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can never forget him, but that she will no
longer be a trouble to him; and she keeps
her word. She gives herself up.

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that, I confess, I drove her from my presence indignantly, and I threatened her, and said I would tell her mistress. I was regularly upset. This story is told to our sportsman by later, my wife comes to me in tears,But conceive my amazement when, a little -so agitated Karataef himself, whom he meets in a vil- that I was actually frightened. What's the lage posthouse. Just as it is finished, the matter?' say I. Arina-says she-you unpostmaster announces to the two travellers derstand. I am ashamed to speak about it. that their horses are ready. As they are 'Impossible !' say I. Who's the man?' leaving, "What became of Matrena ?" truchka, the footman,' says she. I was beside asks the sportsman. Karataef makes no re-myself.... Petruchka was not to blame. . . . As to Arina.... Of course I told them to cut ply beyond a vague gesture. A year later the chance acquaintances meet again. Kar and send her into the country. her hair short, and put a peasant's dress on her, Now, just ataef has changed for the worse, and has judge for yourself;-you know my wife, such acquired a thoroughly dissipated and disre- a, a, a, well, an angel! Why, she was putable air. A conversation ensues, in which quite attached to Arina, and Arina knew it, and he begins to talk about the stage, goes on to yet wasn't ashamed. But what's the use declaim a number of Hamlet's speeches, and of talking about it? At all events there was The ingratitude of that ends by hiding his face in his hands. The nothing to be done. words uttered by Hamlet when thinking of girl has grieved and wounded me in a way I shall not soon forget. Whatever you may say, Ophelia have a special signification for him: it's no use looking for heart-for good feeling Ah well!" he cries at last, quoting an old-in those people. However well you may proverb, "if any one recalls the past, let him feed a wolf, it will be always looking towards lose an eye-that's true enough, isn't it?" the forest. Well, it's a lesson for the future." An equally sad story is that of Arina, the favourite waiting-maid of a lady who passed for an angel of goodness. This lady behaved very affably to her maids, but she never would hear of their marrying. One day she caught sight of a singularly interesting girl of fifteen on her husband's property, so she carried her off to the capital to wait upon her. The girl cried a good deal at first, but at last she became accustomed to her place, grew into a handsome woman, and became the lady's principal attendant. The rest of the story may be told in the words of her master: "All of a sudden, one fine morning, Arina comes into my study without asking leave, and falls down at my feet. I may as well tell you frankly, that's a thing I can't bear. A human being ought never to forget its self-respect. Don't you think so? 'Well, what do you want? I asked. Grant me a favour, my father.' 'What is it?' 'Let me marry.' was thoroughly astonished, I must confess. Why you know, little fool, that your mistress has no other lady's-maid.' 'I will wait on the mistress as before.' 'Nonsense, nonsense; your mistress can't abide married servants.' Malania can take my place.' 'I'll trouble you not to argue with me,' I say at last. Your wishes are law, but.. she begins to reply. I must confess I was utterly taken aback. You see I am a man of this sort: nothing so hurts me, I venture to say so deeply wounds me, as ingrat itude. I'm sure I needn't tell you-you know yourself what sort of a wife I have; an embodied angel,-one whose goodness no words can express... Well, I drove Arina out of the room. I thought perhaps she would think better of it. You know one doesn't like to

Next to these illustrations of the dealings of the proprietors with their serfs, the most interesting of the stories are those which describe the manners and customs, the thoughts and feelings, of the peasantry, in their relations to each other. No one has painted the common people of Russia more correctly than M. Turguenief, and from these sketches a very fair idea may be gained of what they are really like. Take for instance that called "Birouk," and study the scene it depicts in the interior of a peasant's cottage one night. The sportsman has been overtaken in a forest by a storm, and seeks refuge in a solitary hut. It belongs to a forester, a rough, taciturn man, of great physical strength, and reputed to be very severe in his dealings with all whom he catches stealing his master's wood. His hut consists of a single room, low, smoky, and with scarcely any furniture in it. and uncertain light of a pine-wood splinter just serves to reveal the ragged sheepskin hanging on the wall, the heap of rags in one corner, the two large earthenware pots near the stove in the other, and the cradle in the middle, rocked by a little girl, whose pale thin face tells its tale of hardship and want, and whose only covering is a scanty cotton dress. It is a sad picture that the interior of that lonely cottage offers, while the wind howls outside, and the rain beats against the narrow window-pane. Presently an incident occurs which yields an added touch of gloom to the scene. The forester has detected some one in the act of carrying off a tree, and brings him a prisoner into the cottage. The culprit is a peasant from the neighbouring village, a wretched-looking

I

believe the human breast can harbour black
ingratitude. What do you suppose?
About
six months later she does me the favour to re-
turn to me with the self-same request. On
N-2

VOL. L.

The feeble

death in the forest. A falling tree has crushed the foreman of a band of wood-cutters, and, as he lies dying, he utters a few broken words to the peasants who surround him. It is his own fault, he says; he has worked and made others work on a Sunday; the Lord has punished him. He asks the men he has had under him to forgive him if he has ever injured them. They uncover their heads, and reply that it is they whom he has to forgive. He is silent for a time; then, with great difficulty, he says, "Yesterday I bought a horse-from Yefime-of Sichovo I paid him the earnest-money-so it's mine give it to my wife." His body quivers all over, "like a wounded bird," and then stiffens. "He is dead," mutter the

man, clad in rags, which the rain has drenched. The feeble light which falls on him as he sits on a bench in the corner just serves to show his wan and wrinkled face, his restless look, his emaciated limbs. The child lies down on the floor at his feet and goes to sleep. The forester sits at the table, resting his head on his hands. A cricket chirps in the corner; the rain continues to fall heavily on the thatched roof, and to splash against the windows. For some time the inmates of the cottage remain silent. At last the peasant begins to plead for his liberty. "Let me go," he says; "it is hunger that has made me do it-let me go." His head shakes, he draws his breath with difficulty; a sort of ague- fit seems to have seized him. He and all his are utterly peasants. The next story is that of a cottaruined, he says. It is the bailiff who has ger who is dying from injuries received at a done it. If he is taken before the authori-fire. A visitor finds him breathing with ties, he is lost. "Let me go," he cries in a difficulty, and evidently fast approaching tone of utter despair; "in God's name let his end. The room is dark, hot, and smoky. me go! I will pay for the tree, so help me A deathlike silence prevails in it. In one God I will! It was hunger made me do it, corner sits the dying man's wife, now and I swear the children are crying for food, then shaking a finger of warning at a little you know that well enough. It's so hard to girl of five, who is hiding in another corner, get a living anyhow." Then he begs the and munching a piece of bread. Outside, forester not to take away his horse-all that in the passage, there is a sound of steps and he has to live by a wretched, half-starved of voices, and a woman is chopping cabbacreature, which is standing outside all this ges. The visitor asks if anything can be time, a captive like its master. It is the done for the sufferer, but they say he wants old story-bitter, hopeless, helpless misery nothing. Everything has been put in order; -the petty tyrant (in the person of the the dying man is quietly waiting for death. bailiff) grinding the faces of the poor, and The third describes a visit paid to the phyno hand ever stretched forth to help. sician of a country hospital by a miller, a very powerful man, who has received an internal injury, of which he has unfortunately made light. The doctor tells him that he is in great danger, but that every attention shall be paid him if he will remain in the hospital. The miller reflects a moment, looking steadfastly at the floor, then gives the back of his neck a scratch,and takes up his cap. "Where are you going?" asks the doctor. "Where?" replies the miller; "why, home, In attaining a stage effect he never lets if it's so bad a business. I must settle my his machinery become visible for a moment, affairs, if that's the case." "But you'll do and the illusion he produces is therefore yourself harm; I wonder you ever managed complete. Nothing careless or slovenly can to get here; you'd better stop." ever be detected in his execution. In all brother; if I'm to die, I'll die at home. the series of these pictures of country life no If I died here, God knows what figure is ever out of drawing; there is never might happen at home." The milanything unmeaning or incongruous in the ler pays the doctor half a rouble, takes a colouring. Take, for instance, the chapter prescription from him, leaves the room, and called "Death," in which M. Turguenief gets into his cart. "Goodbye, doctor," he relates several anecdotes in illustration of says; "don't be angry with me, and don't his remark that the Russian peasant dies forget my orphan children if-" "Do stay," "coolly and simply, as if he were perform-replies the doctor; but the miller only shakes ing some rite." They only occupy ten pages in the original, but in that small space five stories are told, each of which has its own distinct character. The first describes a

Such subjects as these have been described by many pens besides M. Turguenief's, but it would be difficult to find any writer who has so thoroughly succeeded as he has done in investing his work with an air of reality. He is a perfect master of the art of story-telling, knowing exactly what is wanted to bring a scene vividly before his readers' eyes, and never using a superfluous word in so doing.

"No,

his head and drives off. The road is in a wretched state, but the miller manages to get along it capitally, and never neglects to salute the passers-by whom he meets. Three

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days afterwards he is dead. The next story
relates the quiet death of an enthusiastic
young student who fills the post of tutor in
a very unsympathetic family, and who, even
when death is staring him in the face, main-
tains the cheerful enthusiasm, the unselfish
interest in what others are doing, which had
marked his earlier years. The last gives an
account of the last moments of an old lady
of the upper class :-

"The priest had begun to read the deathbed
prayer, when suddenly he perceived that she
was actually on the point of expiring; so he
hurriedly pressed the crucifix to her lips. The
old lady drew her head back with an air of
vexation. What are you in such a hurry
about, good father?' she said in a faltering
voice. You will have time to!' She kissed
the crucifix, tried to put her hand under her
pillow, and expired. Under the pillow there
lay a silver rouble. She had wished to pay
for her own deathbed rites herself."

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to his naturally eccentric character the peculiarities of sectarian fanaticism

"At last the heat compelled us to take shelter in the wood. I lay down under a thick hazel-bush, above which a slender young mapletree gracefully extended its high branches. There, lying on my back, I began to amuse myself by noticing the quick the brightness of the far-off sky. There is a play of the tangled leaves in clear relief against strange pleasure in lying on one's back in a wood and looking upwards. You seem to be gazing into a profound ocean, which stretches for away beneath you, and the trees do not appear to be growing upwards from the earth, but, like roots of huge plants, to shoot downwards, hanging suspended in those crystal wa ves of light. As to the leaves, they are i some parts translucent as emeralds; in others. they assume a denser green, here tinged with gold, there almost passing into black. Now and then, far far away, a solitary leaf that tips a delicate twig stands out motionless against a blue spot of limpid sky, and by its side another vibrates, with a movement that seems spontaneous, voluntary, and not attributable to the wind. Like magic islands submerged, round white clouds come slowly sailing by, and slowly pass away. Then suddenly across all that radiant aerial sea, all those twigs and leaves bathed in the dazzling sunlight, a tremulous shudder swiftly runs; the whole scene begins to wave to and fro, aud there, arises a soft whispering, like the rippling sound of suddenlyagitated waters. You gaze aloft without stirring, and no words can express the sweetness of that feeling of quiet happiness which fills your heart. You gaze, and the sight of those clear azure depths calls up to your lips a smile as guileless as they are themselves. Like the clouds in the sky, and as if together with them, your mind, and it seems to you as though your happy memories pass in slow succession through gaze pierced farther and farther on, and drew you yourself after it into that tranquil bright abyss, and that from that distance, be it height or depth, you will never return."

If space permitted, we would gladly give
a few extracts from some of the other sketch-
es of rural life, such as the charming prose
idyll called "The Bejine Prairie," in which
the belated sportsman passes the early hours
of the night in listening to what may be
called ghost stories, told round their camp-
fire by a number of boys who are in charge
of the horses belonging to their village; or
from that styled "The Country House," in
which the narrator overhears a conversation
carried on by the men employed by a landed
proprietor to manage his estate, and so
becomes acquainted with many of the secrets
of their profession; or that entitled "The
Singers," containing so poetic a description
of the effect which music can produce even
upon a village audience in Russia. Then
there are also the illustrations of the life led
by the small landed proprietors, a class
about which the general public in England
is almost as ignorant as it is about the peas-
ants, and one which affords to M. Turgue-
nief an opportunity of displaying his wealth
of humour that quiet style of humour
which enabled Mrs. Gaskell to render so
charming her descriptions of the somewhat
monotonous life led by the good people of
Cranford. All that we can now do is to
attempt, by a brief extract, to convey some
idea of M. Turguenief's style in those por-
tions of his work which are devoted to de-
scriptions of the beauties of nature-pictures
which have somewhat in common with those
which Mr. George MacDonald knows so
well how to paint.
The passage we are
about to quote occurs in the account of
Kasian, a strange being who belongs to one
of the branches of dissent from the establish-
ed Russian church, and who has grafted on

These Notes by a Sportsman are written by M. Turguenief in so concise a style that the first volume of one of the editions of his collected works contains them all, twentytwo in number. In the four volumes which follow, besides other writings, just as many more stories are included, each of them illustrating some phase of Russian society, and all of them abounding in those same good qualities which rendered the sportsman's sketches so attractive. They are all admirably told. Each has some peculiar feature of its own, and many of them contain studies of character as carefully elaborated as if they had been intended to occupy the post of honour in a regular novel. Instead of giving a mere string of all their names, we will say a few words about two or three of those among them which offer the most marked characteristics.

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One of the most touching is that of "Moo- | her, and at last she becomes vexed and moo," which has already been made known angry. The next day she declares Moomoo to English readers by Mr. Sala.* Moomoo is has kept her awake by its barking during a dog which has been rescued from drown- the night, and that it must be sent away. ing, and carefully brought up by Garasime, Of course she is obeyed, one of the servants the deaf and dumb dvornik, or porter, in the secretly kidnapping Moomoo, and selling it house of a selfish and whimsical old Moscow in the marketplace. Garasime is almost in lady. Cut off by his infirmity from almost despair, but at night he is roused from an all society with his fellowmen, Garasime unquiet slumber by the return of Moomoo, leads a secluded and cheerless life for some which has escaped from its new master. time after his removal from his native vil- The mute knows now the peril his favourite lage to the town-house of his mistress. But runs, so he tries to keep Moomoo concealed. after a while he becomes attached to His fellow-servants know that the dog has Tatiana, one of the maid-servants in the returned, but they say nothing about it. family, and manages in his uncouth way, by Unfortunately Moomoo betrays itself. It signs and smiles, to let her know that he barks, and wakens the old lady. The dog's loves her. Unluckily his owner takes it in- doom is sealed. The next day Garasime, to her head to marry Tatiana to another of who has been made to understand what his her serfs, a drunken tailor. The superin- mistress wishes, carefully washes Moomoo tendent of the household, who is ordered to and combs its fleecy coat, then carries it to get the couple married, is greatly perplexed an cating-house and feeds it daintily, and how to manage it without offending Gara- afterwards takes it on board a boat, rows up sime, who is a giant in stature, and terrible the river to a quiet spot, and there drowns when his anger is roused. At last recourse the only friend he has in the world. is had to a trick. Drunkenness is a failing night he leaves Moscow, and makes his way for which Garasime has the greatest aver- back on foot to his native village. There he sion, so Tatiana is induced one day to feign spends the rest of his days, always remainintoxication in his presence. The stratagem ing as grave and reserved, as sober and inis crowned with success. Garasime is hor- dustrious, as he had been in former years. rified at the sight of Tatiana's supposed The neighbours remark that he will never degradation. He takes her by the hand and even so much as look at a woman, and that leads her, half dead with fear, across the he does not keep even a single dog in his courtyard and into the servants' hall. There cottage; but they are not surprised at that, he leaves her, waving a farewell to her with for, as they say, such a strong fellow as he is his hand, and then returns to his den, where does not want a woman to work for him nor he shuts himself up for twenty-four hours. a dog to guard his hut. After that he takes no notice of Tatiana till she leaves the house a year later, her husband's drunkenness having become intolerable. Just before she goes, Garasime comes up to her and gives her a red cotton handkerchief he had bought for her a year before. Up to this moment Tatiana has worn an air of indifference, but now she bursts into tears, and leaning forward as she sits in the telega, "she kisses him three times in Christian fashion." He accompanies the telega some way, then makes a sign of farewell, and returns slowly along the river side, his eyes fixed on the water. It is then that he saves Moomoo from drowning. The dog soon becomes for him the one joy of his life. It is his single friend, his solitary companion. Every day he becomes more and more attached to it. At last he may be said to be even happy, for he has found something to love. One day his mistress sees Moomoo and sends for it to her room. She tries to please it, but it only growls at

There is one other story turning on the relations which used to exist between the serfs and their owners, which is worthy of special notice. It is called "The Tay

ern,

," the scene being laid in a country inn which stands by the side of one of the highroads of Russia. It is kept by a serf named Akim Semenof, an intelligent and well-informed man, who has travelled much, and benefited by his travels, and who has thriven and laid by money. Unfortunately he has made an unwise marriage, having chosen as his second wife a young and pretty servant-maid, Avdotia, some six-and-twenty years his junior. It is true that no harm comes of this marriage for several years, during which Akim is perfectly contented with the behaviour of his young wife, whom he loves devotedly; but misfortune only tarries, it does not forget to come. One evening a young commercial traveller named Naum Ivanof visits the tavern, and from

* Translated by M. Xavier Marmier in the Scènes *In the volume containing "The Two Prima Don- de la Vie Russe, under the title of L'Auberge de nas," and other tales, Grand Chemin,

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that day Akim's sorrows date. Naum gains
Avdotia's heart, and she not only bestows
her affections on him, but she also gives him
Akim's money, taking it from time to time
out of her husband's secret hoard. When
Naum has thus obtained the whole of
Akim's savings, he goes to Akim's mistress
and offers to give her two thousand roubles
for the tavern and its contents. At first
she hesitates, doubting if she has a right to
sell Akim's property, but her confidential
servant, whom Naum has bribed, points out
to her that as Akim belongs to her, of course
all that Akim has is hers also, so at last she
yields. We can scarcely praise too highly
the skill with which the scenes are depicted
in which Naum makes his bargain with the
lady, and Akim vainly strives to gain re-
dress from her, and, gloomiest of all, that
in which the poor old man, as he returns
from his fruitless errand, is met by the wife
who has betrayed him for Naum's sake, and
whom Naum has now driven from the house.
A little later comes another sombre scene,
in which Naum discovers Akim in the act
of revenging himself by setting the tavern
on fire, seizes him and locks him up all night
in a cellar. The next morning Akim is
about to be handed over to the authorities,
when a neighbour arrives, whose entreaties
and arguments induce Naum to let his pris-
oner go, on condition that he swears he will
give up all ideas of vengeance for the future.
Akim swears as he is bid, takes a long silent
farewell of the house and barns he has him
self built, and which belong to him no more,
and then slowly goes away. Another very
sad scene follows, in which Akim forgives
and takes leave of his wretched wife.
Then he leaves the village in which he has
lived so long, and sets out on a pilgrimage,
with the view of visiting the chief holy
places of Russia, and there "praying away
his sins." Years go by, and he still wan-
ders on, but every now and then he returns
to his village, and on such occasions he
never fails to offer to his mistress a conse-
crated loaf brought from some famous mon-
astery, where he has offered up a prayer for
her health. On her side," she often men-
tions Akim's name, and declares, that ever
since she had known his worth, she has
thoroughly esteemed the Russian peasant."
As for Naum, he keeps the inn for some
time, and grows rich. At last he retires
from it, and, if common report is to be be-
lieved, makes a great fortune as a Govern-

ment contractor.

to know which to select as the most charac-
teristic, so many of them have claims to be
considered, which are embarrassing when
only a small amount of space can be accord-
ed to them. As a specimen of a romantic
story, it may perhaps be best to select Faust,
one of the most remarkable of the author's
minor works, so far as his singular power of
analysing character is concerned. Paul
Alexandrovich B. is a young man who, at a
very early age, falls in love with a young
girl of sixteen, Viera Eltzof. Viera is a
rather strange being, who has been brought
up in a singular manner by a mother who is
also somewhat eccentric. Madame Eltzof
has a strong aversion to all that can excite
the imagination, and will not allow her
daughter to read a line of poetry or a page
of romance. She very seldom smiles, and
she scarcely ever addresses her daughter in
the tone of fondness usually adopted by moth-
ers, but Viera is devotedly attached to her,
in spite of her cold manner and her hard and
somewhat gloomy character.
The young
Paul is kindly treated by both ladies, but
when he proposes for Viera's hand her
mother declines the offer.
He goes away,
and, after the manner of very young men,
forgets his love. Nine years later, on tak-
ing up his residence on his estate in the
country, he finds that Viera, now Madame
Priemkof, is one of his neighbours.
soon renews his acquaintance with her, and
she receives him with friendly frankness, and
he finds her just the same as she used to be,
with the quiet look on her face which it
wore in olden days. Her life has evidently
flowed in an even current; nothing has oc-
curred to trouble the calm which always
seemed to dwell upon her smooth brow.
Paul and Viera become great friends, and
soon chat away without reserve. He learns
that her mother, who has been dead some
years, gave her leave to read any books she
liked as soon as she married, but that she
has never cared to profit by her liberty, so
that she is still ignorant of what is meant
by the charm of poetry or of romance. This
greatly astonishes him, and he offers to act
as her introducer into the enchanted realm
of fiction. She consents, and he begins by
reading to her his favourite poem, Goethe's
Faust. As she understands German
thoroughly, he is able to read it to her in
the original. Her husband and an old Ger-
man friend assist at the reading, which
takes place one evening in a summer-house
in the garden, and at the termination they
applaud loudly, but she rises silently, and
quietly goes out into the night. When she
returns, it is evident that she has been cry,
ing, a fact which greatly astonishes her hus

We will turn now from M. Turguenief's pictures of peasant life to those which he has devoted to the higher ranks of society. The only difficulty in dealing with them is

He

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