Tolstoi said of the Molokans that he had no sympathy with their religious formalism. In this respect he draws a parallel between the Molokans and the English. The son of Vicomte de Vogüé visited Tolstoi in the spring; Tolstoi said of him: “He is a typical Frenchman in everything--from his trousers to his way of thought. His father translated _Three Deaths_ and wrote to me about it long ago. It was on my conscience that I did not answer him, and was glad to have the opportunity of apologizing to his son.” Tolstoi was surprised by young de Vogüé’s saying that his father worked at night and smoked a great deal during his work. Tolstoi said: “I imagine that a Frenchman must in the morning rub himself red with eau-de-Cologne, drink his coffee, and sit down quietly to work. “I always write in the morning. I was pleased to hear lately that Rousseau too, after he got up in the morning, went for a short walk and sat down to work. In the morning one’s head is particularly fresh. The best thoughts most often come in the morning after waking, while still in bed or during the walk. Many writers work at night. Dostoevsky always wrote at night. In a writer there must always be two people--the writer and the critic. And, if one works at night, with a cigarette in one’s mouth, although the work of creation goes on briskly, the critic is for the most part in abeyance, and this is very dangerous.” Tolstoi often says that he cannot find a suitable definition of music. Once in the spring he said: “Music is the shorthand of emotion. Emotions which let themselves be described in words with such difficulty, are directly conveyed to man in music, and in that is its power and significance.” Once, a long time ago, Tolstoi said: “Life is the present. All that a man has felt remains with him as a memory. We always live by memories. I often feel more strongly not what I have actually felt, but what I have written and felt in describing my characters. They too have become my memories, as if they had been actual experiences.” The other day the talk was on the same lines. Tolstoi said: “A so-called misfortune happens; one does not usually feel it, just as one does not feel a wound at the moment it is inflicted; and it is only by degrees that the sorrow grows in strength, having become a memory, placed, that is, not outside me, but already within. Yet, after a long life, I notice that the bad and painful things have not become me; they have somehow passed by; but on the contrary, all the pleasant feelings, all the loving relations towards people--my childhood, all that has been good--rise with particular clearness in my memory.” Tatyana Lvovna said: “But how do you explain Pushkin’s poem; ‘Memory unfolding its long scroll,’ and further: ‘And reading my life with disgust, I tremble and curse’?” Tolstoi replied: