It was intolerable. S. left the room quickly and went away without saying good-bye to any one. There the matter rested. Mme. Zveginzev then arrived. Tolstoi talked about Chertkov’s father:[14] “When he was about forty-five, gangrene attacked his toe. Then it went further, and his leg had to be amputated at the knee. He went to England. There they made him an artificial leg on which he walked fairly easily. Then the gangrene attacked the other leg. This, too, had to be amputated, but this time much above the knee. He sat in a chair and was carried about. He was very patient and did not groan, although he shuddered with pain all day long. In the evenings he would be given an injection of morphia; he would then revive, read the papers, and talk. He was a brilliant man, a wit, and a great success in society. He used to be taken in his chair to parties. There was even a cult for him; he used to visit the Empress. In society invitations were issued: ‘Venez; M. Chertkoff sera ce soir chez nous.’ He died early. He never drank and never could drink, for the wine went to his head. But once at dinner some one drank, and he took a little glass of vodka, and suddenly died then and there at the dinner party.” Some one began to talk about bugs. Tolstoi said: “When he has bugs, Perna does not scratch, but lies quietly--he allows them to have their fill, like Buddha, who gave himself to be devoured by the tigress; and when the bugs have eaten enough, he sleeps peacefully. In olden days, under the serfdom, when the landed gentry lived very dirtily and bugs were everywhere, if a guest remained for the night, the butler used to be put into the bed first, so as to feed the bugs, and only after that was the bed made for the guest.” Then I came up to Tolstoi and he talked to me. At first, with a smile, he winked at Mme. Zveginzev’s colossal hat. I asked him if he was still working on the new “Circle of Reading.” Tolstoi said that he is already working at the twenty-first day. He makes the same number of days in all the twelve months. I told him that I had read the first day and that it seemed to me very good. Tolstoi said: “Yes, but it must all be gone over again. At the beginning of each day I put the ideas which can be understood by children and simple people. This is very difficult. I am doing it now, when I am an old man, but I ought to have begun my career as a writer by doing it. I ought to have written so that it could be understood by every one. This is true, too, of your art. And, generally speaking, of all the arts.” I said to him that in music the most musical language happens to be beyond one’s reach, whether or not one belongs to intellectual circles, either because one is not trained or because one is unmusical by nature. Tolstoi agreed with me partly, but said that this was the case in other arts as well: