Tolstoï's daughter greeted us on the steps; her kindly simplicity at once put us at our ease. We had hardly entered the vestibule when we saw Léon Tolstoï himself coming down the stairs with a brisk step. We knew him at once, though he seemed to us different from all his portraits. We were first of all struck by his eyes, deep, piercing, and yet as clear as those of a child. He had nothing of that hardness and severity that one is accustomed to see in his portraits; his features, too, seemed to us much finer and more idealised. He looked straight into our eyes as if he wished to read the depths of our souls. But we were at once reassured by the kind and benevolent expression of his whole face. He looked strong and healthy and did not seem old, but full of inner life. After the first words of welcome, he said to us, "You resemble each other; that happens after living happily together for a long time." He questioned us concerning our journey and on the impression made upon us by Russia after our long absence; then he said he had to finish his morning task. His daughter and son took us for a walk through the park and the village, and the friendly words they exchanged with the peasants indicated excellent relations between the villagers and the people of the château. As soon as we came in, Léon Tolstoï reappeared, declaring that he gave himself holiday for the day. He questioned Metchnikoff on his researches, on the present state of hygiene, and on the application of scientific discoveries. He listened attentively and with visible interest. At the end of the conversation he declared that it was quite erroneously that he was thought to be hostile to Science, and that he only denounced pseudo-science, which has nothing to do with human welfare. "In reality," he said, "you and I are aiming towards the same goal by different lines." All his words were impregnated with a deep love for, and an ardent desire to serve, humanity. Literature and Art were mentioned; Tolstoï said that he was now so far from it all that he had even forgotten some of his own works and appreciated them much less than his writings on spiritual questions. He thought that sometimes beauty of form acted at the expense of the moral bearing of the subject. To the objection that Art embellishes Life, he answered that it has some value in that it serves as a link between men and makes them purer, but that its moral importance surpasses its æsthetic value by a great deal. He related that he had conceived a new work on the social movement in Russia and, _à propos_ of that, the conversation fell upon political reprisals. The subject of deportations, prisons, and executions was visibly painful to him; his eyes, now sad and suffering, revealed his vibrating soul.