"I do not know what takes place in my mind when I listen to Chopin," said Tolstoï a few moments later, after the closing sounds had vanished, "Chopin and Mozart move me to the depths. What lyrism! what purity!" Metchnikoff liked Mozart and Beethoven, but Tolstoï thought Beethoven too complicated. As to Wagner and modern music, they both agreed about it, thinking it unintelligible and lacking harmony and simplicity. Around the tea-table conversation turned on senility, and Metchnikoff developed his theory of the discords of human nature. He illustrated his affirmations by the example of Goethe's _Faust_, who, according to him, formed the best picture of the evolution of human phases. To his mind the second part of _Faust_ is but an allegory of the disharmonies of old age. It is a striking picture of the dramatic contest between the yet ardent and juvenile feelings of old Goethe and his physical senility. Tolstoï seemed interested by this interpretation and said he would read the second part of _Faust_ over again, but that he himself would never offer an example of a similar lack of harmony. _À propos_ of Metchnikoff's theory, according to which the fear of death exists because Death itself is premature, Tolstoï affirmed that he had no fear of death, but added, laughingly, that he would nevertheless try to reach the age of 100 in order to please Elie. Our train only left late in the night, and, until we started, the conversation never ceased to be animated. In every one of his words Tolstoï's exalted soul was perceptible, a soul in which there was room but for preoccupations of a spiritual order. He would have given the impression of floating above the earth if his ardent and compassionate heart had not constantly brought him back to the miseries and faults of human beings. The atmosphere around him was pure and vivifying as on high peaks, and the place seemed sanctified by his presence. That interview had been a meeting of two superior minds, two exalted souls, but how different! The one, scientific and rational, always leaning on solid facts in order to soar and to spread his wings in the highest spheres of thought; the other an artist and a mystic, rising through intuition to the same spiritual heights; both pursuing the same goal of human perfection and happiness, but going along such different roads.... As we took leave of him, Léon Tolstoï said, "Not farewell, but _au revoir_!" And as we sat in the carriage and started to go, he appeared in a lighted window, as in an aureola, waving his hand, "Au revoir, au revoir!" he repeated for the last time.... The night was calm and beautiful under the immensity of the starry vault, and its greatness was confounded in our souls with the greatness of Léon Tolstoï. CHAPTER XXX Intestinal flora--Infantile cholera--Typhoid fever--Articles on popular Science.