I
THE thought which beyond others most often and conspicuously gnaws at
him is the thought of God. At moments it seems, indeed, not to be a
thought of God. He speaks of it less than he would like, but thinks of
it always. It can scarcely be said to be a sign of old age, a
presentiment of death — no, I think that it comes from his exquisite
human pride, and — a bit — from a sense of humiliation: for, being Leo
Tolstoy, it is humiliating to have to submit one's will to a
Streptococcus. If he were a scientist, he would certainly evolve the
most ingenious hypotheses, make great discoveries.
