The Nobel Prize--Journey to Sweden and to Russia--A day with Léon
Tolstoï.
In 1908 Metchnikoff received the Nobel Prize, together with Ehrlich,
for his researches on immunity. According to the statutes of that
prize, the laureate is invited to give a lecture in Stockholm.
Metchnikoff chose for his theme the "present state of the question
of immunity in infectious diseases," and, in the spring of 1909, we
went to Sweden and thence to Russia. The whole journey was a series
of fêtes and receptions in his honour. He was touched and grateful at
this welcome, but with his usual humour, declared that it was the Nobel
Prize which, like a magic wand, had revealed to the public the value of
his researches.
We only stopped for a short time at Stockholm, where the kindest
hospitality was shown to Metchnikoff. Sweden made an unforgettable
impression upon us. Her deep, dark waters, wild rocks, and sombre
pines make of it a land of legends. Elie was impressed not only by
Nature in Scandinavia but also by Scandinavian Art, which reproduces
it admirably. He was specially pleased with Lilienfiorse's pictures,
representing animals against a background at the same time real and
legendary.
We went to Russia by way of the Baltic. The nights at that time were
"white," and rocky islands covered with pines emerged from the sea
like ghosts, in the mysterious silvery midnight light; the impression
was fairy-like.
A warm welcome awaited Metchnikoff in Russia. At Petersburg, as in
Moscow, he was received with cordial and enthusiastic sympathy not
only by scientific and medical societies, but by all the intellectual
youth of those cities. This warm reception contributed to efface the
bitterness sometimes aroused in him by distant recollections of the
reasons which caused him to leave his native country.
During our stay in Russia we made the acquaintance of our great writer,
Léon Tolstoï. We spent a day with him in his estate, Iasnaïa Paliana,
and the day left a lifelong impression upon us.
It was at dawn that we reached the little railway station where a
carriage had come to meet us. It had been raining in the night and now,
in the first morning light, everything shone with dew. We were excited
by the sight of the Russian country, cool meadows, forest, fields, all
that simple landscape that we had not seen for so long, and we were
also greatly moved at the idea of meeting Tolstoï.
The village appeared in the distance and, a little way apart, the wide
open entrance gate of the old park of Iasnaïa Paliana. We entered a
long shady avenue leading to the home of Tolstoï. The spring was at its
best, flowers and perfumes everywhere. The house and the old park had
the poetic charm of the ancient "nests of nobility" in Russia.
Tolstoï's daughter greeted us on the steps; her kindly simplicity at
once put us at our ease. We had hardly entered the vestibule when we
saw Léon Tolstoï himself coming down the stairs with a brisk step.
We knew him at once, though he seemed to us different from all his
portraits. We were first of all struck by his eyes, deep, piercing, and
yet as clear as those of a child. He had nothing of that hardness and
severity that one is accustomed to see in his portraits; his features,
too, seemed to us much finer and more idealised. He looked straight
into our eyes as if he wished to read the depths of our souls. But we
were at once reassured by the kind and benevolent expression of his
whole face. He looked strong and healthy and did not seem old, but
full of inner life. After the first words of welcome, he said to us,
"You resemble each other; that happens after living happily together
for a long time." He questioned us concerning our journey and on the
impression made upon us by Russia after our long absence; then he said
he had to finish his morning task.
His daughter and son took us for a walk through the park and the
village, and the friendly words they exchanged with the peasants
indicated excellent relations between the villagers and the people of
the château. As soon as we came in, Léon Tolstoï reappeared, declaring
that he gave himself holiday for the day. He questioned Metchnikoff on
his researches, on the present state of hygiene, and on the application
of scientific discoveries. He listened attentively and with visible
interest. At the end of the conversation he declared that it was quite
erroneously that he was thought to be hostile to Science, and that
he only denounced pseudo-science, which has nothing to do with human
welfare. "In reality," he said, "you and I are aiming towards the same
goal by different lines."
All his words were impregnated with a deep love for, and an ardent
desire to serve, humanity. Literature and Art were mentioned; Tolstoï
said that he was now so far from it all that he had even forgotten some
of his own works and appreciated them much less than his writings on
spiritual questions. He thought that sometimes beauty of form acted at
the expense of the moral bearing of the subject. To the objection that
Art embellishes Life, he answered that it has some value in that it
serves as a link between men and makes them purer, but that its moral
importance surpasses its æsthetic value by a great deal.
He related that he had conceived a new work on the social movement in
Russia and, _à propos_ of that, the conversation fell upon political
reprisals. The subject of deportations, prisons, and executions was
visibly painful to him; his eyes, now sad and suffering, revealed his
vibrating soul.
On the agrarian question, he was in favour of the nationalisation of
land, and showed great enthusiasm for Henry George. He thought the
suppression of the commune in Russia a great mistake. Metchnikoff
explained to him that his personal observations in Little Russia
spoke, on the contrary, in favour of individual property, which gave
better agricultural results. Tolstoï manifested perfect tolerance,
and conversation flowed on peacefully concerning various subjects. In
everything he said the beauty and elevation of his soul was perceptible.
After lunch he desired to have a serious conversation with Metchnikoff
and took him out driving, he himself holding the reins. On the way he
returned to the question of Science. He thought that humanity was so
overwhelmed with misery and had so many urgent questions to solve that
work ought to be turned in that direction, and that we had no right to
busy ourselves with abstract questions unrelated to life. "What good
can it do man to have a notion of the weight and dimensions of the
planet Mars?" he said.
Metchnikoff answered that theory is much nearer to life than it seems,
and that many benefits have been acquired for humanity by scientific
observations of an abstract order. Thus, the discovery of the great
unchanging laws of Nature give to Man the consciousness of being
submitted to logical laws instead of an arbitrary force, and that is a
benefit. When microbes were discovered, their part in human life was
not suspected, and yet this discovery was afterwards of the greatest
service to human welfare since it enabled man to fight against disease.
On the way back, Tolstoï gave his place to his son and himself returned
on horseback, an exercise in which he indulged almost daily, in spite
of the approach of his eighty years. He still rode splendidly, sitting
quite upright, and seemed even younger than before.
After that he went to take a little rest, whilst Countess Tolstoï gave
us immense pleasure by reading to us two yet unpublished works by her
husband, the charming story _After the Ball_ and the tragic _Sergius
the Monk_.
In the late afternoon a friend of our host, an accomplished musician,
sat at the piano and played some Chopin. In the spring twilight the
charm of that music filled us with emotion. Léon Tolstoï, seated in an
armchair, listened; the lyrical beauty of the sound sank deeper and
deeper into his soul, his eyes became veiled with tears, he leant his
forehead on his hand and remained motionless. Metchnikoff also was
deeply moved, and the effect of music on two such men, the pleasure
that it gave them, was the strongest plea in favour of pure Art.
"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.