accepted, Tolstoy as idealist condemned; while the penury he courted as
a lightening of his soul's burden was averted by the strenuous exertions
of his wife. So a rift grew without blame attaching to either, and
Tolstoy henceforward wandered solitary in spirit through a wilderness
of thought, seeking rest and finding none, coming perilously near to
suicide before he reached haven.

To many it will seem that the finest outcome of that period of mental
groping, internal struggle, and contending with current ideas, lies in
the above-mentioned "What then must we do?" Certain it is that no human
document ever revealed the soul of its author with greater sincerity.
Not for its practical suggestions, but for its impassioned humanity, its
infectious altruism, "What then must we do?" takes its rank among the
world's few living books. It marks that stage of Tolstoy's evolution
when he made successive essays in practical philanthropy which filled
him with discouragement, yet were "of use to his soul" in teaching him
how far below the surface lie the seeds of human misery. The slums of
Moscow, crowded with beings sunk beyond redemption; the famine-stricken
plains of Samara where disease and starvation reigned, notwithstanding
the stream of charity set flowing by Tolstoy's appeals and
notwithstanding his untiring personal devotion, strengthened further the
conviction, so constantly affirmed in his writings, of the impotence of
money to alleviate distress. Whatever negations of this dictum our own
systems of charitable organizations may appear to offer, there can be no
question but that in Russia it held and holds true.

The social condition of Russia is like a tideless sea, whose sullen
quiescence is broken from time to time by terrific storms which spend
themselves in unavailing fury. Reaction follows upon every forward
motion, and the advance made by each succeeding generation is barely