“This F. was a Jew, who did not finish his studies, got led astray by socialists, and joined a community where, like the other members, he lived out of marriage with a young girl student.  At last he came across a treatise of Lyeff Nikolaevitch, and decided that he was wrong and Lyeff Nikolaevitch right.  He removed to Yasnaya Polyana, married his former mistress, and began to live and work among the peasants.” (He first joined the Russian church, and one of the count’s daughters stood godmother for him.) “His wife worked also; but, with delicate health and two small children to care for, she could do little, through weakness and lack of skill.  The peasants laughed at him and at Lyeff Nikola’itch.”

Mrs. F. came to the countess with her griefs, and the latter helped her with food, clothing, and in other ways.  “One day nothing remained in the house to eat but a single crust.  F. was ill.  His wife, who was also ill and feeble, went off to work.  On her return she found no bread.  Some one had come along begging ‘Khristi radi’ [for Christ’s sake], and F. had given him the crust,—­with absolute consistency, it must be confessed.  This was the end.  There was a scene.  The wife went back to her friends.  F. also gave up, went off to Ekaterinoslaff, learned the tailor’s trade, and married again!” How he managed this second marriage without committing bigamy, in view of the laws of Russia on that point, I am at a loss to understand.

“All my husband’s disciples,” said the countess, “are small, blond, sickly, and homely; all as like one to another as a pair of old boots.  You have seen them.  X. Z.—­you know him—­had a very pretty talent for verses; but he has ruined it and his mind, and made himself quite an idiot, by following my husband’s teachings.”

The count provided a complement to these remarks in a conversation on Russian writers.  He said of a certain author; “That man has never been duly appreciated, has never received the recognition which his genius deserves.  Yet you know how superbly he writes,—­or rather, did write.  He has spoiled himself now by imitating me.  It is a pity.”

This ingenuous comment is rescued from any tinge of conceit or egotism by its absolute simplicity and truth.  The imitation referred to is of the moral “Tales” for popular reading of the lower classes, which my cabman had studied.  The pity of it is, when so many of the contemporary writers of Russia owe their inspiration, their very existence, to Turgeneff and Tolstoy having preceded them, that a man who possesses personal talent and a delightful individual style should sacrifice them.  In his case it is unnecessary.  Count Tolstoy’s recognition of this fact is characteristic.