At this time the composer was in such good health, and so active-minded, that he gave up his original intention of spending Christmas at Kamenka, and stayed on in Moscow. In December Tchaikovsky wrote to his sister, A. Davidov:-- “A short time ago Count Leo Tolstoi was here. He called upon me, and I am proud to have awakened his interest. On my part, I am full of enthusiasm for his ideal personality.” For a long time past--since the first appearance of Tolstoi’s works--Tchaikovsky had been one of his most ardent admirers, and this admiration had gradually become a veritable cult for the name of Tolstoi. It was characteristic of the composer that everything he cared for, but did not actually know face to face, assumed abnormal proportions in his imagination. The author of _Peace and War_ seemed to him, in his own words, “not so much an ordinary mortal as a demi-god.” At that time the personality and private life--even the portrait--of Tolstoi were almost unknown to the great public, and this was a further reason why Tchaikovsky pictured him as a sage and a magician. And lo, this Olympian being, this unfathomable man, descended from his cloud-capped heights and held out his hand to Tchaikovsky. Ten years later we find in Tchaikovsky’s “diary” the following record of this meeting:-- “When first I met Tolstoi I was possessed by terror and felt uneasy in his presence. It seemed that this great searcher of human hearts must be able to read at a glance the inmost secrets of my own. I was convinced that not the smallest evil or weakness could escape his eye; therefore it would avail nothing to show him only my best side. If he be generous (and that is a matter of course), I reflected, he will probe the diseased area as kindly and delicately as a surgeon who knows the tender spots and avoids irritating them. If he is not so compassionate, he will lay his finger on the wound without more ado. In either case the prospect alarmed me. In reality nothing of the sort took place. The great analyst of human nature proved in his intercourse with his fellow-men to be a simple, sincere, whole-hearted being, who made no display of that omniscience I so dreaded. Evidently he did not regard me as a subject for dissection, but simply wanted to chat about music, in which at that time he was greatly interested. Among other things, he seemed to enjoy depreciating Beethoven, and even directly denying his genius. This is an unworthy trait in a great man. The desire to lower a genius to the level of one’s own _misunderstanding_ of him is generally a characteristic of narrow-minded people.”