“‘Ah! Well done, my merry fellow! You have won a mighty lot of land!’
“The starschina rose, and threw a mattock to Pakhom’s servant.
“‘There he is: bury him.’
“The servant was alone. He dug a ditch for Pakhom, just as long as from his feet to his head: two yards, and he buried him.”
Nearly all these tales conceal, beneath their poetic envelope, the same evangelical moral of renunciation and pardon.
“Do not avenge thyself upon whosoever shall offend thee.[1]
“Do not resist whosoever shall do the evil.[2]
“Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord.”[3]
And everywhere, and as the conclusion of all, is love.
Tolstoy, who wished to found an art for all men, achieved universality at the first stroke. Throughout the world his work has met with a success which can never fail, for it is purged of all the perishable elements of art, and nothing is left but the eternal.
The Power of Darkness does not rise to this august simplicity of heart: it does not pretend to do so. It is the reverse side of the picture. On the one hand is the dream of divine love; on the other, the ghastly reality. We may judge, in reading this
