y tale--all might read it or listen to it, without tedium." Every
one will draw from it what he most needs. Not less than upon these
he sees its wholesome effect on the creative writer, its refreshing
influence on the critic. But most of all he dwells on its heroic
qualities, inseparable to him from what is religious in the "Odyssey";
and, says Gogol, this book contains the idea that a human being,
"wherever he might be, whatever pursuit he might follow, is threatened
by many woes, that he must need wrestle with them--for that very purpose
was life given to him--that never for a single instant must he despair,
just as Odysseus did not despair, who in every hard and oppressive
moment turned to his own heart, unaware that with this inner scrutiny
of himself he had already said that hidden prayer uttered in a moment of
distress by every man having no understanding whatever of God." Then he
goes on to compare the ancient harmony, perfect down to every detail of
dress, to the slightest action, with our slovenliness and confusion and
pettiness, a sad result--considering our knowledge of past experience,
our possession of superior weapons, our religion given to make us holy
and superior beings. And in conclusion he asks: Is not the "Odyssey" in
every sense a deep reproach to our nineteenth century?

(1) Everyman's Library, No. 726.

An understanding of Gogol's point of view gives the key to "Taras
Bulba." For in this panoramic canvas of the Setch, the military
brotherhood of the Cossacks, living under open skies, picturesquely and
heroically, he has drawn a picture of his romantic ideal, which if far
from perfect at any rate seemed to him preferable to the grey tedium of
a city peopled with government officials. Gogol has written in "Taras
Bulba" his own reproach to the nineteenth century. It is sad and joyous
like one of those Ukrainian songs which have helped to inspire him to
write it. And then, as he cut himself off more and more from the world
of the past, life became a sadder and still sadder thing to him; modern
life, with all its gigantic pettiness, closed in around him, he began to
write of petty officials and of petty scoundrels, "commonplace heroes"
he called them. But nothing is ever lost in this world. Gogol's
romanticism, shut in within himself, finding no outlet, became a flame.
It was a flame of pity. He was like a man walking in hell, pitying. And
that was the miracle, the transfiguration. Out of that flame o