It is characteristic that in making his selection Tolstoi said:
“I do not speak of myself; it’s not for me, but for others, to judge of my importance.”
That evening in his study Tolstoi said to me:
“Alexander Borisovich, an image comes before me. Rays spread out from a centre. The centre is the spiritual essence; the rays are the perpetually growing needs of the body. A time comes when a spiritual life begins to exist inside these rays. They spread out at an ever diminishing angle, become parallel, and at last draw together and finally unite in the one infinitely small and entirely spiritual centre—death.”
Gaspra, Crimea, September 12th. Chekhov was here yesterday. He does not look well; he looks old and coughs perpetually. He speaks little, in short sentences, but they are always to the point. He gave a touching account of his life with his mother in the winter at Yalta. Tolstoi was very glad to see him.
Gaspra, Crimea, September 16th. Life here goes on very quietly.
After dinner I or N. L. Obolensky, or both in turn, read Chekhov’s stories aloud, which Tolstoi greatly enjoys. The other day I read The Tedious Story. Tolstoi was in constant raptures over Chekhov’s understanding. He also liked, for the originality of the idea and the mastery of the writing, The Bet, and particularly The Steppe.
Of Chekhov Tolstoi said:
“He is a strange writer: he throws words about as if at random, and yet everything is alive. And what understanding! He never has any superfluous details; every one of them is either necessary or beautiful.”