A number of years ago I was in the habit of visiting the Ateneo, and I
used to argue there with the habitues, who in general have succeeded in
damming up the channels through which other men receive ideas.

"To my mind, Tolstoi is a Greek," I observed. "He is serene, clear, his
characters are god-like; all they think of are their love affairs, their
passions. They are never called upon to face the acute problem of
subsistence, which is fundamental with us."

"Utter nonsense! There is nothing Greek about Tolstoi," declared
everybody.

Some years later at a celebration in honour of Tolstoi, Anatole France
chanced to remark: "Tolstoi is a Greek."

When this fell from Anatole France, the obstruction in the channels
through which these gentlemen of the Ateneo received their ideas ceased
for the moment to exist, and they began to believe that, after all,
Tolstoi might very well have something of the Greek in him.




THE CRITICS


_Sainte Beuve_

Sainte Beuve writes as if he had always said the last word, as if he