Nordau, he spent most of the time in trying to be a help and a benefit
to me. The physician in him was always at the front. His aim was
healing, and I only regret that their intimate personality prevents me
from relating them word for word, as they would interest and benefit
others quite as much as they did me.

The difference between these two great leaders of thought--these two
great reformers, Nordau and Tolstoy--is the theme of many learned
discussions, and admits many different points of view.

To me they present this aspect: Tolstoy, like Goethe, is an interesting
combination of genius and hypocrisy. He preaches unselfishness, while
himself the embodiment of self. Max Nordau is his antithesis. Nordau
gives with generous enthusiasm--of his time, his learning, his genius,
most of all, of himself. Tolstoy fastens himself upon each newcomer
politely, like a courteous leech, sucks him dry, and then writes.

Max Nordau, like Shakespeare, absorbs humanity as a whole. Tolstoy
considers the Bible the most dramatic work ever written, and turns this
knowledge of the world's demand for religion to theatrical account.
Tolstoy is outwardly a Christian, Nordau outwardly a pagan. Tolstoy
openly acknowledges God, but exemplifies the ideas of man, while Max
Nordau's private life embodies the noble teachings of the Christ whom he
denies.

It was not until months afterward, we were back in London in fact, when
Jimmie's opinion of Tolstoy seemed to have crystallised. He came to me
one morning and said:

"I've read everything, since we left Moscow, that Tolstoy has written.
Now you know I don't pretend to know anything about literary style and
all that rot that you're so keen about, but I do know something about
human nature, and I do know a grand-stand play when I see one. Now
Tolstoy is a genius, there's no gainsaying that, but it's all covered up
and smothered in that religious rubbish that he has caught the ear of
the world with. If you want to be admired while you are alive, write a
religious novel and let the hoi polloi snivel over you and give you gold
dollars while you can enjoy 'em and spend 'em. That's where Tolstoy is a
fox. So is Mrs. Humphrey Ward. She's a fox, too. They are getting all
the fun _now_. But it's all gallery play with both of 'em."

I said nothing, and he smoked in silence for a moment. Then he added:

"But I _say_, what a ripper Tolstoy could write if he'd just cut loose
from religion for a minute an