“America and Russia are growing closer together every day,” said Tolstoy.  “Every year we use more of your American machinery; your plows, and threshers, and mowing-machines, and all agricultural implements are coming into use here.  Every year some Americans settle in Russia from business interests, and we are rapidly becoming dependent on you for our coal.  If you had a larger merchant marine, it would benefit our mutual interests wonderfully.  Is your country as much interested in Russia as we are in you?”

“Equally so,” I said.  “Russian literature is very well understood in America.  We read all your books.  We know Pushkin and Tourguenieff.  Your Russian music is played by our orchestras, and your Russian painter, Verestchagin, exhibited his paintings in all the large cities, and made us familiar with his genius.”

“All art, all music has a moral effect upon the soul.  Verestchagin paints war—­hideous war!  Moral questions should be talked about and discussed, and a remedy found for them.  In America you will not discuss many questions.  Even in the translations of my books, parts which seem important to me are left out.  Why is that?  It limits you, does it not?”

“I suppose the demand creates the supply,” I ventured.  “We may be prudish, but as yet the moral questions you speak of have not such a hold on our young republic that they need drastic measures.  When we become more civilised, and society more cancerous, doubtless the public mind will permit these questions to be discussed.”

“The time for repentance is in advance of the crime,” said Tolstoy.

“American prudery is narrowing in its effect on our art,” I ventured, timidly.

“Is that the reason for many of your artists and authors living abroad?”

“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.