"I think you must be a little crazy, Nicholas," she said.

"Thank you, Alexandra," he answered, "thank you for the temperate
flattery. Evidently you have heard the old proverb about genius
and madness. But why not make the compliment complete and say
'absolutely crazy'?"

"Well," she replied, "because I do not understand just what you
propose to do. Are you going to impoverish yourself and the whole
family? Are you thinking of turning over your farms to these stupid
peasants who will let them go to rack and ruin? Will you give your
property to the village council who will drink it up in a month?
You know how much money Peter needs; he is a member of twelve
first-class clubs. And Olga's husband is not earning much. Are you
going to starve your children and grandchildren for the sake of an
idea of consistency in art?"

The Great Author was now standing in front of the fireplace, warming
himself and filling a pipe. The flames behind him made an aureole
in his extravagant white hair and beard. He smiled and puffed
slowly at his pipe. At last he answered.

"My dear, you go too fast and too far. You know I am enthusiastic,
but have you ever known me to be silly? It would be wrong to make
you and the children suffer. I have no right to do that."

[Illustration: I am going to become a virtuous peasant, a son of
the soil, a primitive]