When John Bayley, in his excellent Tolstoy and the Novel, says with a ring of desperation: "As no other author, Tolstoy makes the critic feel how superfluous his office can be,"¹ he expresses a feeling shared not only by the critic but by every conscientious reader of Tolstoy. Tolstoy's work appears to mirror life so accurately that comment on it seems almost as superfluous as comment on the fact of life itself. Life is; Tolstoy class="EmphasisTypeItalic ">is. To say more is to become speculative and artificial. This is one measure of Tolstoy's greatness, of his appeal to so many millions of readers and of the challenge that he presents to anyone foolish enough to attempt to interpret his work.