Iconfess，however，thatIdonotthinkofhimasapatriotandasocialistwhenIreadhim;heisthenpurelyapoet，whosegiftholdsmeraptabovetheworldwhereIhaveleftmytroublesomeandwearisomeselfforthetime。Idonotknowofanynovelsthatayoungendeavorerinfictioncouldmoreprofitablyreadthanhisfortheirlargeandsimplemethod，theirtrustofthereader’sintelligence，theirsympathywithlife。Withhimtheproblemsareallsolublebytheenlightenedandregeneratewill;thereisnobafflingFate，butahelpingGod。InBjornsonthereisnothingofIbsen’sscornfuldespair，nothingofhisanarchisticcontempt，buthisartisfullofthewarmthandcolorofapoeticsoul，withnotouchoftheicycynicismwhichfreezesyouintheother。IhavefeltthecoldfascinationofIbsen，too，andIshouldbefarfromdenyinghismightymastery，buthehasneverpossessedmewiththedelightthatBjornsonhas。
　　InthosedaysIreadnotonlyallthenewbooks，butImademanyforaysintothepast，andcamebacknowandthenwithrichspoil，thoughI
　　confessthatforthemostpartIhadmytroubleformypains;andIwishnowthatIhadgiventhetimeIspentontheEnglishclassicstocontemporaryliterature，whichIhavenottheleasthesitationinsayingIlikevastlybetter。Infact，Ibelievethatthepreferencefortheliteratureofthepast，exceptinthecaseofthegreatestmasters，ismainlytheaffectationofpeoplewhocannototherwisedistinguishthemselvesfromtheherd，andwhowishverymuchtodoso。
　　Thereismuchtobelearnedfromtheminornovelistsandpoetsofthepastaboutpeople’swaysofthinkingandfeeling，butnotmuchthatthemastersdonotgiveyouinbetterqualityandfullermeasure;andI
　　shouldsay，Readtheoldmastersandlettheirschoolsgo，ratherthanneglectanypossiblemasterofyourowntime。Aboveall，Iwouldnothaveanyonereadanoldauthormerelythathemightnotbeignorantofhim;thatismostbeggarly，andnogoodcancomeofit。Whenliteraturebecomesadutyitceasestobeapassion，andalltheschoolmasteringintheworld，solemnlyaddressedtotheconscience，cannotmakethefactotherwise。Itiswelltoreadforthesakeofknowingacertaingroundifyouaretomakeuseofyourknowledgeinacertainway，butitwouldbeamistaketosupposethatthisisaloveofliterature。
　　XXXII。TOURGUENIEF，AUERBACH
　　InthoseyearsatCambridgemymostnotableliteraryexperiencewithoutdoubtwastheknowledgeofTourguenief’snovels，whichbegantoberecognizedinalltheirgreatnessaboutthemiddleseventies。IthinktheymadetheirwaywithsuchofourpublicaswereabletoappreciatethembeforetheywereacceptedinEngland;butthatdoesnotmatter。Itisenoughforthepresentpurposethat’Smoke，’and’Lisa，’and’OntheEve，’and’DimitriRoudine，’and’SpringFloods，’passedoneafteranotherthroughmyhands，andthatIformedfortheirauthoroneoftheprofoundestliterarypassionsofmylife。
　　Inowthinkthatthereisafinerandtruermethodthanhis，butinitsway，Tourguenief’smethodisasfarasartcango。Thatistosay，hisfictionistothelastdegreedramatic。Thepersonsaresparelydescribed，andbrieflyaccountedfor，andthentheyarelefttotransacttheiraffair，whateveritis，withtheleastpossiblecommentorexplanationfromtheauthor。Theeffectflowsnaturallyfromtheircharacters，andwhentheyhavedoneorsaidathingyouconjecturewhyasunerringlyasyouwouldiftheywerepeoplewhomyouknewoutsideofabook。IhadalreadyconceivedofthepossibilityofthisfromBjornson，whopractisesthesamemethod，butIwasstilltoosunkeninthegrossdarknessofEnglishfictiontorisetoafullconsciousnessofitsexcellence。WhenIrememberedthedeliberateandimpertinentmoralizingofThackeray，theclumsyexegesisofGeorgeEliot，theknowingnodsandwinksofCharlesReade，thestage—carpenteringandlimelightingofDickens，eventhefineandimportantanalysisofHawthorne，itwaswithajoyfulastonishmentthatIrealizedthegreatartofTourguenief。
　　Herewasamasterwhowasapparentlynottryingtoworkoutaplot，whowasnoteventryingtoworkoutacharacter，butwasstandingasidefromthewholeaffair，andlettingthecharactersworktheplotout。Themethodwasrevealedperfectlyin’Smoke，’buteachsuccessivebookofhisthatIreadwasafreshproofofitstruth，arevelationofitstranscendentsuperiority。IthinknowthatIexaggerateditsvaluesomewhat;butthiswasinevitableinthefirstsurprise。ThesaneaestheticsofthefirstRussianauthorIread，however，haveseemedmoreandmoreanessentialpartofthesaneethicsofalltheRussiansIhaveread。ItwasnotonlythatTourgueniefhadpaintedlifetruly，butthathehadpainteditconscientiously。
　　Tourgueniefwasofthatgreatracewhichhasmorethananyotherfullyandfreelyutteredhumannature，withouteitherfalseprideorfalseshameinitsnakedness。HisthemeswereoftenestthoseoftheFrenchnovelist，buthowfarhewasfromhandlingthemintheFrenchmannerandwiththeFrenchspirit！Inhishandssinsufferednodramaticpunishment;itdidnotalwaysshowitselfasunhappiness，inthepersonalsense，butitwasalwaysunrest，andwithoutthehopeofpeace。Iftheenddidnotappear，thefactthatitmustbemiserablealwaysappeared。
　　LifeshoweditselftomeindifferentcolorsafterIhadoncereadTourguenief;itbecamemoreserious，moreawful，andwithmysticalresponsibilitiesIhadnotknownbefore。MygayAmericanhorizonswerebathedinthevastmelancholyoftheSlav，patient，agnostic，trustful。
　　Atthesametimenaturerevealedherselftomethroughhimwithanintimacyshehadnothithertoshownme。Therearepassagesinthiswonderfulwriteralivewithatruththatseemsdrawnfromthereader’sownknowledge;whoelsebutTourgueniefandone’sownmostsecretselfeverfeltalltherich，sadmeaningofthenightairdrawinginattheopenwindow，ofthefiresburninginthedarknessonthedistantfields？
　　Itryinvaintogivesomenotionofthesubtlesympathywithnaturewhichscarcelyputitselfintowordswithhim。Asforthepeopleofhisfiction，thoughtheywereofordersandcivilizationssoremotefrommyexperience，theywereoftheeternalhumantypeswhoseoriginandpotentialitieseveryonemayfindinhisownheart，andIfelttheirverityineverytouch。
　　Icannotdescribethesatisfactionhisworkgaveme;Icanonlyimpartsomesenseofit，perhaps，bysayingthatitwaslikeahappinessIhadbeenwaitingforallmylife，andnowthatithadcome，Iwasrichlycontentforever。IdonotmeantosaythattheartofTourgueniefsurpassestheartofBjornson;IthinkBjornsonisquiteasfineandtrue。ButtheNorwegiandealswithsimpleandprimitivecircumstancesforthemostpart，andalwayswithasmallworld;andtheRussianhastodowithhumannatureinsideofitsconventionalshells，andhissceneisoftenaslargeasEurope。EvenwhenitisasremoteasNorway，itisstillrelatedtothegreatcapitalsbythehistoryifnottheactualityofthecharacters。MostofTourguenief’sbooksIhavereadmanytimesover，allofthemIhavereadmorethantwice。ForanumberofyearsI
　　readthemagainandagainwithoutmuchcaringforotherfiction。ItwasonlytheotherdaythatIreadSmokethroughoncemore，withnodiminishedsenseofitstruth，butwithsomewhatlessthanmyfirstsatisfactioninitsart。PerhapsthiswasbecauseIhadreachedthepointthroughmyacquaintancewithTolstoywhereIwasimpatientevenoftheartificethathiditself。In’Smoke’Iwasnowawareofanartificethatkeptoutofsight，butwasstillalwayspresentsomewhere，invisiblyoperatingthestory。
　　ImustnotfailtoownthegreatpleasurethatIhavehadinsomeofthestoriesofAuerbach。ItistruethatIhavenevercaredgreatlyfor’OntheHeights，’whichinitsdealingwithroyaltiesseemstoofaralooffromtheordinaryhumanlife，andwhichonthemoralsidefinallyfadesoutintoaGermanmistiness。ButIspeakofitwiththeimperfectknowledgeofonewhowasneverabletoreaditquitethrough，andIhavereallynorighttospeakofit。Thebookofhisthatpleasedmemostwas’Edelweiss，’which，thoughthestorywassomewhattoocatastrophical，seemedtomeadmirablygoodandtrue。Istillthinkitverydelicatelydone，andwithadeepinsight;butthereissomethinginallAuerbach’sworkwhichintheretrospectaffectsmeasifitdealtwithpigmies。
　　XXXIII。CERTAINPREFERENCESANDEXPERIENCES
　　Ihavealwayslovedhistory，whetherintheannalsofpeoplesorinthelivesofpersons，andIhaveatalltimesreadit。IamnotsurebutI
　　ratherpreferittofiction，thoughIamawarethatinlookingbackoverthisrecordofmyliterarypassionsImustseemtohavecaredforverylittlebesidesfiction。IreadatthetimeIhavejustbeenspeakingof，nearlyallthenewpoetryasitcameout，andIconstantlyrecurredtoitinitsmossiersources，whereitsprangfromthegreenEnglishground，ortrickledfromtheantiqueurnsofItaly。
　　IdonotthinkthatIhaveevercaredmuchformetaphysics，ortoreadmuchinthatway，butfromtimetotimeIhavedonesomethingofit。
　　Travels，ofcourse，Ihavereadaspartofthegreathumanstory，andautobiographyhasattimesappearedtomethemostdelightfulreadingintheworld;Ihaveatasteinitthatrejectsnothing，thoughIhaveneverenjoyedanyautobiographiessomuchasthoseofsuchItaliansashavereasonedofthemselves。
　　IsupposeIhavenotbeenagreatreaderofthedrama，andIdonotknowthatIhaveevergreatlyrelishedanyplaysbutthoseofShakespeareandGoldoni，andtwoorthreeofBeaumontandFletcher，andoneorsoofMarlow’s，andallofIbsen’sandMaeterlinck’s。ThetastefortheoldEnglishdramatistsIbelieveIhaveneverformed。
　　Criticism，eversinceIfilledmyselfsofullofitinmyboyhood，Ihavenotcaredfor，andoftenIhavefounditrepulsive。
　　Ihaveafondnessforbooksofpopularscience，perhapsbecausetheytooarepartofthehumanstory。
　　IhavereadsomewhatofthetheologyoftheSwedenborgianfaithIwasbroughtupin，butIhavenotreadothertheologicalworks;andIdonotapologizefornotlikingany。TheBibleitselfwasnotmuchknowntomeatanagewhenmostchildrenhavebeenobligedtoreaditseveraltimesover;thegospelswereindeedfamiliar，andtheyhavealwaysbeentomethesupremehumanstory;buttherestoftheNewTestamentIhadnotreadwhenamangrown，andonlypassagesoftheOldTestament，likethestoryoftheCreation，andthestoryofJoseph，andthepoemsofJobandEcclesiastes，withoccasionalPsalms。IthereforecametotheScriptureswithasenseatoncefreshandmature，andIcanneverbetoogladthatI
　　learnedtoseethemunderthevasterhorizonandinthetruerperspectivesofexperience。
　　AgainaslightsonthehumanstoryIhavelikedtoreadsuchbooksofmedicineashavefalleninmyway，andIseldomtakeupamedicalperiodicalwithoutreadingofallthecasesitdescribes，andinfacteveryarticleinit。
　　ButIdidnotmeantomakeeventhisslightdeparturefromthemainbusinessofthesepapers，whichistoconfidemyliterarypassionstothereader;heprobablyhashadagreatmanyofhisown。IthinkImayclassthe"RingandtheBook"amongthem，thoughIhaveneverbeenotherwiseadevoteeofBrowning。ButIwasstillnewlyhomefromItaly，orawayfromhome，whenthatpoemappeared，andwhetherornotitwasbecauseittookmesowiththeoldenchantmentofthatland，Igavemyheartpromptlytoit。Ofcourse，thereareterriblelongueursinit，andyoudogettiredofthesamestorytoldoverandoverfromthedifferentpointsofview，andyetitissuchagreatstory，andunfoldedwithsuchamagnificentbreadthandnoblefulness，thatonewhoblamesitlightlyblameshimselfheavily。Therearecertainbooksofit——"Caponsacchi’sstory，"
　　"Pompilia’sstory，"and"CountGuido’sstory"——thatIthinkoughttorankwiththegreatestpoetryeverwritten，andthathaveadirect，dramaticexpressionofthefactandcharacter，whichiswithoutrival。ThereisanobleandloftypathosinthecloseofCaponsacchi’sstatement，anartlessandmanlybreakfromhisself—controlthroughout，thatseemstomethelastpossibleeffectinitskind;andPompilia’sstoryholdsallofwomanhoodinit，thepurity，thepassion，thetenderness，thehelplessness。ButifIbegintopraisethisoranyofthethingsIhaveliked，IdonotknowwhenIshouldstop。Yes，asIthinkitover，the"RingandtheBook"appearstomeoneofthegreatfewpoemswhosesplendorcanneversufferlastingeclipse，howeveritmayhavepresentlyfallenintoabeyance。Ifithadimpossiblycomedowntousfromsomeeldertime，orhadnotbeensoperfectlymoderninitsrecognitionoffeelingandmotivesignoredbythelessconsciouspoetryofthepast，itmightberankedwiththegreatepics。
　　OfothermodernpoetsIhavereadsomethingsofWilliamMorris，likethe"LifeandDeathofJason，"the"StoryofGudrun，"andthe"TrialofGuinevere，"withapleasurelittlelessthanpassionate，andIhaveequallylikedcertainpiecesofDanteRossetti。IhavehadahighjoyinsomeofthegreatminorpoemsofEmerson，wherethegoddessmovesoverConcordmeadowswithagaitthatisGreek，andhersandalledtreadexpressesahighscornoftheindia—rubberbootsthattheAmericanmusesooftengetsaboutin。
　　The"CommemorationOde"ofLowellhasalsobeenasourcefromwhichI
　　dranksomethingofthedivineecstasyofthepoet’sownexaltedmood，andIwouldsetthislevelwiththe’BiglowPapers，’highaboveallhisotherwork，andchiefofthethingsthisageofourcountryshallberememberedby。HolmesIalwaysloved，andnotforhiswitalone，whichissoobvioustoliking，butforthoserarerandricherstrainsofhisinwhichheshowshimselftheloverofnatureandthebrotherofmen。Thedeepspiritualinsight，thecelestialmusic，andthebroodingtendernessofWhittierhavealwaystakenmemorethanhisfierierappealsandhiscivicvirtues，thoughIdonotunderratethevalueoftheseinhisverse。
　　Myacquaintancewiththesemodernpoets，andmanyIdonotnamebecausetheyaresomany，hasbeencontinuouswiththeirwork，andmypleasureinitnotinconstantifnotequal。IhavespokenbeforeofLongfellowasoneofmyfirstpassions，andIhaveneverceasedtodelightinhim;butsomeoftheverynewestandyoungestofourpoetshavegivenmethrillsofhappiness，forwhichlifehasbecomelastinglysweeter。
　　LongafterIhadthoughtnevertoreadit——infactwhenIwas’nelmezzodelcammindinostravita’——IreadMilton’s"ParadiseLost，"andfoundinitamajesticbeautythatjustifiedtomethefameitwears，andeclipsedtheworthofthoselesserpoemswhichIhadignorantlyaccountedhisworthiest。Infact，itwasoneoftheliterarypassionsofthetimeI
　　speakof，anditsharedmydevotionforthenovelsofTourgueniefand（shallIownit？）theromancesofCherbuliez。Afterall，itisbesttobehonest，andifitisnotbest，itisatleasteasiest;itinvolvesthefewestembarrassingconsequences;andifIconfessthespellthattheRevengeofJosephNoirelcastuponmeforatime，perhapsIshallbeabletowhisperthereaderbehindmyhandthatIhaveneveryetreadthe"AEneid"ofVirgil;the"Georgics，"yes;butthe"AEneid，"no。Sometime，however，Iexpecttoreaditandtolikeitimmensely。ThatisoftenthecasewiththingsthatIhaveheldalooffromindefinitely。
　　Onefactofmyexperiencewhichthereadermay，findinterestingisthatwhenIamwritingsteadilyIhavelittlerelishforreading。Ifancy，thatreadingisnotmerelyapastimewhenitisapparentlythemerestpastime，butthatacertainmeasureofmind—stuffisusedupinit，andthatifyouareusingupallthemindstuffyouhave，muchorlittle，insomeotherway，youdonotreadbecauseyouhavenotthemind—stuffforit。AtanyrateitisinthissortonlythatIcanaccountformyfailuretoreadagreatdealduringfouryearsoftheamplestquietthatIspentinthecountryatBelmont，whitherweremovedfromCambridge。
　　Ihadpromisedmyselfthatinthisquiet，nowthatIhadgivenupreviewing，andwrotelittleornothinginthemagazinebutmystories，Ishouldagainreadpurelyforthepleasureofit，asIhadintheearlydaysbeforethecriticalpurposehadqualifieditwithabitteralloy。
　　ButIfoundthatnotbeingforcedtoreadanumberofbookseachmonth，sothatImightwriteaboutthem，Ididnotreadatall，comparativelyspeaking。TobesureIdawdledoveragreatmanybooksthatIhadreadbefore，andanumberofmemoirsandbiographies，butIhadnointensepleasurefromreadinginthattime，andhavenopassionstorecordofit。
　　Itmayhavebeenaperiodwhennonewthinghappenedinliteraturedeeplytostirone’sinterest;Ionlystatethefactconcerningmyself，andsuggestthemostplausibletheoryIcanthinkof。
　　Iwishalsotonoteanotherincident，whichmayormaynothaveitspsychologicalvalue。Animportanteventoftheseyearswasalongsicknesswhichkeptmehelplesssomesevenoreightweeks，whenIwasforcedtoreadinordertopasstheintolerabletime。ButinthismiseryIfoundthatIcouldnotreadanythingofadramaticcast，whetherintheformofplaysorofnovels。Themeresightoftheprintedpage，brokenupindialogue，wasanguish。YetitwasnottheexcitementofthefictionthatIdreaded，forIconsumedgreatnumbersofnarrativesoftravel，andwasnotintheleasttroubledbyhairbreadthescapes，orshipwrecks，orperilsfromwildbeastsordeadlyserpents;itwasthedramaticeffectcontrivedbytheplaywrightornovelist，andworkeduptointhespeechofhischaractersthatIcouldnotbear。IfoundalikeimpossiblestressfromtheSundaynewspaperwhichamistakenfriendsentintome，andwhichwithitsscare—headings，andartfullywroughtsensations，hadtheeffectoffiction，asinfactitlargelywas。
　　Attheendoffouryearswewentabroadagain，andtraveltookawaytheappetiteforreadingascompletelyaswritingdid。IrecallnothingreadinthatyearinEuropewhichmovedme，andIthinkIreadverylittle，exceptthelocalhistoriesoftheTuscancitieswhichIafterwardswroteof。
　　XXXIV。VALDES，GALDOS，VERGA，ZOLA，TROLLOPE，HARDY
　　Infact，itwasnottillIreturned，andtookupmylifeagaininBoston，intheoldatmosphereofwork，thatIturnedoncemoretobooks。EventhenIhadtowaitforthetimewhenIundertookacriticaldepartmentinoneofthemagazines，beforeIfelttheriseoftheoldenthusiasmforanauthor。Thatistosay，IhadtobeginreadingforbusinessagainbeforeIbeganreadingforpleasure。OneofthefirstgreatpleasureswhichI
　　haduponthesetermswasinthebookofacontemporarySpanishauthor。
　　Thiswasthe’MartayMaria’ofArmandoPalacioValdes，anovelistwhodelightsmebeyondwordsbyhisfriendlyandabundanthumor，hisfeelingforcharacter，andhissubtleinsight。IlikeeveryoneofhisbooksthatIhaveread，andIbelievethatIhavereadnearlyeveryonethathehaswritten。AsImention’Riverito，Maximina，UnIdiliodeunInferno，LaHermanadeSanSulpizio，ElCuartoPoder，Espuma，’themerenamesconjureupthescenesandeventsthathavemovedmetotearsandlaughter，andfilledmewithavividsenseofthelifeportrayedinthem。
　　Ithinkthe’MartayMaria’oneofthemosttruthfulandprofoundfictionsIhaveread，and’Maximina’oneofthemostpathetic，and’LaHermanadeSanSulpizio’oneofthemostamusing。Fortunately，thesebooksofValdes’shavenearlyallbeentranslated，andthereadermaytestthematterinEnglish;thoughitnecessarilyhaltssomewhatbehindtheSpanish。
　　IdonotknowwhethertheSpaniardsthemselvesrankValdeswithGaldosornot，andIhavenowishtodecideupontheirrelativemerits。Theyarebothpresentpassionsofmine，andImaysayofthe’DonaPerfecta’ofGaldosthatnobook，ifIexceptthoseofthegreatestRussians，hasgivenmeakeeneranddeeperimpression;itisinfinitelypathetic，andisfullofhumor，which，ifmorecausticthanthatofValdes，isnotlessdelicious。ButIlikeallthebooksofGaldosthatIhaveread，andthoughheseemstohaveworkedmoretardilyoutofhisromanticismthanValdes，sincebehasworkedfinallyintosuchrealismasthatofLeonRoch，hisgreatnessleavesnothingtobedesired。
　　IhavereadoneofthebooksofEmiliaPardo—Bazan，called’Morrina，’
　　whichmustrankherwiththegreatrealistsofhercountryandage;she，too，hasthathumorofherrace，whichbringsusnearertheSpanishthananyothernon—Anglo—Saxonpeople。
　　AcontemporaryItalian，whomIlikehardlylessthanthesenobleSpaniards，isGiovanniVerga，whowrote’IMalavoglia，’or，aswecallitinEnglish，’TheHousebytheMedlarTree’：astoryofinfinitebeauty，tendernessandtruth。AsIhavesaidbefore，IthinkwithZolathatGiacometti，theItalianauthorof"LaMorteCivile，"haswrittenalmostthegreatestplay，allround，ofmoderntimes。
　　ButwhatshallIsayofZolahimself，andmyadmirationofhisepicgreatness？AbouthismaterialthereisnodisputingamongpeopleofourPuritanictradition。Itissimplyabhorrent，butwhenyouhaveoncegrantedhimhismaterialforhisownuse，itisidleandfoolishtodenyhispower。EveryliterarytheoryofminewascontrarytohimwhenItookup’L’Assommoir，’thoughunconsciouslyIhadalwaysbeenasmuchofarealistasIcould，butthebookpossessedmewiththesamefascinationthatIfelttheotherdayinreadinghis’L’Argent。’ThecriticsknownowthatZolaisnottherealistheusedtofancyhimself，andheisfullofthebestqualitiesoftheromanticismhehashatedsomuch;butforwhatheis，thereisbutonenovelistofourtime，orofany，thatoutmastershim，andthatisTolstoy。Formyownpart，IthinkthatthebooksofZolaarenotimmoral，buttheyareindecentthroughthefactsthattheynakedlyrepresent;theyareinfinitelymoremoralthanthebooksofanyotherFrenchnovelist。Thismaynotbesayingagreatdeal，butitissayingthetruth，andIdonotmindowningthathehasbeenoneofmygreatliterarypassions，almostasgreatasFlaubert，andgreaterthanDaudetorMaupassant，thoughIhaveprofoundlyappreciatedtheexquisiteartistryofboththese。NoFrenchwriter，however，hasmovedmesomuchastheSpanish，fortheFrencharewantinginthehumorwhichendearsthese，andisthequintessenceoftheircharm。
　　Youcannotbeatperfecteasewithafriendwhodoesnotjoke，andI
　　supposethisiswhatdeprivedmeofafinalsatisfactioninthecompanyofAnthonyTrollope，whojokesheavilyornotatall，andwhomIshouldotherwisemakeboldtodeclarethegreatestofEnglishnovelists;asitis，ImustputbeforehimJaneAusten，whosebooks，lateinlife，havebeenayouthfulrapturewithme。Evenwithout，muchhumorTrollope’sbookshavebeenavastpleasuretomethroughtheirsimpletruthfulness。
　　PerhapsiftheyweremorehumoroustheywouldnotbesotruetotheBritishlifeandcharacterpresentintheminthewholelengthandbreadthofitsexpansivecommonplaceness。Itistheirseriousfidelitywhichgivesthemavalueuniqueinliterature，andwhichifitwerecarefullyanalyzedwouldaffordaprincipleofthesamequalityinanauthorwhowasundoubtedlyoneofthefinestofartistsaswellasthemostPhilistineofmen。
　　Icameratherlate，butIcamewithalltheardorofwhatseemsmyperennialliteraryyouth，totheloveofThomasHardy，whomIfirstknewinhisstory’APairofBlueEyes。’Asusual，afterIhadreadthisbookandfeltthenewcharminit，Iwishedtoreadthebooksofnootherauthor，andtoreadhisbooksoverandover。IloveeventhefaultsofHardy;Iwilllethimplaymeanytrickhechooses（andheisnotaboveplayingtricks，whenheseemstogettiredofhisstoryorperplexedwithit），ifonlyhewillgoonmakinghispeasantstalk，andhisratheruncertainladiesgetinandoutoflove，andservethemselvesofeverychancethatfortuneoffersthemofhavingtheirownway。WeshrinkfromtheunmoralityoftheLatinraces，butHardyhasdivinedintheheartofourownracealingeringheathenism，which，ifnotGreek，hascertainlybeennomorebaptizedthantheneo—hellenismoftheParisians。Hisheroinesespeciallyexemplifyit，andIshouldbesafeinsayingthathisEthelbertas，hisEustacias，hisElfridas，hisBathshebas，hisFancies，arewhollypagan。Ishouldnotdaretoaskhowmuchoftheircharmcamefromthatfact;andtheauthordoesnotfailtoshowyouhowmuchharm，sothatitisnotonmyconscience。Hispeopleliveveryclosetotheheartofnature，andnoone，unlessitisTourguenief，givesyouaricherandsweetersenseofherunitywithhumannature。Hardyisagreatpoetaswellasagreathumorist，andifhewerenotagreatartistalsohishumorwouldbeenoughtoendearhimtome。
　　XXXV。TOLSTOY
　　Icomenow，thoughnotquiteintheorderoftime，tothenoblestofalltheseenthusiasms——namely，mydevotionforthewritingsofLyofTolstoy。
　　Ishouldwishtospeakofhimwithhisownincomparabletruth，yetIdonotknowhowtogiveanotionofhisinfluencewithouttheeffectofexaggeration。AsmuchasonemerelyhumanbeingcanhelpanotherI
　　believethathehashelpedme;hehasnotinfluencedmeinaestheticsonly，butinethics，too，sothatIcanneveragainseelifeinthewayI
　　sawitbeforeIknewhim。Tolstoyawakensinhisreaderthewilltobeaman;noteffectively，notspectacularly，butsimply，really。Heleadsyoubacktotheonlytrueideal，awayfromthatfalsestandardofthegentleman，totheManwhosoughtnottobedistinguishedfromothermen，butidentifiedwiththem，tothatPresenceinwhichthefinestgentlemanshowshisalloyofvanity，andthegreatestgeniusshrinkstothemeasureofhismiserableegotism。IlearnedfromTolstoytotrycharacterandmotivebynoothertest，andthoughIamperpetuallyfalsetothatsublimeidealmyself，stilltheidealremainswithme，tomakemeashamedthatIamnottruetoit。TolstoygavemehearttohopethattheworldmayyetbemadeoverintheimageofHimwhodiedforit，whenallCaesarsthingsshallbefinallyrendereduntoCaesar，andmenshallcomeintotheirown，intotherighttolaborandtherighttoenjoythefruitsoftheirlabor，eachonemasterofhimselfandservanttoeveryother。
　　Hetaughtmetoseelifenotasachaseofaforeverimpossiblepersonalhappiness，butasafieldforendeavortowardsthehappinessofthewholehumanfamily;andIcanneverlosethisvision，howeverIclosemyeyes，andstrivetoseemyowninterestasthehighestgood。Hegavemenewcriterions，newprinciples，which，afterall，werethosethataretaughtusinourearliestchildhood，beforewehavecometotheevilwisdomoftheworld。AsIreadhisdifferentethicalbooks，’WhattoDo，’
　　’MyConfession，’and’MyReligion，’IrecognizedtheirtruthwitharapturesuchasIhaveknowninnootherreading，andIrenderedthemmyallegiance，heartandsoul，withwhateversicknessoftheoneanddespairoftheother。Theyhaveityet，andIbelievetheywillhaveitwhileI
　　live。ItiswithinexpressibleastonishmentthatIbearthemattaintedofpessimism，asiftheteachingofamanwhoseidealwassimplegoodnessmustmeantheprevalenceofevil。Thewayheshowedmeseemedindeedimpossibletomywill，buttomyconscienceitwasandistheonlypossibleway。Ifthere，isanypointonwhichhehasnotconvincedmyreasonitisthatofourabilitytowalkthisnarrowwayalone。Eventhereheislogical，butasZolasubtlydistinguishesinspeakingofTolstoy’sessayon"Money，"heisnotreasonable。Solitudeenfeeblesandpalsies，anditisascomradesandbrothersthatmenmustsavetheworldfromitself，ratherthanthemselvesfromtheworld。ItwassotheearliestChristians，whohadallthingscommon，understoodthelifeofChrist，andIbelievethatthelatestwillunderstanditso。
　　IhavespokenfirstoftheethicalworksofTolstoy，becausetheyareofthefirstimportancetome，butIthinkthathisaestheticalworksareasperfect。Tomythinkingtheytranscendintruth，whichisthehighestbeauty，allotherworksoffictionthathavebeenwritten，andIbelievethattheydothisbecausetheyobeythelawoftheauthor’sownlife。
　　Hisconscienceisoneethicallyandoneaesthetically;withhiswilltobetruetohimselfhecannotbefalsetohisknowledgeofothers。I
　　thoughtthelastwordinliteraryarthadbeensaidtomebythenovelsofTourguenief，butitseemedlikethefirst，merely，whenIbegantoacquaintmyselfwiththesimplermethodofTolstoy。Icametoitbyaccident，andwithoutanymanner，ofpreoccupationinTheCossacks，oneofhisearlybooks，whichhadbeenonmyshelvesunreadforfiveorsixyears。IdidnotknowevenTolstoy’snamewhenIopenedit，anditwaswithakindofamazethatIreadit，andfeltwordbyword，andlinebyline，thetruthofanewartinit。
　　IdonotknowhowitisthatthegreatRussianshavethesecretofsimplicity。Somesayitisbecausetheyhavenotalongliterarypastandarenotconventionalizedbytheusageofmanygenerationsofotherwriters，butthiswillhardlyaccountforthebrotherlydirectnessoftheirdealingwithhumannature;theabsenceofexperienceelsewherecharacterizestheartistwithcrudeness，andsimplicityisthelasteffectofknowledge。Tolstoyis，ofcourse，thefirstoftheminthissupremegrace。HehasnotonlyTourguenief’stransparencyofstyle，uncloudedbyanymistofthepersonalitywhichwemistakenlyvalueinstyle，andwhichoughtnomoretobetherethantheartist’spersonalityshouldbeinaportrait;buthehasamethodwhichnotonlyseemswithoutartifice，butisso。Icangetatthemannerofmostwriters，andtellwhatitis，butIshouldbebaffledtotellwhatTolstoy’smanneris;
　　perhapshehasnomanner。Thisappearstometrueofhisnovels，which，withtheirvastvarietyofcharacterandincident，arealikeintheirsingleendeavortogetthepersonslivingbeforeyou，bothintheiractionandinthepeculiarlydramaticinterpretationoftheiremotionandcogitation。Thereareplentyofnoveliststotellyouthattheircharactersfeltandthoughtsoandso，butyouhavetotakeitontrust;
　　Tolstoyalonemakesyouknowhowandwhyitwassowiththemandnototherwise。Ifthereisanythinginhimwhichcanbecopiedorburlesqueditisthisabilityofhistoshowmeninwardlyaswellasoutwardly;itistheonlytraitofhiswhichIcanputmyhandon。
　　After’TheCossacks’Iread’AnnaKarenina’withadeepeningsenseoftheauthor’sunrivalledgreatness。IthoughtthatIsawthroughhiseyesahumanaffairofthatmostsorrowfulsortasitmustappeartotheInfiniteCompassion;thebookisasortofrevelationofhumannatureincircumstancesthathavebeensoperpetuallyliedaboutthatwehavealmostlostthefacultyofperceivingthetruthconcerninganillicitlove。Whenyouhaveonceread’AnnaKarenina’youknowhowfatallymiserableandessentiallyunhappysuchalovemustbe。ButthecharacterofKareninhimselfisquiteasimportantastheintrigueofAnnaandVronsky。Itiswonderfulhowsuchaman，cold，Philistineandevenmeanincertainways，towersintoasublimityunknown（tome，atleast），infictionwhenheforgives，andyetknowsthathecannotforgivewithdignity。Thereissomethingcrucial，andsomethingtriumphant，notbeyondthepower，buthithertobeyondtheimaginationofmeninthiseffect，whichisnotsolicited，notforced，notintheleastromantic，butcomesnaturally，almostinevitably，fromthemakeofman。
　　Thevastprospects，thefar—reachingperspectivesof’WarandPeace’madeitasgreatasurpriseformeinthehistoricalnovelas’AnnaKarenina’
　　hadbeeninthestudyofcontemporarylife;anditspeopleandinterestsdidnotseemmoreremote，sincetheyareofacivilizationalwaysasstrangeandofahumanityalwaysasknown。
　　IreadsomeshorterstoriesofTolstoy’sbeforeIcametothisgreatestworkofhis：Iread’ScenesoftheSiegeofSebastopol，’whichissomuchofthesamequalityas’WarandPeace;’andIread’Policoushka’andmostofhisshortstorieswithasenseofmyunitywiththeirpeoplesuchasI
　　hadneverfeltwiththepeopleofotherfiction。
　　Hisdidacticstories，likeallstoriesofthesort，dwindleintoallegories;perhapstheydotheirworkthebetterforthis，withthesimpleintelligencestheyaddress;butIthinkthatwhereTolstoybecomesimpatientofhisofficeofartist，andpreferstobedirectlyateacher，herobshimselfofmorethanhalfhisstrengthwiththosehecanmoveonlythroughtherealizationofthemselvesinothers。Thesimplepathos，andtheapparentindirectnessofsuchataleasthatof’Poticoushka，’
　　thepeasantconscript，isofvastlymorevaluetotheworldatlargethanallhisparables;and’TheDeathofIvanIlyitch，’thePhilistineworldling，willturntheheartsofmanymorefromtheloveoftheworldthansuchpalefablesoftheearlyChristianlifeas"WorkwhileyehavetheLight。"Aman’sgiftsarenotgivenhimfornothing，andthemanwhohasthegreatgiftofdramaticfictionhasnorighttocastitawayortoletitrustoutindisuse。
　　Terribleasthe’KreutzerSonata’was，ithadamoraleffectdramaticallywhichitlostaltogetherwhentheauthordescendedtoexegesis，andappliedtomarriagethelessonofoneevilmarriage。Infine，Tolstoyiscertainlynottobeheldupasinfallible。Heisvery，distinctlyfallible，butIthinkhislifeisnotlessinstructivebecauseincertainthingsitseemsafailure。Therewasbutonelifeeverlivedupontheearthwhichwaswithoutfailure，andthatwasChrist’s，whoseerringandstumblingfollowerTolstoyis。Thereisnootherexample，nootherideal，andthechiefuseofTolstoyistoenforcethisfactinourage，afternineteencenturiesofhopelessendeavortosubstituteceremonyforcharacter，andthecreedforthelife。Irecognizethetruthofthiswithoutpretendingtohavebeenchangedinanythingbutmypointofviewofit。WhatIfeelsureisthatIcanneverlookatlifeinthemeanandsordidwaythatIdidbeforeIreadTolstoy。
　　Artistically，hehasshownmeagreatnessthathecanneverteachme。
　　IamlongpasttheagewhenIcouldwishtoformmyselfuponanotherwriter，andIdonotthinkIcouldnowinsensiblytakeonthelikenessofanother;buthisworkhasbeenarevelationandadelighttome，suchasIamsureIcanneverknowagain。Idonotbelievethatinthewholecourseofmyreading，andnotevenintheearlymomentofmyliteraryenthusiasms，Ihaveknownsuchuttersatisfactioninanywriter，andthissupremejoyhascometomeatatimeoflifewhennewfriendships，nottosaynewpassions，arerareandreluctant。ItisasifthebestwineatthishighfeastwhereIhavesatsolonghadbeenkeptforthelast，andIneednotdenyamiracleinitinordertoattestmyskillinjudgingvintages。Infact，Iprefertobelievethatmylifehasbeenfullofmiracles，andthatthegoodhasalwayscometomeattherighttime，sothatIcouldprofitmostbyit。IbelieveifIhadnotturnedthecornerofmyfiftiethyear，whenIfirstknewTolstoy，IshouldnothavebeenabletoknowhimasfullyasIdid。Hehasbeentomethatfinalconsciousness，whichhespeaksofsowiselyinhisessayon"Life。"
　　IcameinittotheknowledgeofmyselfinwaysIhadnotdreamtofbefore，andbeganatleasttodiscernmyrelationstotherace，withoutwhichweareeachnothing。Thesupremeartinliteraturehaditshighesteffectinmakingmesetartforeverbelowhumanity，anditiswiththewishtoofferthegreatesthomagetohisheartandmind，whichanymancanpayanother，thatIclosethisrecordwiththenameofLyofTolstoy。