his own ideal life has always been a greater object of attraction than Tolstoy the mere preacher of ideas. The man of example is much rarer than the man of precept. So while we all are familiar with Tolstoy as a worker in the field, a herdsman, a shoemaker, and a schoolmaster, Tolstoy at rest from his labors, or laboring only at the perfecting of his own ideas, is a figure unknown to most.
Yet though Moscow is Count Tolstoy's home throughout the whole of the long Russian winter, Tolstoy is in it, but not of it. He forms no part of its common social or common intellectual life. The great mass even of educated Russians know little about the greatest man who has ever lived among them ; and during the first months of my residence in the Russian capital I gleaned very little truth as to his way of life. The strangest and most contradictory reports were current, some attributing to him the wildest extravagances, and circulating perpetual rumors as to the intention of the government to expel him; and others declaring that the authorities regarded him with favor, as a useful corrective to life materialist ideas so popular among the Russian youth. Few knew more than that he lived on the outskirts of the town, that his address was Hamovnitcheski Lane, and was situated near the famous Devitche Polye, the Hampstead Heath of Russia's old capital, the scene on holidays of what is probably the bravest merrymaking in the world. It was with the object of learning the real facts, and of gaining the privilege of speaking to the greatest Russian of his time, that in the midwinter of 1898–99 I sought an introduction. To Russians, Tolstoy is not always accessible. His family know that if he were to receive the thousands who seek his acquaintance his time would be taken up with nothing else. But it is everywhere one of the privileges of foreigners that they are few in numbers, and therefore enjoy exceptional opportunities, quite apart from any personal claim. To Englishmen, I had been told, Tolstoy was especially indulgent; but whether this was due to their comparative scarcity or to any personal predilection, I have never heard. But, whatever be the cause, my request for permission to call upon him was favorably answered.
A drive of half an hour will take you from the center of Moscow to the street where Tolstoy lives. It is a wonderful half hour—especially when made, as it must be, in winter—and a fitting road for such a pilgrimage. Moscow is always a city of marvel; but Moscow in winter, and by moonlight, is a miracle. And from the center of Moscow to the house of the Tolstoys, almost on the margin of the surrounding forests, is the most miraculous part of all. If you were to sit in an exhibition and watch unrolling before you an historical and pictorial panorama of ancient and modern Russia, you would not find more compression of opposing elements than you actually pass on the road to the Devitche Polye. From the endless boulevards and brilliant streets you glide rapidly through frozen snow into the Parisian domain of the great Moscow arcade, across the Red Square, with its frightful associations and monstrous Oriental temple of Basil the Blessed, and then slowly up the hill through the sacred gate of the Kremlin. And once in the Kremlin, you traverse a spot where are concentrated all the associations of Russia—historical, official, and religious. It is the whole history of Russia written in stone and stucco, a microcosm of the country as it appears to a careless observer,—all royalty, religion, and police. The hideous orange-painted palace of the Czars, the barrack offices of the administration, and the temples and monasteries crowded upon the hilltop seem to hold dominion over the town as assured as that of their occupiers over the whole of the Russian land. It is a magnificent picture. But it is a strange mental preparation for a visit to the man who has all his life waged unceasing war against the conditions which it symbolizes.
But the home of the Tolstoys is a long cry even from the westernmost walls of the Kremlin. There is much more religion and police before you reach Hamovnitcheski Lane. Outside its walls you flash past the great Rumantiseff Museum, in the moonlight gleaming whiter even than the snow, and down the ill-named Prechistenka,—it signifies very clean, and indeed now in its winter whiteness it justifies the name. Then a few minutes more among the invading trees, and you reach the "House of the Countess Tolstoy," as it is ostentatiously labeled. Hamovnitchesky Lane differs very little from any of the other old-fashioned streets in the suburbs of Moscow, and the "House of the Countess Tolstoy " differs from the other houses not at all. In its external view it resembles closely the houses of the old-fashioned Russian traders on the south of the Moskva River. It is a two-storied house, shut in from view by a high fence inclosing a large door, with stables or outhouses facing the front. Nor is there anything very characteristic of its owner in the greater part of the interior of the house. On my first visit I was surprised to see a number of military and official uniform coats hanging in the hall. The door was opened by a man-servant, and generally the interior was that of a rather homely town-house of a Russian country gentleman. Count Tolstoy's room, where he does his work, receives his visitors, and practically lives, is on the upper story. As in most
