terlinck by the eternal tendencies of fable. Whitman returns to
nature by seeing how much he can accept, Tolstoy by seeing how much he
can reject.

Now, this heroic desire to return to nature is, of course, in some
respects, rather like the heroic desire of a kitten to return to its own
tail. A tail is a simple and beautiful object, rhythmic in curve and
soothing in texture; but it is certainly one of the minor but
characteristic qualities of a tail that it should hang behind. It is
impossible to deny that it would in some degree lose its character if
attached to any other part of the anatomy. Now, nature is like a tail in
the sense that it is vitally important if it is to discharge its real
duty that it should be always behind. To imagine that we can see nature,
especially our own nature, face to face is a folly; it is even a
blasphemy. It is like the conduct of a cat in some mad fairy-tale, who
should set out on his travels with the firm conviction that he would
find his tail growing like a tree in the meadows at the end of the
world. And the actual effect of the travels of the philosopher in search
of nature when seen from the outside looks very like the gyrations of
the tail-pursuing kitten, exhibiting much enthusiasm but little dignity,
much cry and very little tail. The grandeur of nature is that she is
omnipotent and unseen, that she is perhaps ruling us most when we think
that she is heeding us least. 'Thou art a God that hidest Thyself,' said
the Hebrew poet. It may be said with all reverence that it is behind a
man's back that the spirit of nature hides.

It is this consideration that lends a certain air of futility even to
all the inspired simplicities and thunderous veracities of Tolstoy. We
feel that a man cannot make himself simple merely by warring on
complexity; we feel, indeed, in our saner moments that a man cannot make
himself simple at all. A self-conscious simplicity may well be far more
intrinsically ornate than luxury itself. Indeed, a great deal of the
pomp and sumptuousness of the world's history was simple in the truest
sense. It was born of an almost babyish receptiveness; it was the work
of men who had eyes to wonder and men who had ears to hear.

'King Solomon brought merchant men
Because of his desire
With peacocks, apes and ivory,
From Tarshish unto Tyre.'

But this proceeding was not a part of the wisdom of Solomon; it was a
part of his folly--I had almost said of