ABSTRACT
A body built stoutly enough to last a century. Big bones and muscles, giving their owner the strength of a bear. Lying on the ground, young Tolstoy can with one hand lift a heavy soldier. His vitality is unexampled. Beside this biblical elder, this peasant barbarian, equipped with such stupendous virility, all other modern artists and men of letters look like women or weaklings. The topmost boughs of this giant Russian oak, which is turgid with sap flowing into its finest ramifications, have grown up into the sky of the patriarchial years, without as yet any withering at the roots. Nothing but this irrepressible vitality can explain Tolstoy's unflagging creative energy. During the sixty years of his authorship, there was not one that lay fallow. His mind never rested; his senses never slept, never even indulged in a comfortable doze.
