table; at her right the Count, and the rest of the family was scattered among the strangers. Before the Count stood a brass kettle of kascha," an oatmeal mush. From that he helped himself liberally, while a few of us ate meat and potatoes and were served with delicious kwass. Besides his kascha the Count had some poached eggs; he displayed a good appetite, sparkled with good humor, and was a royal host.

Of the crudities and oddities which are ascribed to him and his family I noticed none at all, and the intellectual and spiritual atmosphere which permeates everything makes one forget certain luxuries on other men's tables, and the lack of a Icertain kind of table etiquette which we think essential to good breeding.

The conversation at the table was very animated, and the young people behaved as any young people might. There were unrestrained laughter and good-natured joking and banter, and the Count's gray eyes danced joyfully in the common merriment; it was an atmosphere of health which permeated everything, and the Count's strong personality seemed to have nothing abnormal about it. The fact is that he so carries you with him into his thought and life that dissent seems almost impossible, and criticism is out of the question. His voice is soft and still resonant. He grows eloquent but never angry, and his arguments never arouse antagonism. He listens to his guest's most insignificant remark with seeming pleasure; never interrupts, and does not seem bored.

One of the agreeable things one discovers in associating with him is the man's humility and patience. He plays no rôle, does not assume the office of a prophet, does not talk of himself as an apostle, is not flattered by praise nor displeased by

His face is much more delicate than his pictures show, and though he is distinctly homely, there is a strange fascination about him. He is not essentially a Slav, as one might think from his strong features. It has often been said that he lacks the sense of humor, which is perilous for a reformer; but this cannot be proven from his writings, and is contradicted by his sparkling conversation. He never talks nonsense, but he does see the funny side of things. His greatest lack, it seems to me, is that he does not see the past, its developments and its lessons; that his supreme individualism has separated him from the wholesome lessons which other men have taught. He is, of course, a strong rationalist, but also a man of deep feeling. The common labor which he performs, which now in his old age must be very arduous, is the link which holds him to the common people. It is his mortification of the flesh." There is nothing assumed, nothing false, about him, whether you meet him as an author, count, or farmer. The fact is, he does not want to preach, but simply to help men to be happy, for he thinks it is easy to be happy through reason and sacrifice. In his presence one feels the burning desire to be better, to do better. There is a spiritual atmosphere around this rationalistic man. There is a shining halo about him, though he despises church saintliness. Asking him for a message for his many friends in the States, he said, somewhat reluctantly, "Tell them to be true, to be loving, to be simple;" and that, I believe, is the message of Tolstoi to the world.

Reluctantly, I left Yasna Polyana. There was another strong grasp of the hand, a long, searching, warm, and tender look into the face of the stranger, one among the many who incessantly come and go, and then the last farewell, which lingers like the sound of evening bells upon my ears. We spoke about dying just before we parted. "Dying !" he said; "what about born again? I am ready to be born again."

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