On the agrarian question, he was in favour of the nationalisation of land, and showed great enthusiasm for Henry George. He thought the suppression of the commune in Russia a great mistake. Metchnikoff explained to him that his personal observations in Little Russia spoke, on the contrary, in favour of individual property, which gave better agricultural results. Tolstoï manifested perfect tolerance, and conversation flowed on peacefully concerning various subjects. In everything he said the beauty and elevation of his soul was perceptible. After lunch he desired to have a serious conversation with Metchnikoff and took him out driving, he himself holding the reins. On the way he returned to the question of Science. He thought that humanity was so overwhelmed with misery and had so many urgent questions to solve that work ought to be turned in that direction, and that we had no right to busy ourselves with abstract questions unrelated to life. "What good can it do man to have a notion of the weight and dimensions of the planet Mars?" he said. Metchnikoff answered that theory is much nearer to life than it seems, and that many benefits have been acquired for humanity by scientific observations of an abstract order. Thus, the discovery of the great unchanging laws of Nature give to Man the consciousness of being submitted to logical laws instead of an arbitrary force, and that is a benefit. When microbes were discovered, their part in human life was not suspected, and yet this discovery was afterwards of the greatest service to human welfare since it enabled man to fight against disease. On the way back, Tolstoï gave his place to his son and himself returned on horseback, an exercise in which he indulged almost daily, in spite of the approach of his eighty years. He still rode splendidly, sitting quite upright, and seemed even younger than before. After that he went to take a little rest, whilst Countess Tolstoï gave us immense pleasure by reading to us two yet unpublished works by her husband, the charming story _After the Ball_ and the tragic _Sergius the Monk_. In the late afternoon a friend of our host, an accomplished musician, sat at the piano and played some Chopin. In the spring twilight the charm of that music filled us with emotion. Léon Tolstoï, seated in an armchair, listened; the lyrical beauty of the sound sank deeper and deeper into his soul, his eyes became veiled with tears, he leant his forehead on his hand and remained motionless. Metchnikoff also was deeply moved, and the effect of music on two such men, the pleasure that it gave them, was the strongest plea in favour of pure Art.